by submission | Jul 16, 2021 | Story |
Author: Evan MacKay
I lower myself into the pod slowly, feeling the cool nutrient gelatin cover my skin. A shiver ripples across me, causing hairs to stand on edge before they are submerged. My legs go first, then my sex, then my torso. Finally, I come to my head. I take a deep breath, knowing I don’t need to, but the gelatin looks too much like water for me to overcome the impulse. My head goes under in a quick splash, and I open my eyes as I sink down to the foam bed, that gently conforms to my body. I can feel myself running out of air. My heart pounds in my chest.
“Breathe,” a doctor from outside the pod says into his microphone.
I shake my head, still unwilling to release my oxygen.
“Breathe,” the doctor says again, and I feel a jolt from the cord connected to my chest. I release the air in shock and breathe in the gelatin. It is tasteless and fills my lungs. It is a strange feeling, not having to breathe. I won’t have to eat either, or piss, or shit. The gelatin will provide all the nutrients I need while I sleep. One hundred percent efficient. All I have to do is dream.
I can see the doctors moving above, they’re talking to each other. Their voices are distant, muffled. A gloved hand reaches down into the pod and begins attaching monitors, which pull at my skin uncomfortably. A helmet extends behind me, and I am instructed to slip it on. It covers my head and eyes so all I see is blackness. I feel little pinpricks in the back of my mind. Little bursts of color that tickle my thoughts. That would be the neural transmitter syncing up with my brain waves.
The doctor’s voice comes through the microphone again. “Are you all set Mr. Uthman?”
I nod my head and give a thumbs up. This is it, I’m finally doing it.
“Alright. Beginning neural transmitting. Have a good sleep, Mr. Uthman.”
I feel more pinpricks in the back of my mind. Excitement mixes with my apprehension, a nervous desire for what comes next. I was never much in life. I’d tried to be a writer, but that never panned out. Neither did my marriage. But now I was about to become something much greater.
A particularly strong pinprick hits me and my whole body convulses momentarily.
The world begins to fade, and I can feel the machine reading my thoughts and transmitting them. Soon I will begin to dream. I will dream all the stories I can imagine, all the stories I wasn’t skilled enough to write. They will be transmitted to the processor which will make them edible. Soon people will eat the dreams I produce. Soon people will live them, as perfectly as if they were happening in real life. I have become the ultimate storyteller. I shudder again, as everything fades into blackness. And I begin to dream.
by submission | Jul 15, 2021 | Story |
Author: Shannon O’Connor
I broke my arm, and I’m devastated. I can’t use a computer and do my work, and it gets in the way of my life. I’m a resident in Cardiology at a big hospital, and I think this might hurt my career.
There’s no reason we should depend on computers so much. Now, with voice-activated devices like Alexa and Siri, we shouldn’t have to suffer and not be able to use technology if we’re injured. I can’t do anything, and I am going batty.
I think of science fiction shows, like Star Trek. Yes, they have to touch the computer to navigate the ship, but in order to do anything else, the person just says, “Computer,” and it happens. The captain hardly has to touch anything. Why can’t I live in that world?
I have a painting of planets that I inherited from my great uncle, and I stare at it sometimes, and it soothes me. The painting has an indigo sky, and the planets are purple and green, and pink. I want to live in the world of the painting, where I don’t have to touch a computer.
I close my eyes. I open them, and I am on a ship like in Star Trek. My arm is in a sling.
“Doctor, why don’t you take yourself to sickbay, and fix your arm,” the captain says. He is different from Captain Picard; he has dark hair and blue eyes.
“But how did I get here?” I ask.
“Never mind that, carry on,” he says, sitting in his chair.
I look at the other people on the bridge. A woman sits in the chair next to the captain, and a green alien with bulging eyes sits behind them. I go through the doors to try to get to sickbay.
I see a man in the elevator wearing a gray helmet and matching suit.
“Where are we?” I ask him.
“We’re in the Delta Quadrant,” he says. “It’s very exciting.”
“I’m the doctor here, right?” I ask.
“Hey doc, are you okay?” he says.
“I broke my arm, but I don’t know how it happened.”
“We’re always running into anomalies around here. It’s typical. But you can take care of it.”
“I think it’s great what we’re doing.”
“What are we doing?”
“We’re exploring the galaxy, finding new worlds, doing things nobody has done before!”
“But isn’t that what we always do?”
“Yes.”
The elevator stops.
“This is sickbay.”
“Thank you. I’ll get off here.”
I go to sickbay and find the right device to fix my arm. I wave it around and wiggle my fingers. Medicine in the future!
I sit down on the chair in the office and look at my hand.
“Is there anything you need?” a man asks me.
“No, I have everything.”
He leaves, and I close my eyes at my desk. I can feel the ship moving through space at warp speed. I don’t want to leave.
The moving stops. I smell a familiar smell, grilled chicken and asparagus, dinner, cooked by my boyfriend.
I open my eyes. I’m not in space anymore. I move my arm. It’s not broken.
How am I going to explain this? I can’t say anything, or they’ll think I’m crazy. Maybe nobody will notice.
I look at the painting of the planets. I flex my arm.
I was in space. Now my arm is better. And I’m not telling anyone how it happened.
by submission | Jul 14, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Sharp
Neon lights the darkness in sharp angles. I lean down onto the cyber-surgical bench, its faux leather creases and cools my bare skin. I feel exposed and vulnerable. Is this what I really want or did I let him talk me into it in a moment of weakness? I twist on the leather, smashing my sex down. A door slides open in the dark. I see him, muscular arms and chest exposed from his jumper overalls. Max never wears the full badge uniform. His eyes are covered in googles as his hand approaches with the electronic gun. I have tattoos and cyberware to enhance stamina and sight, but this is a first—this ink is intimate. Max leans in, warm breath on my back. The gun swivels and changes as its parts move into sync. I feel gooseflesh rise on my naked flesh. It is too late to turn back. Max grunts as he connects the device to himself, his blood is the ink. I tense, forcing myself to exhale. The needle point hovers.
“Are you ready Edo?” Max says.
“I am scared,” I say.
“You must be sure, no regrets,” Max says.
I feel his hand on my back and give in. “I am sure.”
“Then we shall be one.” Max switches on the gun.
The pain is sublime. I arch my body as the ink stitches into a dragon pattern on my back, imprinting his DNA into me. I feel waves of emotion, not my own. Memories flow through me of fights and wars and secret barrack tyrsts. Hate, love, pain, lust, despair, and ectasy flow in a torrent. I see Max’s mouth widen and know he is experiencing my past too. Joined on a cellular level, we no longer are Max and Edo but someone new.
by submission | Jul 13, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Henson
As I’m looking for cheddar, I notice a Chamenileon drop a dozen eggs to the floor. Sobbing and turning blue, he puts the yolk-dripping carton in his cart and heads for the front of the store. I haven’t liked nor trusted the Chamenileons since we let them take refuge here, but this one weeping and bluing over broken eggs intrigues me. Learning about him seems more interesting than continuing my search for extra-sharp. No grilled cheese for me for supper.
I wait by the exit as the fellow, glowing red, apologizes to the cashier for breaking the eggs and insists on paying for them. I trail him outside, note what kind of car he gets into, then hurry to my own on the other side of the parking lot. I fear I’ve lost him till I see his SUV pulling onto the street. I step on it then ease off when I’m a couple lengths behind.
I almost lose him but for sneaking through a crack between yellow and red. When he enters a driveway, I note the house number and street then go home.
Returning the next day, I park a block or so away and walk to his house, which is painted the mandatory black and white to denote its Chamenileon occupancy. I see he’s having a garage sale. I linger in front of his house as if I’m looking over the merchandise. There are boxes of women’s shoes, and racks with hanging dresses and tops.
As I’m standing there, the guy comes out of the garage with slacks draped over his arm. As he crams them onto one of the racks, he glows blue again. When he sees me, his blue tinges maroon. He asks if I’m interested in buying something.
I’m not sure what to say — I followed you yesterday, but I’m not a stalker even though I’m here at your house today? — so I go to one of the racks and hold up a blouse. This isn’t easy for me as I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a personal encounter with a Chamenileon.
“It was my wife’s,” he says. “She … passed away a few weeks ago. I couldn’t bear seeing her clothes every time I go into our closet.” He’s almost indigo.
When he starts to apologize for going on to a stranger, I can’t help but hold out my hand and introduce myself. Never thought I’d shake with a Chamenileon. Whatever the color for surprise, I’d be turning it now if I were one of them. He says his name is Stanley-eon, adding the required suffix to his name. We chat awhile. I end up buying a blouse that I drop off at a charity. I don’t mention where it came from.
Back home I realize I haven’t eaten. I do that a lot these days. I crack a couple eggs into the skillet. As grease spatters, I think about the Chamenileon. Maybe I was drawn to him because at some level I sensed we’re both trying to find our way after our worlds have been turned upside down. His in more ways than one.
I start to flip the eggs over easy but in my mind hear my wife’s voice saying “You know you can get salmonella from runny eggs.” I turn the spatula edge-wise and break the yolks.
I’m having friends over to watch the game tomorrow. They’re a good group. I wonder how they’d feel if I invited Stanley-eon? Stanley.
by Julian Miles | Jul 12, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
They’re on to me. Not bad. Three continents, sixteen countries, four passports, and two illegal border crossings later, the one scientist shouting about me has, finally, received a fair hearing. Way to go, Gerald. I hope it makes your fortune, for all that it’ll never make up for what you’ve lost.
Too bad they’ll never get to me in time. It would be ironic to be the first person saved by their hastily-assembled remedy.
Time for my last Tabultin. Stuff’s been around for years, just another drug to combat flatulence. Still don’t know how they found out it kept the worst of the deleterious effects at bay. Probably some old bloke with a crappy diet somewhere surprised them by not dying quickly, so they analysed his blood, then asked what he was taking.
In case you’re starting with the last entry and working back, my name’s Nancy. I was a nurse, until I got set up to take the fall to save some doctor’s reputation. After that, life went downhill until selling my eggs and unsavoury gig work were all I had.
Then came Gerald Bacan and his drug testing. There were several levels of involvement, but the highest offered accommodation, regular meals, even a salary! I applied for that, and got accepted.
Gerald’s project came at a hefty price: military backing. He admitted his work could be weaponised. He also took pains to hobble any such efforts. In the end, they were pointless. One of the sera turned out to be deadly.
Batch 1.11Y.4g, ‘Illya-G’, hit Volunteer 84, Dav Mikalos, like a truck. Barely had the needle left his arm when he collapsed. He died the next day. Everyone who had been in the room with him died within a week. Everyone who came into unprotected contact with his body died within two weeks. This included Helen Bacan, Gerald’s wife. As Gerald was away, appearing before a committee in Washington, he missed it all.
Helen and I had become friends. She’d confided in me her doubts as to the sanity of trying to save humanity from cataclysms. I thought her a little crazy in that.
I was one of those infected by someone who came into contact with the body. I keeled over, then woke up in a makeshift morgue. My metabolism slowed so much they thought me dead. I’ve since seen a couple of studies that match my pathology.
Being mostly paralysed for a day after coming round, I overheard some interesting conversations between various officials who were using the space by the door for ‘off the book’ discussions. While the topics were awful, it was the anticipatory glee that sickened me most.
Around then is when I became what you’d call crazy. It gave me clarity and motivation like I’d never experienced. After sneaking out, I raided the pharmacy; turned the loot into cash to get me started. I preyed on anyone, and at every opportunity. Didn’t have long: no time for niceties. I used public transport, hung out in crowded malls, packed restaurants, everywhere people congregated in the last throes of the joy at COVID-19 being ‘defeated’.
What gave me away was the text I sent Gerald: “My condolences. She was right.”
What let me get this far was the disbelief that met his claim of someone deciding to spread Illya-G in an effort to end mankind.
I love the silence of snow-covered woodland. Deep amongst the trees, where only wolves and white rabbits disturb me, I’ll feed the scavengers and decompose. Hopefully I’ve done some good for them with my passing deed.
Goodbye.
by submission | Jul 11, 2021 | Story |
Author: Steven Zeldin
Part of me is missing.
My friends, my family, they try to poke fun at it to improve my mood.
Yet something that was attached to me—that was me—is now an object sitting and rotting out there in the world.
I must replace that part of myself.
I have no idea what to do.
My doctors, they tell me—thankfully—that someone my age near me has had a stroke.
His brain is dead. But his arm isn’t.
They’ve done it for decades, they say. His arm could be mine.
It could. But I don’t know if it should.
“An arm is an arm,” they say. But that’s not true.
Mine was mine, and his is his.
Other doctors promise different things.
My nerves are intact. Little time has passed.
Replace it with a machine, they say. A mechanical prosthetic.
My brothers grin at me. “You could have a robot arm! We’re jealous.”
They are not jealous.
A perfect substitute for a part of me is not me.
When I complain too much, my parents lose their temper.
I am one of the “lucky ones”.
Decades ago, both choices were worse.
Prosthetic arms were plastic tidbits. They couldn’t move or even feel.
Transplanted arms had issues, too. Nerve regrowth was slow and stunted.
Before that, still, people just had to deal with it.
But I don’t feel lucky. The people who come after me will be lucky.
Sometimes it seems like the transplanted arm makes less sense.
“Nature is the best engineer. Its creations beat knockoffs.”
But nature is not an engineer. It is a random process that accidentally stumbles across function.
Plus, robot arms are still natural. Nature makes us, we make the arms.
The transplant arm’s a bit longer, a bit lighter. It doesn’t even look like me.
I would be attached to a part of a corpse.
Yet sometimes the prosthetic seems worse.
Someone hacked into my computer the other day. They posted vulgar things on the web.
What if someone hacks my arm?
“They wouldn’t. Top-notch security”, my doctors say.
That’s what the techies said about my laptop.
Someone could hack my arm and punch my mom. Or me.
Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never know.
Yet I need to decide soon.
The transplant would feel more natural. The prosthetic could lift more weight.
I met a guy who has one of both. He’s happy. I feel bad for him.
I wish that, like some axolotl, I could regrow my limb from the nub.
Maybe, in the future, we could.
I envy those that will come after me.
I am trapped in the past of a better tomorrow.
