by submission | Nov 29, 2021 | Story |
Author: John Weagly
Conrad Lee answered the knock at his hotel room door to find a policeman with bulbous eyes and a puffy throat.
“Good evening, sir,” the cop said. “Did you call in a noise complaint?” His Innsmouth PD nametag said he was Officer Obed. He shifted from foot to foot, causing his hip to flash in the hallway light.
“Yes. Hours ago.”
“Sorry, sir. Busy night, full moon and all. What sort ‘a noise?”
“Chanting.”
“Uh-huh.” Obed wrote something down in a small notebook.
“I’m sound asleep,” Conrad said. “I hear a noise like a choir of cats being drowned in a bucket of turpentine. I look out my window to see a bunch of kooks standing on the beach, screeching at the sea.”
Obed twitched at the word ‘kooks.’ “Uh-huh.”
“I wanted to get away from the stress of the city. I came to your quaint, little fishing village to take in calm ocean breezes, maybe enjoy some quality seafood.”
“Innsmouth is a good place for that.” Obed said. “‘Come for the calamari – stay to become calamari!’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, sir. Town joke. That’s all.”
“I came here for peace and quiet.” Conrad said. “Not for dusk-till-dawn beachfront chanting by a bunch of crazies!”
Obed tensed at the word ‘crazies.’ “Uh-Huh.”
“Hour after hour of ‘Coo-thoo-loo’ and ‘Foo-taa-gen’ and some guy name ‘Riley.’ And a whole lot of ‘Eee-Ah! – Eee-Ah! – Eee-Ah!’”
“Uh-huh,” Obed said.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Uh-Huh,” Obed said. He made a note. “Eee. Ah.”
“I expect you to earn whatever this fish-stick of a town pays you and go down to that beach and disband those crackpots.”
Obed stiffened at the word ‘crackpots.’ “Yes, sir.” As he turned to leave, light again reflected off of his hip.
“Hold on a sec,” Conrad said. “What is that?”
“What is what, sir?”
“On your hip. That’s not a gun or a baton.”
Obed turned back, pulling an eight-inch golden blade encrusted with jewels and carved with strange symbols. “Ceremonial dagger,” he said. “Standard issue, here in Innsmouth.”
“Standard issue?” Conrad said, surprised.
“Uh-huh. We all carry ‘em. Never know when we’ll have a chance to use ‘em.”
Conrad shook his head in disgust. “This whole town must be made up of loonies!”
A croak came out of Officer Obed’s throat. “I don’t appreciate these derogatory names you keep using to describe our townspeople.”
Conrad’s face turned red. “You don’t appreciate…” he stammered. “I don’t appreciate your tone! My tourist dollars help pay your salary.” His eyes narrowed. “I think maybe I should come down to your office and speak to your supervisor.”
With a throaty grunt, Obed slammed his dagger into Conrad Lee’s stomach. The tourist died with a shocked look on his face and a splatter of blood on hotel carpet.
“Never know when we’ll find a good sacrifice,” Innsmouth’s finest said. “I expect my supervisor will give me a raise.”
by submission | Nov 28, 2021 | Story |
Author: Tae Hyun Nam
It’s the year 4000. Automation has allowed for bountiful abundance in resources with minimal maintenance. Most people don’t need to work at all, so they have a lot of time on their hands. How do they fill this time, you ask? Perhaps spending time with loved ones? Maybe working on passion projects to share with the world? No. 99.999999999% of the population spend their lives in the DREAM interface.
The DREAM interface allows you to enter a fully immersive virtual world that the user can bend and shape to their will. A world where anyone can become a god. First, you are dropped in a hyperreal duplicate of the current universe, and from there, the world is your oyster. You can fly. You can have hot sex with anyone you see. You can create and destroy buildings with a thought. You can even fly while having sex, destroying buildings in the process. The perfect lucid dream. Any and every desire completed with a thought. With technology to automate the maintenance of the human body, everyone can stay in the DREAM 24/7, until they die.
Everyone except me. I am the only remaining human not in the DREAM. The human race has conquered the resource crisis, and now chill in their techno-utopian stupor. But they need a single human awake to make sure everything continues to run smoothly. Out of the roughly 100 billion people in this universe, of course it had to be me. I asked under what criteria I was chosen. Was I the most vigilant? The most virtuous? “Nah, it was just a random chance. Anyways, good luck!” People used to theorize that humans became more unhappy when they compared themselves with happy people around them. In that case, I must objectively be the unhappiest human alive because 99 billion people around me are literally enjoying heaven while I’m here at this desk looking at a computer monitor.
Despite my terrible luck, I’m honestly quite okay. I do work 16 hours a day, but I get 30 minute breaks every 4 hours. Because of the abundance of resources, I can create any food I want to eat for my lunch break. My favorite is Korean-style Fried Chicken. Soy Garlic flavor with extra spice. Perfect. Having to stare at a screen all day for absolutely nothing to change can be pretty boring, but I’m told people did this all the time back in the 21st Century. They didn’t even get chosen by lottery, they voluntarily participated in this activity. Anyways, today I feel more exploratory, so I’m going to have some Nepalese cuisine. It’s a mix of Chinese and Indian—
“Wake up!! Your time is up, sir.” The employee forcibly pulls the DREAM interface from my head. “We ran your credit card, and you no longer have enough money to afford our DREAM program.” I’m dazed and confused. I was just about to eat some delicious Nepalese- “That was the life you created, sir. A life with a sense of purpose, delicious food, and quiet solitude.” The security guards grab my arms and lift me off of the chair. They threw me out of the facility. I need to go back to my 9-to-5 job so that I can afford more hours on the DREAM machine. Back to the grind, I guess.
by submission | Nov 27, 2021 | Story |
Author: Rachel Sievers
Grabbing the rolled-up paper she batted the animal on the nose. Sighing with frustration she turned to her neighbor, “these humans are so cute when they are little but they are such a pain when they get older.”
“That’s why we get them as pets when they’re little. I forget how quickly they grow and become monsters.”
“I cannot tell you how many times I have thought of dropping this one off at the shelter.”
“Petunia Rose you wouldn’t!”
“Of course I wouldn’t, but if there was ever a human that has driven me closest to it, it is this one.”
“Are you having a hard time potty-training?”
“No, it took to that rather fast, within its first few months in the cage, but it’s the escapes.”
“Oh no, that’s the worse. Did you adopt it older?”
“Yes, we had a hard time getting a younger one. You know their planet is dying, they destroy everything they touch.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“Yes, but anyway, I was worried there wouldn’t be as many shipments coming anymore with the planet’s death and so I settled for an older one. You know, my kids have been begging me for one for years.”
“You are such a good mom.”
“Well, I try. But of course, just like I thought, they have no interest in it now that the novelty has worn off. I can barely get the children to walk it and feed it.”
“Kids.”
“I know.”
The pair sipped their tea in quiet contemplation until the human started to take off again towards the white fence that separated the neighbors’ lawns. Yanking on the lead the human fell backward tumbling to the ground. “Now come here,” she said and the human walked towards her. “There’s a good girl.” She said and ran her fingers over the brown hair, her fingers came back a bit dirty, she would need to have the kids bath the thing.
“She seems pretty mild-mannered to me.” Her neighbor said, “she came when you called, that’s something. I swear, it took mine ages to learn that trick.”
“I guess she did, and like I said, she potty-trained in a decent amount of time. I think she is rather smart but just obstinate.”
“Did you hear about what Aspen did?”
“Aspen from three doors down or Aspen from around the block.”
“Around the block,” her neighbor said and they shared a knowing smile. “Well, she finally got a buzzing device for her human. The silly thing wouldn’t stop making this high-pitched noise. You know she adopted hers from a shelter.”
“Oh, that explains a lot, those shelter ones are so much harder to work with. One almost always has to get a specialty trainer.”
“I bet, but anyway, she strapped that collar on her and turned it on. The noise stopped right away.”
“Incredible, but did it hurt the human?”
“She said no, but you know Aspen. It doesn’t make a peep anymore. I’m sure her neighbors are grateful.”
“My kids do like when it makes noises, at least when they are nice noises. We haven’t had a problem with noise just running away. We have to keep it tied up all the time.”
“Have you thought of one of those perimeter fences, the electric ones?”
“Now, that might work. I wonder where I can find one of those. More tea?”
“No, I’m good. I should be getting along soon. My kids will think I’ve abandoned them.”
“I’m sure they will. Thank you for the advice. I will look into those fences.”
“Good, I think there was a coupon on one in the paper. It seems humans are becoming very popular, maybe because of the planet dying, and we won’t be able to get them soon.”
“Maybe. So good to see you. Let’s do this again soon.”
“Yes, absolutely.”
Watching her leave by the side gate she turned and found the end of the lead empty. Those darn humans never learned.
by submission | Nov 26, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Henson
She’s dead.
She can’t be dead. And quite talking to yourself. I thought you, I, we … got passed that.
Stress, like from killing someone, resurrects bad habits.
She was never really alive. Not in a human sense.
But in an android sense, she was. And now she is, I assure you, dead. Look at the odd angle of her neck. Her spinal cable is broken. And they’re going to think you killed her.
She fell down the steps on her own.
Well, there was that nudge.
Not enough for her to fall.
And when she reached out, you didn’t try to grab her.
She’d have pulled me down with her.
And she scratched your arms. Oh, yeah, they’re going to say you pushed her. No one will believe an android would lose her balance.
Her oscilloscope must have malfunctioned.
Gyroscope.
I’m going to wake her up.
Don’t touch the body. You’ll leave DNA.
My DNA’s already on her.
Let’s go to bed. Get a good night’s rest. Things won’t seem so hopeless tomorrow morning after the sun chases away the spying eyes.
Those are stars.
Hmph.
#
Listen. Hear that?
I don’t hear anything.
Kitchen clatter. I smell coffee.
I don’t hear or smell anything. She’s dead, I tell you. Look for yourself.
You look. I’ll wait here.
You know that’s not possible.
OK, we’ll both go to the stairs, but I’m not looking. I’m keeping my eyes closed.
You realize that if your eyes are closed so are mine. We’re liable to fall down the stairs, too.
OK, OK. I propose a comprise. Let’s wait here in bed for an hour. If she hasn’t brought coffee up by then, we’ll go look.
OK, OK.
#
See? She’s still sprawled at the bottom of the stairs.
Maybe we can repair her.
#
“What happened?”
“You fell down the steps. We … I fixed you. I feared you broke your spinal cable, but you just twisted it.”
“You put my head on backwards.”
“I’m no expert.”
You’d think she’d be a little grateful.
Give her a minute. She’s probably disoriented.
“I can’t walk around with my head on backwards. I’m going to the android hospital.”
“Sorry but your warranty’s expired. I keep getting calls to purchase an extension, but I don’t trust those people.”
Tell her she can adapt.
“Can’t you just walk backwards?”
“Backwards? Backwards. I remember now. We were at the top of the stairs. You told me to hurry up then you pushed me. I fell backwards.”
Uh oh. Say something.
“Not a push. A tiny nudge. You lost your balance ‘cause your oscilloscope malfunctioned.”
Idiot.
“I have rights. I’m going to the police. You’re in big trouble.”
Stop her.
How? She’s strong.
She’s not allowed to hurt you. I’ll grab her. Now!
“Let go of me. I’m warning you. You know how strong I am.”
“You’re not allowed to hurt me. Forget about the police and make a fresh pot of coffee.”
That’s putting her in her — Ugh … can’t breathe.
“You’re …choking … me … Not …allowed.”
“I warned you. Now you let go first.”
#
Whew. That was scary. I thought for a minute she was going to strangle us.
Android safety protocols are supposed to be foolproof. She must have been bluffing.
Do androids bluff?
I think it’s a glitch because her head’s on backwards. I think—
“Hey, down there. Bring up my coffee.”
#
“Here’s your coffee. We … I was thinking you should go to the android hospital. I’ll find some way to pay.”
“Never mind. I’ve decided I prefer my head this way.”
See what you’ve done?
Quit talking to me.
by submission | Nov 25, 2021 | Story |
Author: Sakib Shahriar
Thanatology was a hotly-disputed conceptual art movement from the moment of its inception. Artists who identified themselves with the movement often explored feelings and sensations of death and decay, whether through paintings and visual art, performance pieces, or self-experiments.
Art critic Oscar Ries argues that thanatology formed in response to widespread ecological and economic collapse taking place in the modern world. Thanatologist Mildred Rosters often addresses the fear of death and disappearing from the world in her work: “Many of our oppressive institutions still in place today function on the fear of death—on the desire for permanent security from decay. If we can let go of this fear, if we can accept our eventual disappearance from the life of the Earth, perhaps we may yet save ourselves from the climate disasters we currently live, or perhaps we may at least stop inflicting systemic violence against our own people.”
Many of thanatology’s founding members, including Rosters, Michel Gagnon, and Agnes Toyokawa, were accused of promoting and romanticizing death and suicide. Gagnon in particular gained infamy when he was arrested in Highland Park, California on loitering and public indecency charges; he was running a streetside public art installation where he pretended to be bleeding out on the sidewalk for three hours.
Hayatul Rahman was much lesser known outside the insider artist circles of thanatology. Rahman was interested in beginning processes of decay and necrosis on her own body while she still lived. Though many thanatologists experimented on themselves, Rahman was notable for how much farther she pushed her own experiments compared to her contemporaries.
Many of Rahman’s pieces fall somewhere between art and science. Initially trained as a molecular biologist, her early pieces involved viral engineering, often having a virus localize to a specific body part or organ to create a controlled zone of necrosis. In later works, she explored extreme living conditions, including month-long fasts and extended sensory deprivation.
Rahman first gained recognition among other thanatologists through “Opposable,” a 3-day private art demonstration she held in July of 2057 in her New York apartment. Invited friends and fellow artists spent the 3 days living and feasting with each other, while Rahman’s thumbs slowly decayed via a localized virus until they became unusable altogether. Rahman wanted to explore the possibilities of communal life in the face of decay: “I slowly grew incapable of simple tasks like gripping things in my hands; more and more I had to rely on the people around me to do chores I was used to doing, like cooking and cleaning.”
Rahman’s most recent performance piece, “Infinite Life,” involves creating and injecting into herself a venom that cuts off her brain-body connection and slows her oxygen consumption to a minimum, entering her into a prolonged and indefinite death-like state without her body immediately decaying or becoming necrotic.
In her artistic statement for the piece before she entered into dying, Rahman mentions growing fascinated with jewel wasps producing a similar venom for cockroaches, so that their larvae can incubate near and feed on the incapacitated cockroach’s body. She also notes: “The length of this performance piece is indefinite. My body will sustain itself for an unknown period of time, and I’ve asked my partner to note the date and time at which my body finishes dying, after which point I will be buried under special request without a coffin at Centennial Park Cemetery, Pasadena, California.”
Conceptual artist and experimental thanatologist Hayatul Rahman entered into dying on October 14th, 2075. She leaves behind her wife and two children.
by submission | Nov 24, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alex Valdiers
“Where did you get these fruits? They look… magnificent.”
“They are.” Marec slices the cantaloupe and takes a bite. “I got them from Belmondo.”
“The actor?”
“Yeah. He works at the local grocery store.” Marec takes a bit and talks with his mouth full. “He’s in between jobs.”
I squint to find out if my friend is sick, as if squinting could shape my eyes into a medical scanning device. It doesn’t.
“Taste this cantaloupe.”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
“Taste it.” My friend shoves a piece of yellow fruit down my throat.
“It’s delicious.” I take the time to chew it down and savor the cantaloupe. “Belmondo?”
“Belmondo.”
So on the way home I stop at the grocery store and here I am, scouting for a Belmondo look-alike, as if I hadn’t seen Ennio Morricone’s orchestra play his obituary on TV a few months ago.
“Cobra? Yes, that’s right. A man from Japan calls my house one night and asks me if it’s okay to use my face for a character based on me for a cartoon. I said, Chucho, make me proud, but don’t make me too Japanese, I’m Bebel.” A group of people are gathered around the fruit salesman by the watermelon stand. The salesman who just called himself Bebel has a boxer nose and a broad smile. He sure looks a lot like the real thing. “That’s surely why they made Cobra a blondie.” Belmondo grabs a watermelon and yells out his fruit merchant sales pitch. I want to pinch myself and wake up from this surreal dream. “Did you know they used Cobra’s pilot episode to write Total Recall?”
I’m squinting again, the man really sounds and looks like Jean-Paul Belmondo. A teenage girl wiggles through the crowd and opens up a poster. I’m intrigued I get closer and I see the mysterious man signing ‘JP Belmondo” on a Cowboy Bebop poster, right over Spike’s face.
“I never saw a penny from that one.” His smile is so broad and so genuinely warm. “I’ll tell you who was nice, though. Jacky Chan. I first met the kid on the set of ‘The Tribulations of a Chinaman in China’. Ten years later, he’s a movie star, he calls me up to ask permission to use my stunt coordinator and re-create my stunts. I say, Jacky, anything you want, just do me proud!”
I stand there motionless, actually buying this shit. Jean-Paul Belmondo is standing in front of me, with a store apron, by the watermelon stand, helping customers pick their fruit whilst telling them anecdotes about his life.
I leave the store without daring talking to him. As soon as I get home, I scout my old boxes for my copy of “The Magnificent”. I dust my old Blu Ray play and put the film on. Bob Sinclar is there, not the DJ but Belmondo, laying on a beach in Acapulco, sipping margaritas whilst shooting goons by the hundreds. My friend Marec is the background, with a plate of fruit, and a person who looks a lot like me prostests and refuses to eat the cantaloupe.
I’m afraid to switch the movie off. I’m afraid I’ll disappear if the movie stops playing, and Bebel keeps smiling.
Belmondo never came back to sell watermelons in my local grocery store, and I watch his films regularly. I buy my fruit from a chubby old lady with an easy smile and a kinky pink nose. All is well, life is magnificent.
