by submission | Jul 4, 2021 | Story |
Author: Riley Meachem
“You eat before you got here? Because, not to be gross, but this is a fuckin mess.”
“I’ve seen worse.” Catalonia whistfully gave the cul-de-sac a once over. “He staged the killing in the middle of his own private amphitheatre. A downtown cul de sac, where no one ever goes. His own private pirandello play.”
The uniformed officer raised an eyebrow. “The fuck?”
“Pirandello? He was an Italian thinker, who came up with Umorismo, the…” she stopped. “Doesn’t matter. Look, the fact the killer left the body here means something, ok? It’ll help us catch him.”
The officer shrugged, his fat grey mustache twitching sadly as he responded “Whatever you say, boss.” He said the last part with a bit of derision and scorn, that could have meant a million things. Did he resent the fact she was a celestial, giving a native low-towner orders? A woman? Or the fact she looked so young? She didn’t let her mind wander too much over the picayune. The man was nothing to her. What he thought made no difference.
The officer lifted the fencing surrounding the scene, and Catalonia slipped under it, into the Cul-De-Sac. 20 years ago, a place like this would have been a bazaar of illegal wares: uppers, downers, digital scrips, weapons, pimps, organs, new DNA transplants. But ever since Walt Templeton’s cartel had been wiped out, this area of town was dead quiet.
With the occasional exception of something like this.
The Celestial lay spread eagled on the cracked asphalt, mouth wide open, arms extended like an angel. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, and the bloody puddle around him had begun to dry into a thick, rusty brown.
Both his hands had been chopped off. His ID bracelet was missing. And someone had taken his jacket. He lay there, shirtless, so that anyone looking down from the surrounding high rises would see the gruesome lacerations that had opened his toso.
She slipped on some gloves, and slowly approached the scene, getting down on her knees when she reached the cadaver.
The wounds were precise. Surgical. This wasn’t the work of some incensed serial killer as she’d suspected. The fact there were no ligature marks or gunshots meant he hadn’t been tied up, tortured or killed before the cutting started, right here, where she was standing. A couple of men had held him there, while someone with a scalpel made the incissions.
“Shit,” she muttered, then stood up. “Who’s in charge of this territory?”
“Well, Councilman Xanders is…”
“No, no. Who really runs it. Who has street presence?” she clarified.
“No one, really. Ever since Templeton got pushed out of that high rise, the only person who’s ever moved shit here was officer Caldwell. And he filled out ricin resignation papers when he was caught stealing product from the evidence locker.” The officer shrugged. Somewhere near her, there was the loud clicking of a device taking a video inventory of the scene.
“Well, it belongs to someone now. This guy was left here for a reason. He’s a challenge. whoever did this is showing that his crew can kill a celestial unopposed, with no consequences.” She looked up at the man in question. “Prove him wrong.”
“Sure. Top of my pile of casework. Soon as the papers pick this up I’m sure I’ll get some unlimited overtime.” The man said. He popped a piece of gum in his mouth as he said it.
“Why take the organs though? The ID bracelet, the hands? Why make it harder for us to ID him when he could have just shot him in the face?”
“You kidding?” the officer asked.
She gave him a stern look. “No. What does it mean, officer?”
“People down here get fucking sick. They fucking die of every goddamn thing you can imagine. No growing new guts when they get gangrene or a new stomach after poisoning. They fuckin’ die. And they’ll do anything to stop dying.”
“So they… get the organs transplanted from murder victims?” she asked.
“No, they just juggle them. It’s a big thing down here, organ juggling. My brother ustacould juggle seven kidneys at once. ‘Course they fuckin’ transplant them.”
“But the organs won’t grow back. Won’t regenerate. not when they’re not in the host body.” “So? They still work, for a little while. Free organs, guaranteed to fit with any blood type, that any poor bastard can afford without any C-town creds, and a hefty loan from the local loan shark. Most of us would rather live with new organs from some dumb schmuck who was too stupid to stay alive than die poor and helpless. Not that you’d know anything about that. Fuckin… he trailed off.
“Sorry?” Catalonia asked, sternly. “Didn’t catch that part. Fuckin’ what?”
The old man sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. it’s just not every day I gotta go through shit like this.”
“It’s fine. Why the hands and bracelet?” she pushed. But she knew the answer to that one already.
“More money?” the cop hazarded. Catalonia scoffed and left the scene.
Only a fool would sell a bracelet like that, and two hands that bore prints in the C-town data base. Whoever owned those was a celestial in all but name.
She gave one last parting look at the ravaged corpse lying on the ground, staring up at the uncaring ceiling. No wonder she’d thought it was some sort of mad animal or deranged serial killer that had done the work. If you spent enough time down here, it was easy enough to become both.
She made a mental note to herself to write another check to the C-town gives foundation.
by submission | Jul 3, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Barber
In 1969 the Canaveral Timeport was brand-new. The future had come to meet us and everything was possible.
This is the Chronos Tavern, with its much-polished wooden bar, a dozen booths, subdued lighting, and no hint of clocks, hourglasses or calendars.
The overweight man behind the bar talking to a time-traveller is Frank Court. This is exactly why he opened the Chronos. He would work here for nothing, he once told a traveller.
“So, you’re some sort of future law enforcement,” Frank was saying. “After a runaway.”
There were two of them, Frank was sure of it. There was an occasional ripple in the air, a flicker in the corner of the eye. The disturbance seemed to have settled near the door.
The traveller smiled a smooth curve of enamel where teeth should be. Why didn’t Frank like this man?
Sometimes he wondered what customers made of the place. A shack bordering a jungle airstrip, where a native offers hooch across a plank on two oil drums.
The Timeport Authority had planned an automated refreshment zone, but Frank made a clever pitch. The government could bug the Chronos and listen in on conversations about the future, though it only gathered miles of tape hiss.
“He will walk through that door presently.” The man had put his box of tricks on the bar. Even his lips seemed to speak English. It was only technology.
Frank was wise to the rookie mistake of asking how the man knew. Because it was documented history. It was the smug hierarchy of time travellers who have seen your future.
“I didn’t even realise there were runaways.”
“Idealists, who think we interfere with the past. When in fact we ensure peace and stability. They come here to warn you, but are ill-equipped for the squalor. After enduring a night out there, he will be glad to be apprehended.”
Frank guessed it was the runaway he’d talked with yesterday, sitting on the same stool as this cop. Best not to get involved, he decided.
“What did he tell you?”
Don’t play poker with someone who’s already seen your cards.
The man had made an impassioned speech about worlds that never happened, and Frank had shrugged vaguely. Runaway seemed a misnomer. More like a zealot.
“Like your moon landings,” the man had insisted, these natives seemingly deaf to his warnings.
“What do you mean, moon landings?”
“Didn’t your rivals put a man in space?”
“The Soviets? Oh, right, sixty one. Before the Timeport.”
“Without the Timeport it would all have been different. They need dead-ends to anchor the wormhole…”
After that, the man’s words had become indistinct, his translator on the blurred edge of causality violation.
Frank grew up during the Cold War, which was quietly abandoned when the future arrived and let slip WWIII never happens. He couldn’t recall spaceships fired at the moon, though as a child he’d been promised colonies in space, and von Braun’s winged and shiny rockets docking with the Big Wheel, ready to set out for the red planet and adventure.
For a while he’d debated opening a bar called The Right Stuff here in Canaveral, but then the space program went the way of Zeppelins.
Before Frank could ask his own question, the door opened, and the runaway was seized and bundled back outside by the stealthed presence. Unless you were looking, you wouldn’t even have noticed.
“No harm done,” said the time traveller, getting to his feet. No mistaking the contempt on his face.
Frank had missed something here, but he didn’t know what it was.
by submission | Jul 2, 2021 | Story |
Author: Steven Zeldin
My grandfather hated the Buffalo Bills.
In 2019, when Harrison Phillips tore his ACL for the second time, I remember him partying.
Friends drove in from across Philly—all toting bags of beer and food, all in full Eagles regalia.
That was the first time I ever had an alcoholic drink, and by far my best memory with the guy.
It was also the last time I saw him.
Even over the long years after my grandfather’s passing, we remained an Eagles bunch.
I was Jalen Phillips for my final Halloweens and enjoyed every second.
Sundays were fun days, and family days—
the community and belonging that some got from church, we got from watching the pigskin.
I remember the winter of 2023.
It was the year after I got my license and the month I got my first car.
I had taken it out of Philly with my soon-to-be-ex, making the over six-hour trek to Buffalo.
“The Nickel City”: a fitting nickname, as the place looked like it was paid for with change.
Know your enemies, I guess.
This was the dragon’s maw, the Ninth Circle of Hell.
We pulled right up to Highmark Stadium.
I may have spray-painted some not-so-nice messages about the Bills.
I may have suggested an uncomfortable place for them to put their footballs.
Perhaps I regret some of those things.
Yet I do not regret all of them. I remember the trip fondly.
Eagles forever. The Bills could burn.
Cheer for the Home team. Boo the away team.
That was half the fun of it.
Sure, hostility was bad, and no one likes a sore loser.
But what is New York pizza except “the real pizza—none of that Chicago, deep-dish nonsense”?
Living somewhere gave you an identity. Part of that identity was poking fun at others.
“West Coast, best coast, East Coast, least coast” (both untrue).
“West Coast, worst coast, East Coast, beast coast” (the actual nature of the matter).
I was a Philly kid. I still am, at heart.
But that’s meaning less and less.
I work at Checkyll’s Philly Law firm, a thirty-minute drive from my house with moderate traffic.
My youngest is a lawyer at Samson’s. It’s in Buffalo.
On a generation-two hyperloop, at thirteen hundred miles per hour, it takes him twenty minutes.
That’s counting the short walk to the station and the walk from the station to his job.
This man has made a 280-mile trip for burgers and returned before his episode of House ended.
The burgers were still warm.
My house is no longer an Eagle’s house.
The grandkids come over attired in blasphemy.
Patriots, Bears, and Vikings jerseys are as plentiful as those of the Eagles—
And why not? The East Coast and Midwest are our backyard.
Not that I don’t want to strangle them sometimes. But I get it.
If I am going to be fully honest—and I may as well—I went to some of those traitor games.
I liked a few, a bit.
My children liked them a lot.
Thankfully, Los Angeles is still two hours away.
I hate the Chargers.
West Coast, worst coast.
We watch the game. We root for the Eagles. And the Bears, and the Patriots, and the Giants.
My grandchildren boo California lightheartedly.
And we celebrate when we win.
Yet the world is getting smaller.
I fear it’s getting smaller still.
When the entire world is in your home,
For whom do you cheer?
by submission | Jul 1, 2021 | Story |
Author: Timothy Goss
He was sitting in a wet towel when the phone bleeped. It was late, too late for good news.
Poullis’ voice cracked as she spoke, “They’re asking for you.” she said and fell silent.
His calender was cleared. His diary emptied. A damp towel lay on the floor where it dropped. His apartment looked the same, but things were missing, important things, things he cared about. He was prepared.
“He was warned.” They chimed.
Poullis was called in and questioned. She denied knowledge, but there were transcripts revealing her treachery acquired through sorcerous means. Poullis claimed fakery and forgery, and then she claimed skulduggery. But she had passed before the day was through.
The world turned cold. He burned incense and made an offering of blood in her name. It would please the Gods, he hoped, and he would see her in the next world. They would search for him, he knew that. They would find him, he knew that too. They had sentries everywhere, people he knew and strangers alike, equally committed to their barbaric cause.
Something saw him in the market. He heard his name, a name he hadn’t heard in years, and stopped and turned. They were fast, like a jaguar with claws to match. He suffered lacerations as he fled, and wondered if everybody heard them growl?
Hiding in trash cans and back alley’s, behind restaurants with the homeless who asked no questions, he nursed his wounds. It was a shadow world, unseen, a place where people look but rarely see. His absence had upset chronology. It was his time, his turn and things could not continue until it was resolved. It was as old as the time itself, with harmonic lines that stretched back aeons. He knew the songs by heart, although he denied it and heard them day and night. They found him alone in a crowd.
The next time he would be prepared. He needed a twin to double his chances and searched amongst is fellows, the dirty and under-trodden, the stinky and forgotten. He needed a twin to substitute, to take up the fight and pay the ultimate price, transition was assured with a placed marked in the stars.
Someone his size turned up in the river. Dressed up and animated they were inseparable and content.
When they came, they came in droves, all claws and teeth, and fur and teeth. They were marked by their origin, every place represented. They would take him without asking, or extinguish his influence. He was prepared and cowered somewhere safe. Like his ancestors he had lines to compose, lines to recall and lines to arouse the vibrations around us and ring out existence over and over and over again.
In the melee the rhythm was heard in a thousand thunderous voices and pounding limbs. He became one amongst many while his twin took full force. Then his voice rose above it and the heavens rang with every word, every vibration of energy spilling colour into material existence. The harmonics of the universe are so tightly woven, only the song, the vibration itself, caused movement and change, and change is the chaos that keeps it all together.
At the end he closed his eyes and held his breath. There was nothing more to sing, no more time to sing it. His time was done. His twin was done. The song man’s journey ended here and the next singer was unfurled.
by submission | Jun 30, 2021 | Story |
Author: Uchechukwu Nwaka
“What makes you think they’ll take my case here, Mama?”
Aki’s fingers are clutched tightly over the blanket that wraps his shriveled legs. I take his hands in mine and squeeze. The air-conditioning is a few degrees too warm and I don’t want Aki to interpret my clammy palms as nerves.
“Don’t worry. This particular Homo Reptilian doctor excels at Regeneration Therapy.”
It’s the sixth alien specialist, and with each rejection I’ve watched the flames of hope slowly flicker and vanish from his eyes. Each rejection comes after hearing the same set of words from my mouth. Aki returns a non-committal nod in my direction that shears my heart into pieces.
The glass door slides open and the pediatrician enters. His red reptilian scales are striking against his pristine white lab-coat. His yellow eyes track across the screen of his medi-pad for the longest minute of my life before he clears his throat.
“We were unable to contact some of the patients before Aki on the queue.”
He meets our gaze; first Aki’s, then mine. The doctor holds it longer than normal, and I fear he knows about the hack I made into their record systems. Did he find out about the mail I fabricated to the rest of the treatment participants… about the fake meeting to discuss options moving forward with their various RTs?
Were their bodies found?
Would Aki understand that it was all to give him a chance to walk again? If he’s lucky, maybe return to track in a few years. Would anybody ever understand the pain that threatens to swallow me whole whenever I hear his frustrated screams from behind his locked door? The hollow smiles that never reach his eyes anymore?
When the pediatrician finally opens his mouth to speak, a thousand scenarios run through my head, none of which end in congratulation. I see the alien doctor shake his head in that manner they always do… like they ‘understand’. I see myself rise, eyes watchful of the cam on the wall as I push the doctor towards the door he’d emerged from. I know my hands will reach into my bag, and the grip on the pocket knife will not dither.
The doctor’s medi-pad will fall, and I will snap at Aki to pick it. He will hesitate—he’s always been a kind boy—and I will yell. The doctor will try to scream, but my blade will meet his skin, and his fine red scales will nick in warning. Aki will snap out of it, wheeling himself towards me as he picks up the pad and we enter his office.
Aki passes the medi-pad to me. I gesture to the doctor. He knows what he has to do… if he values his life.
Then I imagine, backed into a corner, the doctor voices out the singular judgment only my conscience has spoken over the last few days.
“Your actions have ruined your son’s life…”
“Ma’am? Ma’am?”
My thoughts snap back into focus. Aki’s fingers are wrapped around mine and his eyes are misted over. There’s a different kind of emotion in them, one I’d yearned to see for so long I’d nearly forgotten. Was it… hope?
“Doc?”
“I was talking about fixing a date for him to begin his RT. First we’ll need his body to get used to the Homo Reptilian genes before attempting complete regeneration of his legs…”
The information is too much; I only need one piece of news now. Just one.
“So you’re taking my son’s case?”
The pediatrician smiles.
“Yes ma’am.”
by submission | Jun 29, 2021 | Story |
Author: Andrew Schoen
I careen through empty space—somersaulting past the stars. The background of darkness, luminously pinpricked by distant suns, suddenly becomes still. A white flash of light fills my field of vision, jolting me out of this existence.
I wake up to the sound of glass shattering on the tile floor in the kitchen. “Stupid cat,” I whisper under my breath. Wanting to remain in the liminal space between dreamscape and consciousness, I crawl out of bed and gently drift into the kitchen to assess the damage. Naturally, the cat is nowhere to be found—like a comet departing as suddenly as it arrives. Its narrow wake of destruction becomes visible when I flip on the lights hovering above my head: thick fragments of fractured glass strewn about the floor like the constellations observed in my dreams. Between them, tiny cosmic flecks glint in the light. I scan my surroundings until my eyes meet the broom crammed between the fridge and countertop—my destination. Realizing I need to navigate the star-like shards to reach it, I plot a course.
My first step is a success—I plant the ball of my left foot onto an empty space where the shards appear lightyears away from each other. Shifting my full weight onto this emptiness, I contemplate my next landing space: another Sea of Tranquility that should allow for safe landing. I swing my other foot toward it like some extraterrestrial being traversing galaxies with ease. Just before touching down, a hair-like sliver twinkles and catches my eye. But it’s too late to abort—my big toe presses directly onto this infinitesimal splinter. I transmit a gasp into the abyss, muted so as to avoid waking the entire universe.
“One more small step,” I think to myself, “there’s no turning back now.” With gritted teeth, I shuffle my toe away from its initial landing pad, dragging a thin trail of blood across the cold floor. Against a backdrop of infinitely dark tiles, crimson droplets aimlessly float in zero-gravity, bumping into other specks of debris. I take one giant leap toward the broom at the edge of the universe. Finally, I’ve crossed the vast gulf of space that is my kitchen floor—mission accomplished.
In one swift motion, I brush the stars into the dust pan and dispose of them in the state-of-the-art refuse hatch. All that remains on the floor are the remnants of a dead solar system—tiny bits of space dust, chunks of crumbled asteroid, scraps of thawing ice ejected from interplanetary travelers—all separated by great voids of nothingness. A blank slate to be painted upon by the next celestial creator that stumbles across it by chance (or the next mischievous cat who knocks a glass off the countertop).
On my return journey to my dreams, I take a pit stop at the medical bay to repair my toe. A satellite of medical tape makes one, two, three revolutions around the toe before flinging itself out of orbit to redock in its usual space. After flipping the lights off, a thin layer of darkness descends upon my little corner of the universe.
I blindly fumble my way back to bed, hoping to resume my intrepid voyage to yet another starry dimension.
