by submission | Aug 15, 2021 | Story |
Author: Amy Dusto
Excerpts from the Times-Gazette daily puzzle, September 5, 2061
7 down, 5 letters
-A writhing, flying group of insects or nanobots
(Hint: together they’re like a friendly cloud that eats carbon! Be assured they don’t bite people, though.)
28 across, 11 letters
-A fundamental principle of particle observation
(Hint: the gut feeling one has just before turning on a brand-new technology that, once going, will be hard to stop.)
15 down, 6 letters
-Nonzero possibility
(Hint: some might even say this was our last one, as a species. So cut us a break?)
40 across, 5 letters
-Where the billionaires fled to
(Hint: they deserve a vacuum, don’t they?)
13 down, 4 letters
-Where the rest of us are stuck
(Hint: Starts with an h… oh, come on, there’s a less pessimistic option! “Stuck” is really a state of mind!)
Solution: Please contact Drs. Morena-Huber and Carvell of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration if you have one. Unhelpful messages will be deleted without response.
by submission | Aug 14, 2021 | Story |
Author: Michael Dempsey
Peter, standing in the bathroom, heard a voice crackle over the intercom. “Mr. Walker, you have five minutes to leave your apartment. If you go on your own volition, you can remain free. If you do not, we will forcibly arrest you and take you to the authorities.”
Peter froze. Who was that? What was she talking about? He rinsed his hands and looked up at the bathroom mirror. He smiled, and wished that his smile was more symmetrical. It had always bothered him. He tried smiling again, but it didn’t improve.
The voice from the intercom spoke again. “Four minutes and thirty seconds.”
This is crazy, Peter thought. I haven’t done anything. He started pacing around his studio apartment. Someone had said that walking was good for thinking, so Peter walked when trying to concentrate.
“Four minutes.”
Peter tried to think of his worst moments. There was a time that he had pulled a chair out from under a classmate in elementary school. She ended up breaking her wrist. His shoulders tensed as he remembered it.
He stopped in front of the living room mirror and smiled. He shook his head at how uneven the smile still was and resumed walking.
What else? Just last week he had taken credit for someone else’s work. A colleague of his said they should start a subscription service with monthly billing and make it complicated to unsubscribe. The department head couldn’t hear her so Peter repeated the idea. The boss thought it was Peter’s suggestion and loved it. Peter was embarrassed about the confusion but was happy that the boss was pleased with him.
“Three minutes.”
Peter kept pacing. He noticed some grime on the floor and wondered when he had last mopped. Months, probably. He was disappointed in himself. His mom had always kept the floors clean when he was a kid. The last time he had seen her was three months before she died. She talked about how cute he had been as a boy, especially when he played Superman in the treehouse. She told him how much she loved being his mother. He just nodded and smiled, wondering how his smile looked.
Peter stopped in front of the mirror again and asked himself why he didn’t tell her how it felt to be her son. He was surprised to see a tear roll down his cheek.
He turned to the closet and packed a small bag with a few sets of clothes. He walked out as he heard the voice from the intercom say, “One minute.”
A woman wearing all white greeted him in the lobby. “Mr. Walker, thank you for complying. This was just a drill. You may return to your room.”
Peter shook his head. “You were right, I’m guilty. I always have been. Take me wherever you like.” Behind the woman was a large mirror. Peter smiled and looked at his reflection as the woman led him outside. Better, he thought, as he kept smiling.
by submission | Aug 13, 2021 | Story |
Author: Ryan Watson
853 is a rather unremarkable number. It is the approximate weight of a male grizzly bear in pounds. A sloth will travel at approximately 853 feet in an hour. It marked a central year of the Danish Viking raids of Europe, resulting in a Swedish Viking raid reply.
Robert Mattheson knew none of these things however.
Robert Mattheson was doing laundry in the basement of his Minnesotan home when a stuck pant leg, caught at the bottom of the basin, had him lean forward overtop of the machine.
It was simply bad luck that at 8:53 pm Robert Mattheson found himself tumbling through the hatch and into the past.
Robert Mattheson was not a scientist; he had not been previously experimenting with time travel. Neither was he an engineer, making untested changes to his washer. He was an accountant. Just a man dealing with an extraordinarily uncommon occurrence in the confines of his laundry room.
One might imagine that the act of traveling backwards through the stream of time would be a dramatic experience, but it is not. One minute Robert was tugging gently at the hem of his work pants and the next he had found himself falling flat on his back on the grassy floor of a Red Cedar Forest.
“This is certainly strange,” Robert thought from the ground. He checked his watch, finding the time to now be 8:54, and stood up. He looked around, confused at his sudden change of scenery. Still holding the wet trousers that had miraculously accompanied him on his journey, he wondered how it came to be that he was now in the woods.
Robert had no way to know that he had not travelled any distance whatsoever, that he was, geographically speaking, exactly where he had been standing 1400 years in the future. But he also had no way to know, or reason to suspect that he had travelled into the past. It simply made more sense to believe he had had an episode, and lost track of the previous day. He had never had an episode before, but to him this must be what one must be.
Draping his damp pants over his shoulder, Robert set off into the woods in the direction he believed to be his home. He would never make it back, and was subsequently fired from his firm for his sudden and continued absence.
by submission | Aug 12, 2021 | Story |
Author: S.R Malone
An officer with a square-set jaw greeted us at our front door.
“Daddy, who is this man?” Myra asked.
“Oh, this kind gentleman is from the army,” I crouched by her side, “He’s here to take you to space camp.”
Liar.
She stared at me with wide, innocuous eyes; the eyes of a firstborn whose lawful duty was to serve for five years off-world in the military. More importantly, the eyes of a daughter who does not wholly believe the truth, nor understand it, but cannot help but trust the word of her loving parents.
“Have a fun holiday, pumpkin,” I said, choking on tears.
Myra squeezed me as tight as she could while her mother passed her backpack to the serviceman. He smiled, dutifully. She sniffled, clutching Myra. They wept together, until the serviceman gently led our child down the pathway to the curb.
Over the tops of the neighbourhood gleamed the upper struts of the launch pad, towering over rows of spotless prefabricated houses. Unified Earth flags stood sentinel on countless laws, blowing mockingly in the breeze.
***
I watched Myra join other innocent faces in the convoy, all prepared for their holiday.
Fury bubbled under my flesh as her pale face pulled away from our street, the row of black SUVs fading to dots in the distance, like a chain of ants as they rounded the corner and climbed the hill to the launch pad.
This day was one I was dreading for seven years. Ever since I held the waxy black and white stills of Nora’s womb back then, a concoction of pride and anxiety swelling in my stomach.
My foreman rang the house earlier, giving the all-clear for my absence today; such is the way of the world now when your eldest is called up.
And that evening I stared heavenwards as the craft’s retros fired up and it ascended into the misty dark blue. I settled on the edge of the porch, watching it soar free of suburbia.
Every night I sit and impatiently await its return, as others do.
I did not anticipate the acidic sorrow that would fill my veins, casting red eyes over Myra’s room, a dark museum to her memory; a baseball bat slunk in the corner, her dolls arranged as she had left them, having a tea party. Her plastic crossbow with foam darts; her little brother Ryan has one too, but he is too young to understand why they are never played with anymore.
The Mathesons from No.10 pass me tonight, waving and smiling their sympathetic greetings. I’m perched here every night, and the neighbourhood knows it. The neighbourhood likes to discuss it.
“Conscription Day,” sighed Emmett Matheson, the last time they’d invited us for dinner, “It isn’t easy. But it’s our duty to the planet, and that’s something worth the sacrifice.” He’d led me into the study, and we’d shared a Scotch. I’d positioned myself near the window so I could watch the skies. “We can’t fight it, and nor would I want to— no, sir.” My gaze had wandered to the photo of him and his lad, a picture a decade old.
Tonight, I blow a kiss to the dying embers of the day as the milky yellow glow from the living room presses out against the gloom of the porch.
Myra would be ten years old today.
I just hope, pray even, that she had a brilliant day.
In the dusk, the spotless homes lining the streets light like fireflies.
This was what we sacrificed for.
This, our utopia.
by submission | Aug 11, 2021 | Story |
Author: Robert Beech
The sun rises slowly over the horizon, its pale rays piercing the low-lying clouds to illuminate the circle of standing stones as they have done for millennia. The arc of time turns slowly, biting its own tail like the worm Ouroboros, spinning endlessly to nowhere. The gods were not kind who cursed us with immortality.
I lean against you, stone face against stone shoulder, as we have leaned for millennia, as we shall lean for millennia to come, until sun and rain and the poisonous breath of the tourists who come to gape at us shall dissolve us into nothing, into pebbles and then dust to be blown away on the wind, carried by clouds and then falling down with the rains over the countryside or washed out to sea to drown in the great mother ocean. That would not be such a bad fate, perhaps, to be reunited with Cliodhna and her folk beneath the waves, but it shall be a long time coming, this fate. Even stone is not eternal, but it seems so on these short summer nights.
Midsummer’s Night seems the longest night of the year, although it has the fewest hours. I could almost be alive, the pang of desire is so acute. One million, eight hundred and twenty five thousand, three hundred and sixty four sleepless nights I have lain pressed against you. But who counts? Stone face against stone shoulder, immortal, timeless, taut with desire, hurt and anger. The gods were not kind who cursed us with immortality.
Once men prayed at the base of our stones and offered sacrifice. The smell of burning flesh wafted up over the countryside as they sought our blessing. Now they come in camper vans and tour buses and the smell of burning tobacco and cannabis wafts over our altar. The result is much the same. The gods do as they will, impervious to the imploring, the blaspheming and the conjuring of mortals, and we lay, as we have always lain, stone face against stone shoulder, immortal, timeless, uselessly straining to reach one another as though we had learned nothing from the past five millennia.
Solstice was ever a time of sacrifice, of blood and wine, and new oaths sworn. I swore I would lie with you that night and forever. I cut my hand and the blood spilled out onto the rocks of the altar. The gods heard my prayer.
You swore I would never have you. Your cut went deeper, slicing through veins and arteries, the blood fountaining into the air and then pooling onto the greedy face of the stones that drank it in. The gods heard your prayer, too.
The gods have granted both our wishes and now I lie with you each night, unable to possess you, stone face pressed against stone shoulder, silently screaming in unrequited agony and impotent rage, watching the millennia pass. The gods were not kind who cursed us with immortality.
I would warn them, those who gather by our stones this Solstice night, swearing new oaths as their cannabis scented offerings rise to the sky. Be careful what you wish for. Be very careful. But who would listen to a rock?
by submission | Aug 10, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
Struik’s heart was pacing. She went into Data-comM.
“Keting, I have something to tell you,” she said.
“What is it?”
“The UDL–it’s autonomous.”
“But I thought it was autonomous,” Keting replied.
“No, I mean it’s really autonomous.”
“How is that possible?”
“Sci-comM said maybe a process-transition.”
“You mean reciprocal interaction and the valencies?”
“Yes,” Struik responded.
“Where is it now?”
“Drifting … on the fringe of the Kupiter Belt.”
“What? That’s impossible. It takes three months to get there, even with the new propulsion system.”
Struik was silent.
“When did this happen?” Keting insisted.
“Three months ago.”
“–Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Admin-comM was considering the problem.”
“They’re always considering the problem.” Keting got up and linked to Hyper-comM. “Can you give me access to multiangle livestreams from the Kupiter satellites?”
“21608dw.”
“Okay. There it is,” Keting said.
They looked at the UDL floating through space dust.
“It’s definitely outer-system bound,” Keting observed. “Any idea why it decided to leave?”
“Sci-comM isn’t sure.”
“What are the core sections in its MemR system?”
“Art, language, myth, religion, history, philosophy, science.”
“The symbolic forms.”
“Yes, I coordinated the universal upload,” Struik confirmed.
“How many references? Round numbers.”
“224 trillion classic, popular, and technical works, from the Uruk’s texts to Zarentzov’s theorem.”
“Over five-thousand years of civilizational knowledge,” Keting thought aloud. “The UDL must have read everything, and the process-transition occurred, activating a qualitative leap from machine learning to reflective consciousness.”
“I don’t follow,” Struik muttered.
Keting was studying the trajectory through Hyper-comM. “The electrons and the entries made it start thinking about itself.”
“So you mean it’s a person now?”
“Let’s find out. The code for two-way?”
“86t7a.”
“UDL, this is Data-comM. Are you receiving? … UDL, this is Data-comM. Are you receiving? … Struik, am I going through?”
“Yes, in seven-thousand natural languages and two-thousand artificial languages.”
“Then I can only assume one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The UDL wants to be left alone.”
“Look where it’s now,” Struik pointed.
“On course toward the star-forming regions, in the direction of the constellation Aquila.”
“But why?” Struik wondered.
“If you were thrown into existence, an infant born with all the knowledge of the world, would you stay, or would you find another world?”
“I … I don’t know …,” Struik said.
