by submission | Nov 21, 2021 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
I jumped off the boxcar just in time because one of the bo chasers was slinging his matraque and almost cracked my dome. But it was my town, Simcoe, and I was home.
For once I actually had a purse, enough for a cup of joe and a dog, so I found an all-night gas ‘n go where I drank a bitter cup and who knows how old the dog was. The button pusher at the damper was an odd cat, I saw him eyeballing my bindlestiff, probably expecting me to have fanny packed some of his goods and I saw him cogitating whether to call a Harness Bull, but now there was a picture of the Queen in his hand, and I walked out with the dog and shoved it in my bazoo.
The Last Time I Was In Simcoe is a song that should have reached the heights like By The Time I Get to Phoenix, it’s one I wrote but never got the rights to, and everywhere I looked the neon was gyrating like a bo-ette. Kyle was her name; we rode all the way out to Vancouver and split up at the Victoria ferry. I met her in Regina; we were the same age and from the same town, Simcoe. But I never went to school so we never met; I taught myself the world’s ways at a dark track, but she said she was in pre-med at U of T and she reset my shoulder after I popped it trying to catch a Crew Car.
“How d’you end up livin’ the life?” But before she could answer I started chawing about my time down in the states in the aftermath of that vigilante verdict where citizens no longer had to make arrests, they could just shoot, and I ended up with some lead below my knee. “I coulda used you then,” I said, and she nodded. “You ever been down stateside?” But before she replied I took a swig from my flask and passed it to her. “What your name anyway?”
“Kyle,” she said.
“You mean like Kylie?”
“Kyle,” she repeated.
“No wonder I never knew you, you must be a baby.”
She nodded and we huddled up against the cold. Canada is frigid but citizens don’t pack, they don’t do militias and we have R-camps on horseback with their wide brims, red shirts, who say stop before drawing their shotty. Then in Calgary we played the part of some Doughtnut Christians which kept us fed for a time, but in Vancouver I let her slip away like Bobby McGee.
The streets of Simcoe don’t look familiar. The motel on Highway 3, where I had my cherry popped is now four hundred loons a night. And I swear I see Kyle everywhere. The Queen Street Motel has a 30-foot-tall androgynous salve regina stretching their hams on the roof, and its proportions match Kyle if she stood ten metres high. I hadn’t missed Kyle as much as I did just then. And when the neon started whispering words I’d heard he ruse, I knew I was left with two choices: it was either Kyle having freighthopped my poetic mind, or it was that all-night lamp dog talking to my guts which is where nightmares come from. I hadn’t toked from a Gonger since Winnipeg.
There’s no more freight yard in Simcoe, no more coal pile either so I had to find a spot on an old rail trail to build a fire, where I warmed my mitts. There was a light snow falling, tiny neon flakes that glowed like Christmas ornaments on my clothes. Kyle told me that William Blake said that if you clear your doors of perception, snow crystals and the integrity of every raindrop comes to you pristine like an angel speaking, or a vestal virgin having just sworn on the Bible before giving barrister testimony. The snowflakes on my pullover were these angels, virginal, talking to me and then I heard Kyle’s voice.
“Your life begins and ends here. God is a deity with a great heart whose mind has taken over.”
And Kyle came walking down the rail trail then. When she entered the fire light, she had an aura, glowing exactly like the Queen Street Motel stripper sign beckoning me, and other toms, to enter her doors.
“Are you dead?” I asked Kyle, but she didn’t answer. I handed her a can of beans that had been heating on a spider I built over the flames, and she spooned them barehanded, their molten skins not bothering those LED fingers that lit the night with an illumination surpassing my small furnace.
“You got any Whiteline?” I asked, thinking what I really wanted was some Jazz, but Kyle had more to say about William Blake.
“Blake used to walk around naked. He had a vision of a tiger while lying in bed. The tiger was lit up like neon, but Blake didn’t know anything about electricity, so he couldn’t patent it and make a fortune on sign futures.”
She finished her beans and walked over to me, laying her hand on my shoulder. I had to close my eyes otherwise her light would have fried them.
“There’s a concession road a short way north of here. That’s where you’ll find me. But if I were you, I’d find a sink, clean up, and become a citizen. Stay in Simcoe. Simcoe is the centre point of the world’s hoop, and you’ve done enough hoop jumping.” Then she walked off, dissipating in the penumbra of my fire.
I did wash up, but I also found the concession where her body lay. There were coyotes in the night, beating the buzzard that come by day. I bent down and pulled at the lapel of her coat and discovered a note pinned to the lapel:
“And may God deny you peace, but give you glory!” Miguel Unamuno. I asked a coyote whether she wanted it, but she sniffed the paper and turned away.
by submission | Nov 20, 2021 | Story |
Author: John Overwood
Mr. Smith slinks slowly into his seat. His eyes dart around the room, bulging slightly. His demeanor is awkward, his shoulders bunch together making him look small and compact. His hands are neatly folded into each other on top of his lap – strange how such a tall man could melt down into a nervous husk in mere moments. This, Rachel thought, must be the effect of a doctor on her patient.
She is so deep in her observations, that she nearly forgot their reason for the meeting.
“So, Mr. Smith, you’re here for –” She pauses to read the screen in front of her “persistent brain and earache?” She raises an eyebrow at him. He shuffles uncomfortably in his seat and then nods vigorously. Rachel counts one, two, and finally, three full seconds until the nodding stops.
“Right, is there any more you can tell me about your symptoms? Any discharge?” Says Rachel.
Mr. Smith looks at the ground by his leather loafers, his brows furrow. The rest of his clothes are equally smart; he wears a crisp black suit, complete with a waistcoat and a crimson red tie. He looks up at the ceiling, slightly to the left. The light from a fluorescent LED overhead bounces off his bold head and cascades down his gaunt, angular face. His leg starts bouncing furiously.
“Okay, I think we’ll go through some medical records quickly if –” Says Rachel
“My heart isn’t beating,” says Mr. Smith.
“It says here, you haven’t had any previous medical issues and you don’t have any allergies, is this still the case?” Says Rachel. Mr. Smith nods again, but more slowly and deliberately this time. His face is being pulled with an intensity that seems inappropriate, confusing Rachel.
“And can I confirm that your legal name is John Smith and that your address is –” Rachel pauses? She notices that the age is listed on the screen as 6 years old.
“Sorry, did you hear what I said earlier?” says Mr. Smith. His face blushing. Rachel stops gawking at the screen and then looks up at him blankly. Her eyes slowly widen.
“Sir, that can’t be the case,” says Rachel, “You look fine.” She is visibly shaken, leaning forwards in her seat, making deep, wild eye contact.
“I think I noticed it about a month ago. At first, I thought I was dying, and then I thought I was already dead, but that can’t be the case,” says Mr. Smith. His eyes start welling up. “That’s when the earache started. It’s unbearable.”
Rachel pulls up a chair next to Mr. Smith and puts one end of a stethoscope to his chest. She listens intently. She is expecting to hear something at least. But all she could hear was the beating of her own heart, speeding up rapidly. She gasped.
“Is this bad?” Says Mr. Smith. He begins to cry upon seeing the panic on Rachel’s face.
“Let me call the front desk for help, don’t move.” Says Rachel, taking a big step towards the door.
“Wait,” says Mr. Smith. “Can you at least have a look at my ears?” His grey eyes are droplets of desperation and pity. Something in them makes Rachel consider this idea.
Glancing through an otoscope, she is nearly blinded. There is no ear canal as such, but a smooth wall of flesh where a red light slowly blinks. Next to it, a QR code. On impulse, she retrieves her phone and scans it. A warning pops up
‘This android is property of the US government, please return now.’
by submission | Nov 19, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alexander Condie
A long time ago, when the vertical world was full of water and wonder, I lived in a city. A city perched above an endless void, made of white ore, and sustained by a God that lived above us. Though we do not remember exactly how we got there, and who began the city, all who lived there remember with complete clarity the words God spoke to us. Only twice did God speak our tongue, the first time gifting us the name of our home: Drain.
It was here, when the world was young and the people ever-moving, that I came to be. I remember the rains that brought our life, the community we fostered and the structures that we built. I remember watching as new life came to us, seemingly out of nothing, as I believe I had once done. They joined the city, and helped it grow into a place of greatness.
The Great City of Drain, as we would begin calling it, earned every accolade and praise that could be given. It was a marvel in its existence. Despite living above an edge to dark unknown below, the city prospered. With all that sustained our lives coming from above, the people of Drain focused only on what they could create with the life they had. The empty white walls that surrounded the city and made up the houses became canvases. Etchings of our past, present and what genius minds envisioned for the future were made on every flat surface. The city was no longer a place made of buildings, but of art. The paths we walked, the ceilings above our heads, even the beds we slept on were testaments to the creativity our God allowed us to foster. Drain was a city of dreamers and visionaries unlike anywhere else, whether in the vertical world or beyond.
The city was perfection, and the people grew fat and weak from the bounty that rained from above. In time, the canvases were full, and the itch to create had been scratched. Never a day went by without the water of life from above. We wanted for nothing and wondered if this bliss could truly last forever.
Looking back now, we were foolish to think paradise could ever be eternal.
I am fortunate to be one of the few to escape, and I believe God allowed it so that I could tell this story. To keep the legacy of the Great City of Drain alive, and to warn of the power God can have on those who become lazy and stagnant. More than this though, I must speak aloud the words of God, so that they may never be forgotten.
Which brings us to the end. In the moments before the fall of Drain and the destruction of the vertical world, God spoke to us again. The second and ultimately last time, God spoke our tongue, and said:
“Don’t worry babe, I’ll clear out the drain before I shower. You’re right, it’s definitely clogged with something.”
by submission | Nov 18, 2021 | Story |
Author: Shelly Jones
Congratulations! You are now the proud owner of a Kin Intermediary Device. Your KID is designed to fill the void when your child leaves home. KID is proven to prevent the loneliness and existential despair of empty nest syndrome.
1) Make sure your KID is fully charged. Your KID comes with a charging port blanket that can be placed on your child’s bed to ease assimilation.
2) KID is programmed to mimic the actions of a typical teen. Choose from any of the twenty-five pre-programmed menu options including: engrossed in social media, rolling eyes, and awkwardly asking for advice. You can also upload unique vocalizations including your child’s sighs, scoffs, and brief phrases to personalize your KID.
3) KID has been designed to recognize and respond to your mood. Check-ins can be scheduled in hourly, daily, or weekly intervals. KID has been scientifically proven to provide mental health benefits such as decreased stress and depression. Press the “emotional support” switch when you want a bonding moment with your KID such as during long car rides or while streaming a favorite show. KID responds to human touch and will provide its owner with a five second hug when prompted. Warning: KID may burn skin if contact is held for too long. Minimal exposure is recommended.
4) When your human child returns from college, KID can be conveniently stored out of sight under their bed. KID can monitor your child’s patterns while they are home on vacation to better simulate their behaviors while they are away. If this feature is not desired, set KID to Sleep Mode for extended periods of disuse.
5) Warning: KID has been designed to protect you, its owner, from possible intrusions or disruptions to your overall safety. Make sure KID is in Sleep Mode if your human child will be doing any of the following: 1) returning home at late hours, 2) hugging you for extended periods of time, 3) lingering at the refrigerator looking for something to eat. KID may interpret these actions as a potential burglary or attack. KID Inc. is not responsible for any potential harm that may come to you or your loved ones by using KID in your home.
Recommended for use by the Minister of Loneliness.
by submission | Nov 17, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Barber
Insect morals, insect politics, insect Hamlet. Some notions do not translate well.
Jomo had hired a theatre for the Jirt Princess. She, her human guide and her security swarm would be the only audience.
They had to walk a short distance as there was nowhere close for the bubble to land, but the Princess did not complain.
Ragged men on the corner shouted as they passed and Jomo waved back, offhand. Their faces clenched, but Jirt security darted overhead like jewelled dragonflies.
“What did they want?” the Princess asked.
“They are envious of me.”
Which one is Hamlet? she kept asking during the play. Jirt are face-blind and rely on other cues. The Princess assumed smaller humans were workers and the larger ones some other caste. She recognised Jomo because of his skin colour.
Of course Hamlet wanted to replace Claudius, such struggles being universal. But the ending, with bodies littering the stage, seemed to disconcert the Princess.
“What was her name, the Queen who finally seized power?”
“Fortinbras.” Jomo did not correct her. Science had removed the need for Jirt males.
“It was a tragedy,” he explained. “So they were all fated to die.”
He had arranged for these once famous actors to answer questions afterwards. Now they waited in front of the curtain, staring blindly into the lights, but the Princess hurried from the building, claws clacking on the marble floor of the foyer.
“Fortinbras was gifted with good fortune,” she said dismissively, as Jomo hurried to keep up. “And Hamlet was overly obsessed with revenge. To seize power she needed a plan to defeat them all.”
Nearing the bubble, Jomo was puzzled by trails of smoke suddenly arcing from windows of the surrounding tenements. He was still staring when they detonated and blew him off his feet.
Deafened and stunned, he remembered thinking how undignified the Jirt Princess looked on her back, legs waving. Some of those legs were missing, yellow fluid leaking from the stumps.
Then row after row of tenements boiled into white dust as Jirt security opened fire.
Do not move, ordered a glittering dragonfly buzzing in Jomo’s face.
Later, as a trembling medic sutured his scalp, Jomo asked about the Princess, but the man avoided his gaze.
No talking, ordered unseen Jirt.
Hypothesis one. You belong to a disaffected human group that attempted to assassinate the Princess…
“She’s alive then?”
In which case you will tell us everything before we make an example of you.
Hypothesis Two. You were acting for an individual Jirt, or Jirt faction at Court. In which case you will tell us everything before we make an example of you.
Jomo protested. He knew nothing of factions or rebels. There had been men who shouted abuse. Perhaps they had a weapons cache and improvised the attack…
He faltered. It made no difference.
They brain-probed him, but it revealed nothing. Still, a nearby city was reduced to dust as a warning.
The Princess was soon clattering about on prosthetic limbs, having gained enormous prestige at Court. If there had been a plot against her, it backfired. The Queen made her a Favourite, to discourage assassination as a policy perhaps. Or as she remarked privately, at least not to botch it.
“Hamlet should have tricked the Court into thinking she was the victim, not the plotter,” the Princess confided. “Thereby gaining favour while discrediting rivals.”
Jomo stared dully, his mouth hanging open. Her secret was safe with him. Brain probes had side-effects.
The Princess drummed her prosthetics on the floor. “Of course, such a plan does involve some risk.”
by Hari Navarro | Nov 16, 2021 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
A man far younger than his face sits in mist heavy clothes beneath the pulse of a cash-machine and asks you if what I am saying is a science fiction story or not? It’s not.
It’s not.
Rest easy. Science and fiction have not but one part in any of this.
You are going to die.
Nothing to do with the natural progression of your kind — nor the happenstance molecular implosion of the beautiful waxy thing that you once were.
Imagine that you place an old iron stake in the ground and tie an inordinate length of unrealistically strong cord to it.
The loose end is then fired off into space and it travels for, well — a time past all imagining.
It then enters the atmosphere of a world, one so far away from us that nothing that I say nor write now will have survived the journey. Even the digital memories we have all amassed will have faded to smeared clumps on endless badly stacked monitors of grubby scratched black.
This imaginary connection secures to a rock on an alien hill with a stunted tree that wilts in shades of amaranth and there is a tiny habitation that should probably be called a hospital and its impact shudders as It snaps at this new and oh so special mass.
But.
This cord it is only a connection. A path along which, just maybe, a message can be sent.
Maybe.
Two cans with a length of string.
Perhaps one, and I cannot see it as being more, of us survives and whomever you are that does, well, maybe you may just call out.
But this one, so not unlike the unknown soldier who lays beneath the Abbey floor, will perhaps not utter a word. Maybe this last special bit of us will just sit and drink Grappa and inhale intricately rolled tobacco and pick the flakes from god-handed masterful artworks and play with themselves as they watch over our redundant orb until their failing heart succumbs to the streaking colours of our passing and they want of nothing more.
Death, it will be the end of us and the cats tongue it pokes.
