by Julian Miles | Aug 2, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
She stands there in the street, head cocked to one side, hair in disarray. I pause to watch what happens next. These ‘no loitering’ walkways are still new to smaller towns.
A patrol drone rolls up next to her. It beeps in what’s supposed to be an authoritative manner, but still sounds like a cheap toy.
“I’m sorry, I was listening to Odin.”
It beeps again.
“Yes, yes. He said you’d be insistent. It’s your mother, isn’t it? She’ll be fine. You have to stop worrying, and you need to stop taking it out on people you find contravening the urban behaviour rules. That’s just bullying, you know?”
The drone spins about and careens away.
“That was amazing. How did you do that?”
Her eyes find mine. It’s like a voltage runs from my eyes to my toes and back through my heart. Blue like Antarctic ice, distant as the sky. Then she blinks, the blue turns to that of a tropical lagoon, and the shock runs through me again.
She raises a finger. Nods, whispers something, then lowers her hand.
“I didn’t. He did. He knows. But not everything. Says that would be cheating. He can only know everything about one thing at a time. That’s one of the staves he set upon himself.”
I see we’re near a coffee shop. I’ll call this as ‘unforeseen circumstances’ and work through my break to make up.
“Can I get us a coffee while you explain?”
She nods, pirouettes, and rushes off towards the coffee shop. I stroll after her, trying to look casual.
By the time I get there, she’s sitting at a table eating a sticky bun. There’s another sticky bun on a plate opposite.
“Your coffee will be here soon.”
“How do you know what I like?”
“He told me.”
This could get irritating.
“Really? So he knew all about me for a while?”
“Yes.”
Okay. You’re enchanting, and I could drown in your eyes. Let’s play.
“Did he keep it all to himself or did he tell you anything?”
“He warned me my eyes weren’t the right shade of blue. Told me which way you’d walk to work today.”
“Too easy. You got someone to run an online preference profile.”
She grins.
“Your father left the keys to the toolbox on the windowsill above the freezer. The cat knocked them down. They fell and got caught inside the crossbar at the back of the freezer. That’s why you can’t find them.”
I’ve searched everywhere since he died!
Deep breath. Pause. Now say something.
“So you… No, ‘he’ says. What’s with the Odin advising you act, anyway?”
She shrugs.
“He’s always been there, ever since mum introduced me to him. Said it was a boon those of our bloodline get.”
“Odin’s talking to a towheaded girl in a baggy white jumper, silver leggings, and army boots?”
“Why not?”
Fair question.
A huge smile crosses her face. I feel myself grinning in response.
“You should be more worried about why he’s talking to me about you.”
Actually, that is disturbing.
“Did he tell you?”
“A little.”
“Can you tell me?”
She leans forward conspiratorially.
“A power cable fell from the pylon outside your work. If you’d arrived on time, you’d have been electrocuted and crushed.”
“That’s insane!”
The smile returns.
“No, what’s insane is you’re sitting here on your own, this Valkyrie’s stolen your bun, and my boss has got plans for you. Good luck.”
She vanishes, leaving two empty plates.
A long, blue feather drifts down and alights on the back of my hand.
There’s that shock again.
by submission | Aug 1, 2021 | Story |
Author: John McNeil
Excuse me, I thought it was my turn. You had your hours and hours to say your so-called evidence, and now I’d like to talk about what really happened. Can we have Javert with a clipboard over here stop interrupting?
Thank you. As I was trying to say, the trespassing was a complete misunderstanding, first of all. Maybe I noticed the “Authorized Personnel Only” sign. Do you know how many signs there are on this space station? There are probably about a million signs nobody pays any attention to. Oh like say, the one in this tribunal chamber that says “No Eating.” Half of you are chewing clams right now and I believe Mister Inquisitor had a panini before his enthralling presentation. Look at the crumbs on his lapels.
Yes, it was the power reactor chamber, and yes, if someone messed up the controls we’d all be blown to stardust. That’s why I was being careful, not wasting time reading signs, okay? So this trespassing thing is a complete joke.
Secondly. Let’s be honest. Things fall into people’s pockets by mistake all the time. If a power crystal fell in my pocket what does that prove? I have with me, in fact I’m wearing it now, the same light jacket I was wearing on the night in question. I’m going to give it to the evidence robot and roll it over to you. Now I ask you, members of the tribunal, to inspect the left-hand pocket in question and tell me — remembering your oath to follow the facts wherever they lead — does or does not the left-hand pocket of this light jacket in question have a simple cloth flap that could be tucked inside it, allowing something to fall in? Rather than say a zipper? There’s no zipper.
So it’s undeniable that the power orb could have fallen into a pocket through no cognizance of my own. And then maybe I did notice the signs you keep talking about, “Authorized Personnel Only,” and thought to myself, hey! I’m a law-abiding guy. I don’t eat paninis when I’m not supposed to. I’ll obey a sign even if some people don’t. I’m on my way out.
Sure I noticed the lights going out, the alarms and people running around, and the orders to evacuate. It’s an emergency. Am I asking “what have I got in my pocket?” At a time like this? What am I, Bilbo Baggins? I just got on the first shuttle I saw. Lucky there was one idling right there, but lucky’s not a crime.
I’ll tell you what is a crime though. To wantonly search a man’s bank account for an alleged transfer of funds. Did you give your bank special instructions to refuse all large sums that the Gorgonoids might ever send you? If not, you’re as guilty as I am. And if the Gorgonoids have power crystal technology all the sudden what does that have to do with me? Proves nothing. The real crime here is that I was interrupted in the middle of a well-earned vacation and made to sit and listen to Crumbs the Inquisitor and his wild imagination. I put it to the tribunal that he is the true robber, a robber of my valuable time, and I rest my case.
by submission | Jul 31, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Barber
The Princess was touring the human quarter. She savoured these adventures, accompanied only by a human guide and her security flock.
Jomo was an amusing companion. As they made their way through the raucous marketplace, he
regaled the Princess with gossip and intriguing fragments of data called stories.
He was telling her the tale of Queen Arthur and Excalibur – the notion of a King being best left to another time.
“This was long ago, when the world was young, and human Queens fought each other endlessly, encased in metal, using edged weapons…”
“Because their bodies were soft and vulnerable, like yours,” interrupted the Princess, pleased with herself.
“Indeed. Even before you arrived from the stars, we saw how superior an exoskeleton was. Now, Excalibur excelled all other edged weapons in sharpness and strength, and Merlin saw that whoever wielded Excalibur would be the one true Queen.”
This was the perennial problem of all those born to power. The Princess and her sisters performed intricate dances of advantage and disadvantage at Court, only restrained from more lethal manoeuvrers by the authority of the Queen.
“Could this Merlin really predict the future?” Her Highness wanted to know. “Because if she could…”
They were getting sidetracked. This often happened.
“Merlin saw many futures, and none were certain, but in all of them, only the true Queen could free Excalibur from a great stone.”
Her Highness often tried to guess how stories ended. Each race had its gift. As her kind were born to rule, perhaps these stories were the human gift. Humans were certainly mediocre in every other way.
“So Queen Arthur smashed the stone?”
“There was no need. Though Arthur came from a nest of little consequence, she knew she was the one true Queen, destined to rule them all, and Excalibur became hers.”
This was most satisfactory. Deep in her ovaries, the Princess also felt she was the one true Queen.
“But wouldn’t another Queen simply take Excalibur away from her? If, as you imply, there were more powerful, bigger nests…”
They had paused in front of a human shop selling curios. Arrayed on a table to catch the multifaceted gaze of the Princess were ancient light bulbs, X-ray plates, radios from the lost days of radio, shiny plastic discs that reflected the spectrum of visible light…
Jomo had an arrangement with the owner of the shop. He was supposed to gasp in surprise at this genuine art from pre-invasion times, much sought after and collectable, and bargains at such prices.
“Ah,” said Jomo absently. His gaze followed the security drones, circling like birds of prey. “But Queen Arthur had a new notion, a fellowship…”
Some things were hard to translate.
“Other nests also survived in obscurity. But what was impossible for each alone, could be achieved by a fellowship of several, led by Queen Arthur.”
The Princess felt a pang of recognition. The Queen already had her favourites and she was not amongst them.
“Arthur’s fellowship defeated powerful Queens one by one, each too proud and too suspicious to ask rivals for help. And this is the important part, since she could not know if she might need the fellowship again, Arthur did not betray them afterwards. She swore on Excalibur that each could trust the others. One for all and all for one.”
Her Highness clicked her mouthparts at this novel idea. She had always bullied sisters of lesser importance. What if…
“And this fellowship was successful?” she ventured.
“Ah, that is another story. For another day.”
by submission | Jul 30, 2021 | Story |
Author: Stephen Murtough
The blank screen became the words: Jasmine loved Jonathan more than he loved her.
Thirty children were seated in individual booths with individual screens, and they each answered by pressing one of two buttons. Twenty-eight were correct. The other two were led out of the examination room.
New words appeared: Jasmine and Jonathan knew each other from long ago, and once, they’d loved each other. Eventually, Jonathan realised he loved Katie instead.
As before, the children answered quickly. Four children, who were all very young and were expected to fail the test, were escorted out of their booths, leaving twenty-four remaining. The examiners stood silently behind the booths.
Without delay, statement three appeared: Jonathan had known from the start that Jasmine wasn’t right. She was too introverted, too quiet, too happy to sit indoors and read a book. Nonetheless, she was there, and Katie never seemed interested until the Xmas party. He didn’t regret that evening one jot.
This time, as the examiners expected, the children took longer to answer. They read and re-read the statement and studied the statement’s structure and intricacies, trying to decipher what could have written the statement. The examiners paced, twiddling thumbs in pockets, and some shared looks and suppressed smiles. Eventually, the answers were submitted, and nine children were removed from the test.
Statement four arrived: Jasmine hadn’t had much luck with relationships. She admitted, when alone, that she wasn’t much of a catch. Boring came to mind. Inconsequential useless human. When she met Jonathan and he agreed to her suggestion to go for a drink, even if it had been a joke, she opened her eyes to the possibility: just maybe I am worthy, just maybe I am a catch. When Jonathan didn’t return home that December night, when he didn’t return her calls the following day, and when he sat her down and told her what had happened without ever taking off his jacket, it broke her. Just what do I owe, she wrote that final evening, the pleasure of being so meaningless.
The fifteen remaining children stared at the screen for over five minutes. Their pupils dashed left to right to left, and their hands hovered over their two choices: ‘Human’ or ‘Machine’. One child answered and their booth blacked out: incorrect. The examiners shifted their feet furtively. Another answered and was instantly led out of the room, and then a third, fourth, fifth, until just two remained studying the statement. They answered ‘Human’.
Instantly, statement five appeared: Just last week, Jonathan, you said you love me. What happened?
The two children paused, hesitated, then answered simultaneously. The examiners stepped forward to remove one of the children from the room, whilst the other remained with their hand pressed on their choice. An examiner looked over the child’s shoulder at the correct answer: ‘Machine’.
Holographic fireworks fizzed and the winning child was escorted to the celebration room. A speech was made about technological and educational advancements. Whilst the child’s supervisor schmoozed with other guests, an examiner asked the child how they’d known the final correct answer. I didn’t, replied the child. Lucky guess, they said.
by submission | Jul 29, 2021 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“How about: ‘Rainbow’s End’?” the art consultant said as she swept her hand in an arc through the air, eyes aglitter.
“How about: No,” said the polling consultant seated beside her. “That might attract little kids, I’m afraid, and that would be disastrous.”
“He’s right,” the project manager concurred. “We want children to mature into workers, consumers, and,” he continued as he rose from the conference table and walked over to the window, “tax payers, of course.”
“What about:‘Sweet Abyss’?” the polling consultant offered. “Sounds ultra-hip and coolly jaded, I think. Just the sort of term to pull in those easily swayed by social trends.”
The religion consultant slammed his hand down on the table. “Are you insinuating there’s nothing waiting for us after death? Because that’s what that name implies.”
“No offense, padre,” the polling consultant sighed. “How about: ‘Lethe’s Portal’?” He held his hands out in supplication. “It’s sounds classy, mysterious, and—”
“And our target demographic will have no idea what the name means,” the project manager interjected. “Our target demographic has no interest in the history of the world before they were born; I assure you they will not grasp a concept of a name taken from the ‘river of forgetfulness’ found in ancient Greek mythology.”
Picking up this thread, the religion consultant added, “He’s right; our desired consumer is only interested in living in the moment.”
The art consultant nodded her agreement. “They are utterly enchanted by the eternal present, from what I see.”
The project manager turned from the window, a sly smile spreading across his face. “Yes. All they really want to do is partake in the everlasting now.”
* * *
The more stubborn social activists publicly refer to the smooth marble structures popping up all over the greater metropolitan areas of the world as SACs, or ‘self-annihilation centers.’ On the streets, people call them ‘suicide shacks.’
Fortunately, for the proponents of ‘The Everlasting Now,’ a large enough percentage of the populace is eager to walk through the ornate brass doors of those same smooth marble structures. For a nominal fee (usually 40 credits, but price varies from city to city), the customer is granted entrance into ‘The Everlasting Now,’ wherein they are guaranteed:
* Freedom from stress related to interpersonal relationships, including but not limited to loneliness, social insecurities, romantic drama, and family dysfunctions.
* No more sleepless nights centering around work, deadlines, finances, and debt.
* Any and all legal issues are wiped away; including fines, fees, and impending prison sentences.
* Alleviation of all physical and mental pain and suffering, including but not limited to disease, injury, self-inflicted harm, and addiction.
Further, customers’ names will appear in the Big Book of Selfless Acts, published annually by the World Population Control Project. All proceeds from ‘The Eternal Now’, and its accompanying book sales, are directed towards the upkeep of the State Infrastructure, which includes, via Global Government edict, funding the WPCP.
by submission | Jul 28, 2021 | Story |
Author: Jason Kocemba
Greg has finally breathed his last. He was a good boy, faithful.
He deserves to be buried and not left to be carrion, but I’m tired.
In the beginning, when the dead were fresh, I buried them: single, double, mass graves, it didn’t matter. When I couldn’t dig I built bonfires. When the carrion eaters had turned most of the dead to well-dressed skeletons I made cairns from the bones, and pyramids from the skulls.
With Greg gone, I feel the loneliness closing in, as I knew it would.
In the early years, when I realised, after a lot of searching, that there was no one else, only me, I used to get drunk for months at a time. The only way I could tell how long I’d been on a bender was by the length of my hair, beard and fingernails.
Why didn’t I just end it? What if, for the sake of argument, I lay down on a bed of bones and just stopped? Why didn’t I let the hungry have their fresh meat, let the worms and flies, bacteria and fungus do what they do? What made me stand up and keep searching?
I buried everyone in my home town. Everyone I knew, drank with, worked with, grew up with. Everyone I dated, kissed and slept with. My brother and sister, my mum and dad, my three remaining grandparents. Friends, friends of friends. Strangers. I buried everyone. By the time I had interred the town I was done with death, done with the town, done with the memories. I could think of nothing to say on their graves.
I set myself adrift and became a nomad. I walked, drove and cycled across the land. I found only death. Scavenging became harder as things spoiled and I had to hunt. Soon the travelling began to pall.
I found a farm and taught myself how to raise animals and grow grains and vegetables and fruit. I had everything I needed. It was easy when you only have one mouth to feed.
I put any time I had left into learning new things. I learned how to play musical instruments, how to make films, how to paint and draw, how to write. I would go on expeditions to find clothes and furniture and any little knick-knack I needed. It wasn’t until later that I realised it was just an excuse to find booze.
And then one day, after nineteen years away, I found myself in my old home town. The memories were fresh in my mind and with my new skills, I made portraits, created sculptures, shot documentaries and wrote poems and stories. I left my works in each of their homes, I told their life stories through art, documented their existence. I found my voice.
I stopped boozing after that. I renewed the search for another survivor. As I travelled I made art for the dead as I went.
I am honoured to have been able to tell their stories and commemorate the lives of the people whose houses I used for shelter and whose clothes I wore and whose beds I slept in.
I’m the last and I’ve done my best. What more can anyone say?
The loneliness is going to catch me. Let it. I’m not going anywhere. I’m old and I’ve been busy.
I’ve got one more dead friend to bury. And then I’m done.
