by submission | Apr 28, 2021 | Story |
Author: Susmita Ramani
“It’s you,” I say, though we both know it’s not. Still…
“It’s me,” she says; her voice, so on-the-nose, knifes my heart. She’s sitting in our living room, on our red sofa.
I take a step toward her. “Do you…mind?”
“That’s why I’m here.” She opens her arms to me. I sit next to her, lean over to gently kiss her…then instead, bury my face in her honey-gold hair, creamy neck — which smells like her lavender-vanilla lotion — and moon-pale breasts, encased in a pale-pink bra whose cups were edged with a froth of lace. Over it she’s wearing one of my favorite dresses, red silk with flowers. She looks like she did the day we got married. Everything about her is as it was before cancer turned her into a ghost ship of a person, all skeletal mast and ragged sails that wouldn’t let any air through.
I know why this feels so real; they don’t let us even temporarily forget. When we were setting this up, they didn’t merely say, “Hand over your dead wife’s picture,” like at some agencies (that admittedly charge a fraction of what this costs; you get what you pay for). They asked me to bring my full library of videos of Sarah, photo albums, leftover lotions and shampoos, even some pieces of her clothing. Those guys at the See Corp. are pros. Through tears, I smile.
Sarah says, “We have six days together, honey. You booked us for a rainforest adventure. To do the full thing, we should leave soon.”
For a split second, it registers that that’s how long I’ll be lying in a glass pod at the See Corp on a nutritional IV drip, hooked up to machines.
Shaking that off, I nod and stand. “Let’s go.”
As we exit the front door, Sarah and I both are now suddenly wearing hiking boots, khakis, and T-shirts.
We exit the front door. Outside our house — and it’s an exact replica of our house — I gasp to see not our own boring but tidy front yard, but unimaginably tall trees. It’s raining, but the rain is warm and velvety soft.
Sarah kneels to pet a snake in a way reminiscent of the way she petted our dog, Riley. “Hey, green mamba.” She turns to me. “Remember, nothing here can hurt you.”
The snake sort of looks like Riley, actually, despite its coloring, which is fluorescent green, with a yellow-green underbelly. Its jewellike eyes glint in a familiar way. It follows alongside, weaving through the foliage and around fallen branches. Sarah points out dazzlingly colored tree frogs, elephants, antelopes, gorillas, armadillos, anteaters, pigs, frogs, bats, birds, and scorpions.
She beams. “George, this is how rainforests should look…and did look, before people destroyed them.”
I can’t help laughing. That’s the Sarah I know and love: activist to the core, always looking for pristine patches of nature.
We go on a canopy bridge walk, traversing back and forth for as long as we want. I feel amazing, like I could walk forever…and I never feel hungry or have to use a restroom.
I quicken my pace to match her normally brisk Sarah-pace. “What next?”
“After the jungle walk, let’s swim with pink dolphins in the river. There are also black caimans and crocodiles there, but remember: none of them would harm each other any more than they’d harm us, because this place is better than nature. It’s sugarcoated for us easily-distressed humans.”
We laugh.
I almost say, “But you’re not human.” But I don’t, of course.
It’s going to be a good day.
by submission | Apr 27, 2021 | Story |
Author: Ryan Hyatt
Since Jenica broke up with Bobby, she noticed a change in mood.
Getting rid of that creep, no matter how good the sex, should have been a cause for celebration.
Instead, every day felt like being buried deeper from her feelings.
“A split is difficult, even if it’s with a guy you hate,” says Cherice, sipping a latte, “or you think you hate. It was like that when I cut off my ex. We get used to what we know, and we don’t respond well to change.”
“Why do you think it was difficult for me to dump him?” says Jenica, eyes wandering from patron to patron at the Bittersweet Café.
Four men wearing white scarves with latex fringe.
Six women wearing bright jackets made with synthetic suede.
All of them looking straight out of a fashion zine, appearing happy to be hip.
Jenica thought she was happy, too. Then, she found Bobby cheating on her, and their relationship finally made sense.
She stormed out of his penthouse, but now, nothing seemed to satisfy her.
Even coffee didn’t taste right.
“How’s your drink?” says Jenica, trying to change the subject.
“Great,” says Cherice. “Just the right amount of foam, and a sprinkle of cinnamon. Yours?”
Jenica sips her mocha, lets the liquid dance on her lips.
“Tastes like water.”
“That guy really took you for a spin, didn’t he?” Cherice says. “It is water. Your mood modifier just makes you think it isn’t.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” says Jenica, eyes widening. “My mood modifier isn’t working.”
“Check your app.”
Jenica places her cup on the table. She stares into the facelet wrapped around her wrist. She taps on the screen.
“Must be on the fritz,” she says, flinging her wrist. She checks again. “Wait, what? Oh, no. I think I’ve been hacked.”
“How?” Cherice says. “Who has access?”
“Not sure,” Jenica says. “I left my facelet at Bobby’s one morning when I was late to work –”
“Would he toy with you like that?”
“I can’t think of anyone else who’d screw with my settings …”
“Oh, girl,” Cherice says. “He’s trying to get back at you!”
“With him, it’s probably more than that,” Jenica says. “This is his way of trying get me back.”
“No wonder you’re in such a funk!” Cherice says. “He’s been holding your feelings hostage!”
“Next thing I know, he’ll make me feel like I miss him,” Jenica says. “What should I do?”
Cherice grabs her purse, stands.
“We’re going to the doctor,” she says, “to disable your mood account.”
“That’s invasive surgery, could cost me thousands …”
“Do you want this jackass out of your life?”
“Forever.”
“Then you’ve got one more fight to win, girl, to turn back into the person you were before Bobby snuck into your head and messed with your mind.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 26, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I wake with a dagger in my hand. The other end of the dagger is in someone’s neck. Raising my gaze, I see the life fade from his eyes. The moment stretches as details sketch themselves in around the face of someone I don’t know. A ship’s bridge. Crew members staring in horror. A purple and green planet on the view screens.
The nearest person’s gaze flicks to my left. Something hits me from the left. I’m knocked down, dagger seemingly locked in my hand. Blood fountains across my falling view. I hit the floor, then hit my head. Darkness.
“Is she awake?”
“She’s coming round, sir.”
I open my eyes. The ceiling is blue, the lighting soft and indirect.
“Welcome back, Shistal. If that’s your real name.”
It’s not.
“Becky. Rebecca. Rebecca Ethelsdotter.”
“Dotter? You’re from the Scandic Worlds?”
“Issker.”
“Why do you have greenish skin?”
I raise my hand. Long fingers. Their colour is wrong. I giggle.
“Eisa said I had green fingers. Don’t think she meant it literally.”
“Eisa?”
“My sister.”
Him!
“Faen!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Eisa got a new boyfriend. Madden Lars. I thought he was a creep, and that was before he tried it on. I told her, she finished with him. He said he’d get me for doing that.”
“How is this pertinent?”
“She said he described his job as ‘cyberpsychiatrist’. We laughed about robots lying on a couch. A few days later, I found out what they do is adjust behaviour with implants.”
A bearded man with blue eyes leans into my view.
“We’ll have to continue this conversation later. Something just came up.”
It goes quiet, then crewmembers come in and wheel whatever I’m lying on into a grey room. I hear the door close with a hiss.
The bearded man reappears.
“Sorry about that. I think I got where you were going with that line of thought. Hold still. We’re about to do a passive scan.”
“Why passive?”
“Because I think anyone who set you up with an implanted cyber-identity so you could assassinate someone, but rigged it to have you live long enough to realise, is nasty enough to have booby-trapped it. That’s why I moved you to a shielded room: so this Madden or whoever he works for can’t detonate you before we’re done.”
Swallowing hurts; my mouth has gone dry.
He leaves. Time passes. Things hum and stop, then click and stop, then hum again. There’s a hissing noise. Things get blurry. Darkness.
“Welcome back, Rebecca.”
I’m lying in a bed with a raised back. The bearded man is sitting to one side. There’s a nurse on the other. A uniformed man in body armour stands by the door.
“Was I booby-trapped?”
He nods.
“Very much so. You’d been set up to injure or kill everyone near you. The medical team have taken it all out. Our security team have already extracted enough information to prove that, despite your body being used, you’re not actually guilty.”
“What about Madden?”
“He’s been arrested and taken off Issker for questioning. I also requested a protective detail for your family. Just in case.”
“I thought he meant it, too. But I was preparing for petty vandalism, not kidnapping.”
“It certainly raises some dark possibilities. You’ll be questioned when you return home. They’re sending a vessel to collect you. Until then, you get to enjoy the cruise from this private room in our medical centre.”
“Thank you.”
Questioning isn’t the problem. I’m more concerned about how I stop being green.
by submission | Apr 25, 2021 | Story |
Author: John Albertson
The dinner bell rings, and we line up in pairs. My pair today is Veronica. I don’t like her.
I take a plate from the VendingLady – brown MEET, maybe synthbeef, with powdery mash and what they call gravy but my mum would have called dishwater. Veronica takes hers and goes to sit at one of the steel tables. I follow – not like I have any choice. She’s my pair.
I pick at my food. The texture of the MEET is like old boots, the mash like a pile of dust. Veronica catches my eye and smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“You know it’s my birthday today?”
I look at her. Today? But that means…
“Yep, sixteen today. So you won’t see me again, well not for what? Two years?”
“Three,” I say. I’m thirteen.
“Three…” she sighs and chews a mouthful of MEET. “So what’s that, four? If I’m lucky.”
I nod. Four babies. If she’s lucky.
“Four,” she says, her eyes far away. If I hadn’t looked away, I might have missed it. Her hand slides her knife off the table, tucks it into a fold in her dress.
I eat the rest of my MEET in silence.
#
The bedtime bell rings, and we line up in pairs. My pair tonight is Veronica. I’m afraid of her.
We go into the small bedroom one after the other – there isn’t enough room for us both to stand so I lie on my bed while Veronica gets into hers.
The medicine bell rings, and we sit up in our beds.
A nurse comes in, her face is flushed – she coos over Veronica and tucks her into her bed.
“A wonderful thing, dear, a wonderful thing!” She says, over and over as she checks Veronica.
The nurse holds out my pills. I take them – swallowing them as I have every night for three years. The nurse holds out the same pills to Veronica.
“Last time for you dear,” she says, smiling.
Veronica takes the pills, puts them into her mouth.
The lights-out bell rings, and we lie down in our beds. The lights go out.
I hear a rustle, and then Veronica is there – her mouth pressed against mine. I feel the two pills slip past my lips, followed briefly by her tongue. She sits up, holds my nose until I swallow.
“Don’t worry little bird,” she says. “No-one will blame you.”
I try to reply, but I slur the words. My arms are heavy, my head like a rock as I try to sit up. It’s no use. I pass out.
#
The wake-up bells rings and we stand up in pairs. Except we don’t. I stand, but my pair is still lying down. Her face is pale. There are splotches of red on the grey blanket covering her.
They come in, their faces drawn. The nurse is sobbing.
I feel the knife in my sleeve, where Veronica pressed it last night.
My pair today is Veronica. I love her.
by submission | Apr 24, 2021 | Story |
Author: Stuart K Watson
As I wake, I think: Today would be a great day to start the next world war.
I look outside. The lawn is still there, with the neighbor’s scooter lying on its side in the middle of it. Unwarranted incursion. The trees are still standing. Birds still fly. Nests still hide behind the leaves.
There is entirely too much tranquility, peace and harmony, I think. No smoke. No carnage. No lines of refugees. Where is all the destruction?
I emerge from an entire night of sleep and find no bloodshed and ruin across the landscape of my yard. It’s a good yard. Boring, but good. It could be famous, as a battlefield, decorated with white headstones by the thousands, or crosses, if you prefer. I’m partial to headstones.
If this is going to happen, it’s going to take work. First, I need to stew up a good mess of hate. Stop talking with my neighbors. Demonize them, like on Halloween. Watch their every move suspiciously, from behind closed drapes. Take offense when loose documentation from the garbage collection blows across my border without the appropriate people.
That would justify an offensive. We could start small. I could attack my neighbors, just to generate interest. A nuclear strike? I look in the fridge. There’s a container of month-old spaghetti. That would kill.
Our homes sit on lots as small as European countries. Close. Frictious. I could fire a few salvos, to introduce the concept. Or fusillades. I’ll need to find out what a salvo is, of course, and then where to get some. I need lightbulbs, so I’ll ask my hardware guy if they have any salvos.
And howitzers. None of my neighbors has a howitzer, as far as I know. I’m sure their kids would love to help set one up, roll it out, shove the shells in and pull the cord that trips the firing pin. Or whatever makes it go. Then wait to hear where the salvo lands.
Their parents might not like it, if the howitzer was aimed at their house. “Hey, you kids! Quit shelling our house and get on over here. Dinner’s ready!”
Before I go to the store, I call the community college to see if they have any classes on artillery or armed warfare.
“Entry level stuff,” I clarify. “Like Bazooka 101 or … well, you understand.”
The person on the line says nothing — for a minute or so. Then I hear a click and a buzz. Bad connection. A good war would help us get the phone connections we deserve, sure as shootin’.
I sit in my easy chair with a cup of decaf to continue planning.
This war thing, it’s complicated, I think, and take a sip. I should think about it a little more before I go off all half-cocked. Yep. Think about it. After my nap.
Outside, it’s as if the war never happened. Peace and quiet. Trees leafing out. Kids on bikes with plastic weapons learning to shoot each other. I close my eyes. My wife removes my glasses, but by then, I’m dreaming of the next great war.
by submission | Apr 23, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
Cold rain was falling. A man in a worn jacket entered a private clinic. He put his broken umbrella in a stand by the door. The young receptionist at the front desk asked if he had an appointment. She handed him a form and asked him to wait. He sat on a bench and stared vacantly. The receptionist said the psychiatrist was available. The man got up and entered the office. The psychiatrist told him to take a seat.
“I’m having a dream,” the man said.
“Would you tell me about it?” the psychiatrist asked.
“Everything around me is pitch black, and there is a sound, a deep, loud wind sound like accelerating rotator blades.”
“What happens next?”
“I look up before me, and there is a massive floating ball of solid blue light twice as high as me, and encircling the upper fourth of it is a rapid, glowing red line, the source of the sound.”
“Is anything else there?”
“Nothing else is there except the orb, the sound, and me,” the man said.
“How do you feel in the dream?”
“I don’t know how to get out. I’m fixed in place, mesmerized by the sight, and then I wake up. But every time I awaken, it’s harder to get out of the dream.”
“Why do you think that is?” the psychiatrist asked.
“It’s as if I’m being pulled into the dream.”
“When did you first have the dream?”
“It started in mid-April, and it has returned many times. I drew a picture of the orb. I can show it to you.”
“I would like to see it,” the psychiatrist said.
The man brought out a rumpled piece of paper from his pant pocket. He gave the paper to the psychiatrist.
“The orb is like a giant machine,” the man said, “a machine from somewhere I don’t know, that has entered deep into my mind and wants to absorb me and erase me.”
“Do you try to run away?” the psychiatrist asked.
“I can’t move or scream or do anything, only stare at the orb and hear the sound.”
“Can you imitate the sound?”
“That sound—whuh-whuh-whuh-whuh-whuh-whUH-whUH-whUH-whUH-whUH-WHUH-WHUH-WHUH-WHUH-WHUH—that deep, loud wind sound like accelerating rotator blades.”
“What do you see next?”
“Everything around me is pitch black. I’m having the dream again, and I can’t get out. I can’t get out.”
…
“The dream is a symptom of anxiety psychosis,” the psychiatrist started. “Something in your life is beyond your control, and the neurotransmitters in your brain are generating feelings of fear and powerlessness.”
The man was quiet.
“I recommend four weekly consultations and 20 mg of phenothiazine in four divided doses daily,” the psychiatrist said. “If you could wait outside, the receptionist will prepare your prescription and our next appointment.”
The man got up, paid at the front desk, and never returned.
* * *
Cold rain was falling. The young receptionist arrived early at the private clinic. She put her small umbrella in the stand by the door, went to the front desk, and sorted papers. There between, she brought out her smartphone and read a very short story, a strange tale about a synaptic portal that materialized in the brain of a man in a worn jacket, transporting him from within into the void of inter-solar space.
