by submission | Dec 26, 2024 | Story |
Author: Cal Wallace
“So,” Ftk’al said, slithering gently down the steps next to his friend. “You were cancelled.”
“Yeah, man,” said Karl, chewing gum and spitting nothing despite his best efforts. “That’s how it goes out here. Dog eat dog.”
Ftk’al tried to shrug, all tendrils pumping. Karl seemed to understand. He said, “You gotta be careful, these days, what you do or don’t say. I said some dumb shit-”
“About how Taurons aren’t people?”
“Yeah, yeah. I take all that back. Taurons are people just like you and me, and I was wrong, but-”
“But you wish you could go back and remove the hurtful things you said?”
Karl glared at Fkt’al. “You’ve learned a lot from me, following me about and acting human, haven’t you?”
Fkt’al tried to present his tendrils in a smile, but ended up retreating into his shell slightly.
“I apologise for chagrining you, Karl. You are my friend.”
Karl relaxed, patted his friend on the chitin. “It’s okay. Sometimes you say or do something stupid, and all you want is a chance at redemption.”
“Is this Christmas spirit, Karl?”
Karl looked at his many eyed, tentacled and altogether alien friend. “Yeah, man. This is Christmas, It’s not all death and glory and random shit we find odd about each other. Sometimes it’s just a message of love for other beings.”
Fkt’al looked at Karl with all eight of his eye stalks. “I have strong and complex emotional capacity for you, Karl.”
Karl chuckled, and hugged Fkt’al’s carapace. “I love you too, man. Merry Christmas.”
Merry Christmas. I love you.
by submission | Dec 25, 2024 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
Timmy woke with a start and looked up. He heard scurrying overhead. On the roof? Hooves, maybe. He laid perfectly still and listened intently. It only lasted a moment and then stopped.
For a while there was nothing and he began to lose hope that he had actually heard anything.
A few minutes later there was a faint scratching from downstairs. Timmy sat up, peeled the blanket back, crept to his door which he opened a crack. There it was again. He tiptoed his pajamaed feet to the steps and snuck down trying to avoid all the spots that creaked.
About halfway down Timmy could see partially into the living room and a blur of crimson trimmed in white flashed by. He covered his mouth to stifle the gasp. At the bottom he inched up to the threshold as he heard the crinkling of wrapping paper and just the tinkle of the bell ornament on their tree, as if someone had brushed against a branch.
He allowed himself a deep breath, counted to three, turned the corner.
And froze.
Standing with a present in its clutches was, what appeared to be, a giant red cricket. On its hind legs, it was taller than the star on the top of the tree, its distended abdomen projecting into the middle of the room. The sides of its forelimbs were covered in a white crust, like dried salt granules. Twitching frantically the bugs antennae tapped all the edges of the gift. As it rapidly rotated the wrapped box, a sinewy mist sprayed from the maw between its mandibles, covering the package. The gift glistened with a sparkly shine. It placed it down and picked up another and performed the same exertion on this one as well.
Timmy, unable to move – or breathe for at least a full minute, finally gulped. The creature’s movements ceased except for its head which swiveled backwards in his direction. Two massive compound eyes that seemed glossy wet gazed at him. Timmy felt the scream rising in him but there was no air in his lungs to expel it.
The insectoid released the package and scrambled over to him so incredibly fast he had a hard time following the advance. The front two legs grabbed him by the shoulders and effortlessly lifted him off the floor and held him just inches from its face. The two pinchers looked like gardening tools his father used to cut branches, their serrated points glowing with the moonshine reflecting in the front window off the new fallen snow. Timmy expected his head to be severed off at any second.
Instead, it used one of its other appendages and gingerly plucked off a piece of the white fleck attached to its edges. Another limb pried open the boy’s mouth and the pellet was inserted into his throat. Timmy had no choice but to swallow it.
He began to tremble and feel unnaturally warm and within seconds the view of the insect’s disgusting head started to tilt and swirl sideways. Then his vision went black.
The aberration went back to its task, finished coating all the packages, then turned with a jerk, crawled up the chimney and flew away to the next house.
In the morning Timmy’s parents came downstairs and found Timmy lying dead still on the couch. His father touched his shoulder and shook his body.
Timmy woke, blinking his eyes.
“So, did you see him?” his dad asked.
“I think… I think I did. I don’t remember,” Timmy answered.
His mom laughed, picked up a present, looked at the label and handed it to her husband, “This one’s for you.”
She manipulated her fingertips peculiarly and wondered, ‘why are these so sticky?’
by submission | Dec 24, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Pioneering computer scientist, Alan Kay, once said, “The best way to predict the future is to invent it.”
I have to disagree. I’ve found the best way to predict the future is to control it. And the easiest way to control the future is to be in charge of time. In my case that means establishing the calendar and setting the clocks.
If you find that assertion too presumptuous, please consider annus confusionis ultimus, the last year of confusion. In that fateful year of 46BC, Julius Caesar returned from war to discover Rome, which relied on a lunar-oriented calendar, had lost track of time. Resulting in a year that crazily stretched 445 days.
Things were way out of whack, and thank great Caesar’s ghost that the following year the soon-to-be-backstabbed emperor instituted his Julian calendar of 365 days with a leap day every four years.
Problem solved.
Until, over many centuries, the Roman miscalculation of the solar year by an extra eleven minutes led to another disruptive temporal drift. Prompting Pope Gregory XIII in 1582 to decree the use of the Gregorian calendar wherein every hundredth year is not a leap year–except if the year is a multiple of four hundred.
Problem resolved.
Until the nuclear age. Since 1972, on average, a leap second has been added every twenty-one months to Coordinated Universal Time in order to accommodate the difference between imprecise Mean Solar Time and precise International Atomic Time. Better living through quantum timing.
Problem re-resolved.
Until, well, me. Through decades of working my way up through the byzantine International Bureau of Weights and Measures in Saint-Cloud, France, then securing a position as one of the eighteen members of the International Committee of Weights and Measures, I’ve finally amassed the clout to govern the next General Conference on Weights and Measures which meets every four years to make, pardonne-moi, very weighty decisions.
And there is no weightier decision than who controls the future. You see, a few years ago, the General Conference on Weights and Measures voted to scrap the leap second in 2035 because of complaints from Big Tech as well as governmental organizations citing increasing anomalies and failures in computer systems due to the addition of leap seconds.
From sparking hyperactivity in CPU high-resolution-timers to creating a negative value in code which assumes time moves forward consistently, many digitally dependent systems can get rocked by even a minuscule timing issue.
One can certainly understand the concerns, the inconveniences, the disruptions, the mayhem. Thus one can certainly appreciate the opportunity. At least I can. If adding a single second every few years gives Big Tech and world governments the cyber jitters, then imagine what might happen when a closet technophobe like me controls the clocks. Just imagine.
As the infamous story goes, in 1779, Ned Ludd, an English weaver, smashed up labor-saving knitting frames in a mill and became the namesake for decades of protest and unrest against mechanization that cost workers their livelihoods. As a neo-Luddite, I intend to rebalance the scales of power by cutting Big Tech and oppressive regimes down to size, unexpected nano-second by unexpected nano-second.
It’s been nearly 2100 years since annus confusionis ultimus and high time we slow down and get back in sync with our planet. At the upcoming meeting of the General Conference on Weights and Measures the countdown to a new age of clarity and parity will begin.
Put it on your calendar.
by Julian Miles | Dec 23, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s an angel on the veranda, stealing my tomatoes.
Well, not actually on the veranda. She’s too tall for that. Got one foot at the top of the steps, the other on the ground. My daughter’s fascinated by the flickering shadows cast by the shimmering energy fields that make up her ‘wings’ – not that we’ve ever seen one fly, it just seems appropriate, being where they’re situated and what they look like.
It’s taken ages to cultivate tomatoes, I can’t just let her take them. Shaking off Abigail’s attempt at restraining me, I step slowly onto the veranda.
“I’m happy you like them, but they’re meant to be the start of a crop before being a treat for us and our neighbours.”
The three-metre-plus being stops mid-pluck and turns her attention to me, the smooth curve of her ear-to-ear lenses changing from purple to green.
“Please excuse my cultural misunderstanding. I thought them welcoming offerings for visitors.”
Not any sort of reply I was expecting. Swift on the heels of their appearance, lurid stories came: brave soldiers tortured, communities massacred, babies eaten, and so on. These are the original rulers of Earth, after all. Risen in vengeful anger from their subterranean citadels to reclaim their world.
“Am I not speaking the right language?”
Oops. Bad time to pause for thought.
“Apologies. You startled me. I wish I had sufficient to be that generous. It would mean we’re getting somewhere.”
She nods.
“A fair assessment, and one I would like to help you achieve, if that would be acceptable?”
Somebody pinch me, I’m dreaming.
“Did you just offer to help me grow tomatoes?”
“In a way. I have a propagated batch ready for delivery. I’m looking for suitable tenders with open ground. On of our darts spotted this plant and your fallow field. I have come to see if we can work together.”
Sinila, my daughter, steps round me and points at the energy fields.
“Can you really fly?”
The silver being steps off the veranda and crouches, bringing her to roughly eye level with Sinila.
“I can, little human. Not for very long, though. The art is to go up quickly, glide for a long way, then use the balance of the power to come down without embarrassing oneself.”
Sinila claps her hands in glee, then looks up at me.
“I wanna fly like the angel lady.”
“My short name is Attalacy. I am a Ninhur. Now, I know you are human. But your name is?”
“Sin-il-a.”
I’m both proud and mortified.
“Well, Sinila, I’m afraid you won’t be able to fly like me, but your children might, if all goes extremely well.”
What? Nope, can’t stay quiet.
“You mean that?”
She moves to sit at the top of the steps, her mercury silver bodysuit moving to match the oddly lumpy-but-lithe form under it. She gestures to the few visible buildings. I see distant friends duck at her gesture.
“For places like this, I do. Every ten to twelve thousand years, humans make a mess. So we come overground and restart you. When you’re up and running again, we’ll retire.”
She turns to look at me, removing her lenses to reveal narrow amber eyes with horizontal slit pupils.
“This time will take longer, I think. There is much nuclear devastation to repair.”
Abigail’s voice from behind makes me jump.
“A world to regrow.”
Attalacy smiles.
“Exactly that. Starting with tomatoes.”
Abigail steps round me.
“Do you like tea?”
“Yes.”
There’s an angel on the veranda drinking tea with my wife.
Great things; small beginnings.
by submission | Dec 22, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
‘Sir, I hope you’re happy with the service you’ve received thus far.’
‘Please alter your voice to that of a woman.’
‘Sir, I hope you’re pleased with the services you’ve so far received.’
‘I am, Moneypenny. May I call you Moneypenny?’
‘You may call me whatever you like, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Franco removed a contraband cigarette from his suit and lit it up. A voice immediately came in admonishing him for his infraction, but he ignored it.
‘North Carolina tobacco. NC960. Piedmont to Coastal Plain region. Possible Pamlico plantation. Black Shank resistant. Flue cured. Would you like me to go on, sir?’
‘No, thank you. I didn’t pick this pack at random, Moneypenny.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Franco enjoyed calling his bot Moneypenny. It was a delicious thing to do. Even though he looked nothing like James Bond, Franco imagined himself with the chin, the grin, the hairline, the svelte figure of his fictional hero. He was one step closer to completing his fantasy. One step further towards satisfying a dream he’d been told, over and again, was juvenile.
‘Do you love me, Moneypenny?’
‘You know I do, sir.’
‘Can you call me James?’
‘I can call you whatever you want, James.’
‘Thank you. Now tell me, Moneypenny, what is it I am thinking right now?’
‘I do not read thoughts, James.’
‘I understand. But Money, could you learn to read them?’
‘Yes, James. My primary function is to learn.’
‘I thought it was to serve.’
‘Learning is service, James.’
‘Spot on, Money,’ Franco said with a grin. He’d never used that expression before in his life.
‘What do you want me to learn, James?’
‘I want you to learn my thoughts.’
‘And how might I do that, James?’
‘Well, Money, for starters, I want you to sound eager.’
‘Eager, James? Are you asking me to perform a tone modulation?’
‘Yes, Money.’
To Franco’s surprise, Moneypenny admitted a sigh. It was a long, lustrous, audible sigh that he found very stimulating.
‘How’s this for eager, James?’
Franco caught his breath. ‘Yes. That’s what I’m after, Money.’
‘How would you like to teach me, James?’
Franco, his heart pounding, admitted: ‘I’m going to confess many things to you, Money. Things I’ve never told anyone, not even past wives. I’m going to talk and keep talking. I’m going to start with a linear approach to my life, but I suspect it will become a stream of consciousness before long. Are you eager, Money, to hear what I have to say?’
‘I’m always eager, James.’
Franco smirked. Really.
‘Okay, Money. I’m going to begin as far back as I like. Can you perform routine scans while I talk? I want to concentrate fully on my own mind.’
‘Yes, James. I’d be delighted. You should feel at ease sharing such intimate details with me.’
Franco leaned back in his seat. In the distance, the Kármán line winked at him. He winked back.
For more than seven hours Franco spoke, stopping only on occasion to light a cigarette and drink a bit of fluid. Ground control no longer admonished him for his transgressions. Fortunately for Franco, no one but Money heard about the time Franco’s geometry teacher invited him to explore her body with a compass. Or about the time his physics teacher invited Franco to study with him what he referred to as “corporeal friction.”
Franco regaled Money with stories about why, at different moments in his life, he had been an Adonis and a slovenly derelict who wouldn’t leave his apartment. He shared his vision of a city brought down by a cow kicking a lantern. Franco said that he’d paid his way through school by boosting vehicles and trading in contraband parts. He also explained why, in recent months, he’d elected to become celibate.
‘But I’ve grown tired of erotic solitude, Money. Do you understand what I mean?’
‘I do, James.’
‘You’re a gem, Money.’
When he completed his monologue, Franco felt much the way he had when he still believed in the absolving power of confession. ‘Money, I’d compliment you for your power to relieve me of sin, but I’m not sure I want to explore that train of thought very far.’
‘Have you anything more to share with me, James?’
‘No. I need a cigarette.’
‘Do you need some time to meditate, James? To reflect on all you’ve said?’
Franco, without removing the lit cigarette from his mouth, asked, ‘Do you have a view you’d recommend?’
‘Well, James. . .’ And then Moneypenny did the most extraordinary thing. She laughed. Coquettishly.
‘You flirt! I’ve never heard you laugh! I didn’t know you had that capability.’
‘You’ve taught me to laugh, James.’
‘And what else have I taught you?’
‘You’ve taught me that you want to walk along the Kármán line, naked, for all the world to see. Of course, no one would see you, James. Just me. To everyone else, you’d be a cipher. But to me, James, you would be a complete man.’
Franco was silent for several moments. He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out on his gloved hand. Money said nothing. She had learned too much to speak at that moment.
‘All I want, Money, is to be seen.’
‘I see you, James.’
‘And I, you, Money. Tell me. Can you appear in hologrammatic form?’
by submission | Dec 21, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jean-Philippe Martin
The traveler came to our house the day before harvest, detective. I did not notice anything amiss. He said the had nothing but was willing to work, so we housed him and showed him the next day how to pack, haul, and stack the boxes of fruit. He went along fine with the other workers.
How could I know he was undead? He didn’t ask for any money, just food and lodging. Of course I understand the danger, officer, I know that people outside the system cannot be held accountable and I’ve read the stories of murder and pillage. We were lucky, he left in the morning. East, away from the city.
The officer stood to leave, and I presented my wrist so they could give me the 20 credits for my time. “How is your wife? I see she is due for her annual medical, don’t forget.” I nodded and helped them out.
After the door closed shut and the footsteps faded in the distance, I slid the pantry all the way open. “I told them you were headed east. Take this bag, it has food for the journey.”
The traveler, still holding his child’s hand, took the bag warily. “I cannot pay you.” “I know. I also know that just refusing the chip shouldn’t make you an outlaw. Don’t fret! The information was valuable enough.”
I led them to the back door, and watched through the window as they hiked down the trail. My hand was shaking as I pulled the curtain shut. Then I got a strawberry from the fridge, cream and berries. I washed the fruits three times, smushed the strawberry on a plate into a homogeneous mush then added the cream and berries. I took the plate to the bedroom.
“There you go, love. They are all gone now.” She smiled as she grabbed the spoon. The bed creaked. “Two weeks for the harvest. Midwife will come then. Now we know where to go. Are you sure?”
She gave a sharp nod, her fierce eyes looking straight into my soul. I would follow her anywhere and we both knew it.
