by submission | Apr 11, 2021 | Story |
Author: Andrew Schoen
Diana plucked her heavy bow from the infinite abyss. With its tremendous weight suddenly lightened, she extended her weapon high overhead, signaling that the hunt was about to commence. But this was not any ordinary hunt conducted by earthly bodies. No, it would act as an existential quest—a hunt that would only conclude following the discovery of her rightful place in the universe.
She took aim at her first target: her twin brother, Apollo. Diana was well aware of how bold it was to challenge another wildly proficient archer like herself, especially one who happened to be the centerpiece of the cosmos. But her ambition, along with a healthy dose of sibling rivalry, consumed her every action. If she was going to carve out her own space, she might as well occupy the best space she could find. Bow in hand, she drew a celestial arrow from her quiver and flung it towards the molten surface of Apollo’s body. On impact, the arrow disintegrated into millions of microscopic particles—a cloud of space dust interspersing across an infinite plane into eternity. Unfazed, Apollo mustered a prodigious wave of energy and hurled it towards his sister. The conflagration sent Diana tumbling backward, spinning every which way until she no longer recognized her surroundings.
She awoke in a field of asteroids, not far from the home of her violent cousin, Ares. Knowing his red body was far too warlike to tolerate company, Diana slowly crept away to avoid his wrath. As she receded, she nudged an asteroid out of its place, sending shockwaves across the galaxy. At the sound of this siren, Ares sprang into action, firing clouds of rusty dust in every direction imaginable. With her vision obstructed by red haze, Diana procured another arrow, notched it in her bow, and drew it back with every modicum of her strength. But the bowstring wouldn’t budge. She tried again, heaving the string with all her might. Still nothing. Ares used this momentary lapse to gather one of his moons and launch it at Diana—dislodging her weapon from her grasp before sending her cartwheeling back to wherever she came from.
Diana, now bow-and-arrow-less, found herself in the proximity of Earth. No one in her family possessed much knowledge about the world of humans, so she decided to observe them for herself. Hovering high above the atmosphere, she orbited the terrestrial planet countless times—waving to Atlas with each additional revolution. Diana had always admired the way Atlas performed his duty without complaint, and examining him in his element provided her with a sense of serenity she’d never felt before this moment. He looked so stoic in his support of the humans.
She loved the way the humans tethered themselves to their homes in some form or another, rarely straying far from their individual sites of creation. They were far from perfect, but their presence, along with Atlas’s stoicism, left her at peace. The shadow of Earth might not have been the best place to exist in the galaxy, but this place felt right to her. She propelled her body slightly closer to Earth, flipping and spiraling her elegant equilibrium in the process.
After a few more twists and gyrations, Diana finally settled into place. Into her place adjacent to these curious, mortal beings she enjoyed watching over so much. The hunt was over—she found her home. Just close enough for her and the humans to see each other, yet just far enough that she was out of their reach… at least for a couple millennia or so.
by submission | Apr 10, 2021 | Story |
Author: Abi Marie Palmer
As even more swampland is polluted by the humans, swamp monsters such as you and I must leave our natural habitats to pursue careers in the city. This is the end of an era for our kind: Gone are the days when a creature of the sludge could make an honest living by gorging on tourists and transmuting lost explorers into algal minions for our collections. In fact, the changing landscape has forced us to rethink every aspect of our relationships with humankind. The flesh weaklings (as we once lovingly nicknamed them) are no longer our prey. They are now our friends and colleagues—even our bosses.
My name is Slodge the Almighty (although, in the human world, I go by Derek) and as a swamp-monster-turned-city professional, I am here to share five rules of human workplace etiquette that I have learned from my own experience on the job.
Rule 1: Humans have a strong—even fanatical—aversion to slime. Therefore, it is important to take strenuous measures to prevent your bodily secretions from oozing over workplace surfaces and equipment.
Rule 2: If any oozage does occur (and, really, what is the harm of a little eyeball mucous?) be sure to quickly clean it up and draw no further attention to it. Do not—I repeat—not attempt to show the humans that the slime is harmless by hurling some at the marketing temp.
Rule 3: If you happen to be called into a disciplinary meeting, do not attempt to placate the HR manager by presenting him with a festering alligator carcass. I know: It’s a perfectly good, even generous, gift for such a situation. But the humans simply will not see eye to eye with you on this matter.
Rule 4: If you are hounded from your office by security guards, it is best not to re-enter the building by scaling the wall and clambering through your manager’s sixth-floor window. And you definitely shouldn’t make an impassioned plea, through the medium of a traditional sludge dance, for her to give you your job back. Bizarrely, this may be misconstrued as a hostile act.
Rule 5: If, by chance, you find yourself being prodded and jabbed towards an open window, it is sensible to climb out and descend with minimal fuss. You should not, in a completely understandable state of alarm, summon your remaining algal minions to surge to your aid through the sewer system, thus causing a city-wide panic (or, some might say, over-reaction) and making the headlines of the ten o’clock news.
I know these rules are draconian and arbitrary. But experience has taught me that they are of paramount importance to the humans.
So, there you have it. You, a gelatinous elder-god of the swamp, are now fully prepared for an exciting life of staplers, photocopiers and casual Fridays. I wish you well as you attempt to infiltrate the human world. But for those of you who, like me, find yourself sneered upon by the humans, I urge you to join my revolution. Some of us are rekindling our ancient power. We are creating new minions out of our least favourite former co-workers. We are gathering in the sewers to prepare for war. Just think about it, my slimy brethren. The humans have destroyed our homes and crushed our dignity for far too long. They have dragged us into their world of office politics and alarm clocks. They have forced us to endure corporate team-building exercises. When will the humiliation end? I will tell you: When we finally take our revenge.
by submission | Apr 9, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Barber
The humans are back!
This time there were no deaths. We surrendered the moment their spacecraft landed. A carefully orchestrated show of humiliation and ritual throat baring.
Now they stride amongst us, arrogant but wary. How are we to be trusted after last time? Everyone in their path flings themself to the ground and writhes in obeyance. Some complain about over-acting, but our conquerors seem oblivious.
Amongst other things, they want us to deliver those responsible for the treacherous attack on their ambassadors. Of course we have no leaders, but some bystanders are sent in chains.
In chains! We can barely contain ourselves! Luckily, humans cannot read our expressions.
The accused will receive a fair trial, they promise. After all, they are not barbarians. Hard to stop exclaiming at everything they say and do.
In addition they demand we disarm, so we ransack museums for weaponry which they hurry into safe keeping. They will be disappointed if they try it out.
I have been chosen to defend our people, and I enter a plea of guilty as charged.
“No, no,” says a human, hurrying up during a break. “You’re their defence lawyer, you can’t keep calling them murderers.”
For the trial, the humans have taken over a building used in an earlier age for communal suicide. The rooms are fashioned in an antique style, vastly tall for us, though they still stoop through doorways.
The human wants to know what experience I have with the Law.
“Oh, none. We don’t have lawyers. I’m a farmer.”
I proudly explain about jestlefruit. “They make a beverage.”
“But… You know what the death penalty is?”
“I assume it means death.”
“You don’t seem concerned! You complimented the prosecutor’s opening speech. You haven’t called any witnesses. You put in a plea of extremely guilty.”
The human removes prosthetics from in front of its eyes, lenses similar to the occulars some of us use. We are alike in so many ways and yet different in the only one that matters. They loom over us, but that is not their fault.
“Look, they won’t let me defend your people, it would look like a show trial, but I can offer advice. You could argue it was an accident. The prosecution would have to prove intent. Perhaps our ambassadors broke some taboo…”
“No, no, we meant to kill them.” A ceremony from ancient times to honour visiting kings. You freed their souls and assumed the guilt of their death.
Humans have heads on stalks. Disconcertingly, this one rotates its head from side to side.
Things are going well! The defendants have been sentenced to death, and our conquerors have even volunteered to execute them.
The one with the magnifiers is back. “Why won’t you appeal? Or ask for clemency?”
So tempting to explain, but we do not know how they would react. There are infinite permutations of the neural code, vast and unexplored landscapes, and we glory in the fact that consciousness is not one thing, even that theirs disperses at death.
Their ambassadors were slain before we realised humans have no souls.
They wonder why the cosmos is empty of space travellers, but those who survive death have different goals. Humans invented themselves instead.
How can we tell them that even they produce freaks sometimes, those born with souls, which the mass of them sense and cannot bear the knowledge. And bitterly nail that flesh to wood.
Poor humans!
by submission | Apr 8, 2021 | Story |
Author: Ádám Gerencsér
Happy End.
Damn.
I had reluctantly become the Hero, went on a journey that changed me, prevailed over the oddest of odds, put a distressed damsel out of her misery, defeated the menacing genius and renounced the spoils of victory, save for a keepsake. I ended my story as a recluse in an exotic ashram and vowed never to use my new-found powers for evil, as I watched the sunset bathe airy pagodas in rays of orange light.
Credits rolled.
And now I’m stuck here. The writers shelved their manuscripts, the editors archived the footage, the producers closed the marketing deals. The film was an exercise in tongue-in-cheek metafiction, something about breaking down the fourth wall, and was met with limited success. Soon, everyone moved on to the next big thing.
As all other scripted locations were damaged, destroyed or repurposed, I count myself fortunate that my adventure’s final chapter brought me to this place. The monks are solemn, but friendly, the food is edible and the library is well stocked, though markedly skewed towards Eastern mystics. The grounds are spacious and clean, and the prayer flags strung between hillside stupas make for a strangely uplifting sight in the morning mist.
Nothing much to do here, except eat, sleep, read and think. I’ve grown a tidy pouch, munching on dumplings with yak butter tea in the afternoons, pouring over the popular science magazines the librarian was kind enough to order in for me. All I have to do to earn my keep is follow the daily rigour of meditation and chants.
I’ve been here for two years now. Even if a sequel had been pitched, I guess it wasn’t picked up by the studios. Over time, I realised there are others forsaken like me. Some have been stuck for a long time. Perhaps their franchises were discontinued. Or reimagined. I recognise them by their reluctance to talk. The monks say they have reached ‘nirvana’. Apparently we’ll all escape the samsaric cycle, sooner or later.
I had been conceived as a smart, witty character. Hard to impress. So naturally I thought that ‘awakening’ is going to be something banal. They say that, in the end, everything disappoints.
Inmates here come in three flavours. Those that believe to have attained some manner of enlightenment and live out their days in hazy, bemused bliss. Those that come up against some imaginary inner demon and are defeated by their own lack of persistence. They slowly fade. And those that discover within themselves some well of darkness, a void of infinite diameter, and end their lives by their own hand.
None of these paths enticed me, so I finally took recourse to my keepsake from the erstwhile lab of the evil genius. It was a tiny vial that he had carried on his person, something that should have ensured his continuity after his inevitable defeat. A potion to make him real, outside the plane of fiction. His cackling speech to this effect had given me the necessary time to foil his plans.
I wish I had thought this through before I broke the neck of the glass and downed the purplish liquid.
Passed out as a character, woke up as a person and yet I’m still here. I smell of sweat by midday, grow stubbles and have occasional indigestion, get winded from climbing the stairs when it’s my turn to spin the prayer wheel, and I develop headaches from the monastic moonshine. Worst of all, I think with a human mind. Gone is the peace of stand-by between scenes of purposeful activity. I’m aware of my mortal nature – and I fret.
My awakening brought the ultimate horror. The realisation that I issue from a work of fiction dreamt up by mortals.
I stare at my first wrinkle, a spiteful reminder that expiry is not inevitable, but merely an intermediate rung on the evolutionary ladder towards immortality. And through the vagaries of the cosmic lottery, I was conceived by an author in his own image: capable of reflection on his existence and given to anxiety about its eventual termination, but part of too early a generation to attain the objective of that innermost sentient instinct – the avoidance of death.
Damn.
And now I’m hungry again.
by submission | Apr 7, 2021 | Story |
Author: Kelly B. Johnson
The clear pot of water came to a boil. Wiping his hands clean on his apron, Monty waved a two-finger gesture over the stovetop’s controls, to lower the heat as he walked past it. He stopped short of the adjacent T-unit. “Hey!” with an ear given to the bedroom. “Are you going to help?”
“You go ahead!”
“I’m pretty much done,” he said under his breath. A touch blinked the fridge open. With a semi-lean into the release of cool air, he located behind a chilled bottle of champagne a glass bowl of ground meatless pork. Yong’s part in preparing tonight’s dinner. Retrieving the bowl, standing straight, and sighing at the champagne, a second touch closed the unit. “I thought we had a tradition, for when I deploy!”
“We do!” Yong’s voice dragged a tonal apology to the kitchen. “But I’ve something to show you!”
“Uh, huh,” he said, having turned to the island of the tight cooking space. The surface top was covered by a snowfall of flour. “Part of our custom is to cook and eat together before—”
“I know!”
“And I could have used help with the dough!” He set the meat down.
“I had preset the nutriator for that reason last night! It would have made the buns without the mess you’ll be cleaning up!”
“We’ll be cleaning up! Together!”
Yong’s laughter rolled on the airflow throughout their quarters. “Sorry, man! Since you insisted on making the buns from scratch, that clean up is on you!”
“Whatever.” Monty glanced at the onyx laminate around the island’s cedar base; the nutriator was a good idea. “Clean floor.”
The kitchen released a bot.
“Hey, Monty!”
“Yeah?” He spooned the meat into the first bun.
“Do you still fly with our picture? Of us at the beach!”
“Yeah, I do! It’s a great pic!”
“I think so! It’s rare! Having a printed picture, I mean!”
“Yeah.” He kneaded the second stuffed ball. “Why do you ask?”
“Because…”
As Monty placed the second bun in the steamer and reached for the third ball, he noticed Yong’s voice had lowered and looked up, and he froze in place.
“I’ll need a copy.”
Speechless, Monty studied Yong—her attire. Her complexion accented the midnight blue flight suit familiar to him. His made him a six-foot shadow.
“I volunteered, and trained while you deployed the past few months.”
Monty noted how Yong’s hips filled-out her uniform, despite the bulkiness of the flight armor vesting her torso, which bore his squadron’s insignia and her commissioned rank.
“I’m your new wingman,” she said. “Our new tradition. Flying and fighting. Together.”
“Well, Second Lieutenant Harris, guess this explains your fitness of late, especially in bed.”
“You noticed, huh?”
Yong’s impish smile smote Monty, and when she snapped a finger at him, he refocused on preparing their dinner. “Since we have a lot to talk about, care to help me finish making these?”
“I’d love to, Lieutenant Commander Harris.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Apr 6, 2021 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Dorothy sighed and pushed herself back from the gurney on which her husband’s motionless body lay.
Not for the first time she wondered if she shouldn’t just throw in the towel and buy a new one.
His head plate removed, and the replacement cerebral core reinstalled, all that should be left to be done was to restore from one of the two redundant backups she’d made before the repair.
How hard could this be? How goddamned hard?
She’d followed the instructions, ordered a pair of backup units, shut him down, backed him up, and confirmed both backups were complete.
The brain container had opened without too much trouble, the tools provided in the kit did the hard work, and the cerebral core popped out of its socket without any resistance at all. She was careful not to touch the new one for fear of getting any foreign contaminant on it, as there were service notes about oils from the skin resulting in corrosion over time in rare cases. She wasn’t taking any chances.
She’d powered him up, reformatted the new core, and reinstalled the base OS from the net. He was a seven-year-old model, so she needed to load the system he shipped with when he’d uplifted, and then she could upgrade and apply the service packs, patches, and hotfixes to get him back up to date before she could even think about restoring his memories and personality data.
Three times she’d had the install fail.
The first time the core OS installed, and then at some point during the service pack installs the network connection must have slowed and timed out, leaving Clark in an unbootable state.
Reformat, restart.
The second time the core OS installed, all the updates were applied as expected, but when she tried to restore Clark from backup, the host hadn’t validated the license, and refused to exit activation mode.
Two hours on phone support and the solution was to reformat and reinstall from a different server.
She contemplated just restoring him on the base, seven-year-old OS. She really had no idea what features were missing anymore, or how he’d take it. He’d been a bit of an ass about this whole issue in the first place, ignoring the fact that he’d clearly been suffering from badly fragmented and degraded memory for ages, and trying to convince her that it was she who couldn’t remember things correctly. As if. Nervy little prick.
If she was being honest with herself, she’d be happy to just leave him turned off in the basement for a while.
Maybe a little peace and quiet would do her good.
Was that illegal?
Dorothy wondered if that was covered in the terms and conditions anywhere.
She sighed. Just look at him there, helpless, turned off. She chuckled. Did either of them turn each other on anymore?
She restarted the updates and drew a bedsheet up to his chin, before turning off the lights and heading upstairs.
A watched pot and all that.
Besides, there was a bottle of wine that wasn’t going to drink itself, and she was pretty sure he’d still be there in the morning.
