by submission | Feb 3, 2021 | Story |
Author: Fariel Shafee
It always was the dazzling stars — always, since he was a toddler. They flashed like beckoning lighthouses. “This is your destiny,” John utters the words in a room with no other souls. But the words feed into his own head. He likes the sound and the enticement.
John remembers how he had prepared to reach this point. He had given up his summer vacations for extra science classes, had taken up mountaineering to strengthen his muscles. He had imagined at night that he was in a placid rugged land fraught with beasts and with little air, and he had tried to hold his breath. He could survive the flight.
When training began, he worked almost like a machine — made up a little notebook where he meticulously jotted down each day’s activities — the minutes divided up neatly. He ate the tasteless powdered dissolved in what in reality would transform into recycled urine. It was all fine. Nothing compared to the gain.
The phone rings. He had been waiting for it forever. This would be the moment. “I am ready,” John whispered to himself.
In his small stark room, John feels solidly prepared. “Yes, thank you. I would be happy to serve,” he rehearses the words.
The voice though is more anxious on the other side. He had asked her not to call.
“Don’t, don’t slam it down,” the voice is almost full of tears. John does not wish to imagine the slender girl with her curly lips and her whimsical escapades. They should not have crossed the border. They should not have gone to that dingy town. They should never have gone into that little hut with the hag who brewed them dark thick alcohol that almost looked like a witch’s potion.
“You have it, John. Like I do. I am so really sorry. It was infected.”
John freezes — does not know what to say or to think. The transition is too quick.
“But I am going to the star,” he whispers almost to himself.
“What?” Jenna shouts. A siren drowns her.
“We have three days to get it. The antidote,” Jenna starts crying, her voice breaking into hysteria.
“Or else we are both dead.”
After the phone goes silent, as though Jenna had been gagged, John stands silently by the table.
“Three days,” he murmurs. “But I wanted to go to the stars.”
One hour later, the phone rings yet again.
“Mr, Miller, congratulations,” the voice is deep and assuring. There is no meddling siren in that bunker. ” We shoot off tonight at ten.”
John does not think of the world, or of Jenna, or the life that is too short.
“I will be happy to serve, sir,” he utters as he had prepared for almost an hour.
After the phone is silent again, he walks back to the other end of his room, opens up a suitcase, and puts in his bare necessities. Those were not the worldly ones but the few new technologies that would last him in the sky, with flashing light passing by the window of a darting encasement that would surround him — throughout the last three days of his life.
Nb: This piece is an edited version of a creative writing project assigned by Coursera. I would like to thank the instructor for the problem.
by submission | Feb 2, 2021 | Story |
Author: Andrew Dunn
Tina played bass in a psychobilly band on Mars. She was telling Tim all about it, how she leaned skin and bones into that carbon fiber instrument and thumped those heavy strings in time with the beat. Tim was taking all she said in, because Tina had neon tattoos that glowed underneath her fishnet in the bar’s dim light.
I should’ve put my hand on Tim’s shoulder, and whispered in his ear, “Do you really believe what she’s telling you?” I didn’t.
Tim would’ve brushed my hand away and bought me another round, because he had a plastic card loaded up with cryptocurrency he couldn’t spend fast enough.
The bartender was taking his card, swiping it through the thing, and rocket-fueling Tim into closer orbit around Tina.
“Steg’s bad.” The bartender groused.
Oldest. Scam. In. The. Book.
How does it work? Like this: A guy like Tim stops off to wet his whistle at a watering hole in orbit around Deimos. Or Phobos. Whichever. You get the picture. The guy starts buying drinks, and then Tina shows up. So the guy is buying and paying with his crypto card, the kind with a picture on one side. That picture contains code. Steganography. The code has to validate to complete each sale, and then it changes to keep the code, well, a code. Tim buys a few rounds and then…
“Steg’s bad.” The bartender isn’t just grousing now, he’s mad.
Tim’s confused, begging, “I just used that card,”
because he did. And every time he did, the picture on the card changed because the embedded code validated, and a little more of his money was gone.
Tina wasn’t confused. She was urging Tim, “Maybe try it again?”
The bartender was squinting skeptically until my hand rested on Tim’s shoulder. I leaned in close and whispered, “It can’t hurt, right?”
Tim stared into his drink, and then up into neon designed to make the low orbit dive look like a terrestrial dive back on Earth.
“Yeah,” Tim bellows, “try it again.”
And the bartender does, again and again, the picture on the card changing from the Mona Lisa to the Queen of Hearts to Marianne from Gilligan’s Island and the phone in my pocket buzzing as the bucks kept pouring in. I was feeling good knowing even after I split it with the bartender, I’d be sitting pretty, until…
“Hands up.” Tina demanded, phaser in her hand at once on me, then on the bartender, and back on me again. “I want your phones and your crypto. Now!
“But you play bass in a psychobilly band on Mars!” Tim whined.
“She ain’t lying no more buddy.” I mumbled, the carbon fiber body of this android’s hull creaking as my mechanical fingers fished through polyester pockets, wishing I’d never been programmed to lie.
by Julian Miles | Feb 1, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I didn’t want to write this, but here’s the thing: I have to.
Sitting in my study, looking out the window at a glorious sunny day, with kids running riot in the playground and old folk sat on benches watching the world go by, it’s what many would call perfect.
Which is the root of my quandary. It’s the 22nd July 1952. How can I tell them it’s not going to last? The wondrous future of leisure supported by advanced technology that everyone talks about is a lie. I’ve seen it: the computers, the prosperity, the inequality, the Nazi trappings. For the majority of people, it’s a dystopian ‘work until you die’ future, and it’s less than eighty years away!
The machine doesn’t have the ability to let me see how we get there. In truth, getting the view I have was a miraculous accident. Einstein had some ideas about the future being set, and viewable. I might have confirmed some of them.
What puzzled me is that what I see changes each time. Initially I thought it was because my act of viewing enacted some Heisenberg effect upon what I saw: either due to my observations, or possibly knowledge of what I have done and seen becoming public.
Then I thought it because of me viewing on different days – which may have some bearing, I admit.
I am now more of the opinion that Einstein’s fixed universe view is not entirely correct. I believe the view changes each time because I am seeing the various possible futures that could exist at that point, depending on which significant events transpire or fail between now and 2032.
My greatest horror is that not one of the futures I’ve seen differs in the fundamental composition of society. After all the sacrifices of the last decade, it seems the fascists will eventually triumph. The uniforms may differ, but the words, the targeted hatred, the cowed populations and ruling elite are unmistakable.
I intend to continue to document my work for a few more days, then prepare an initia
The man finishes reading, then reaches over the body to pull the page from the typewriter. He turns to the woman who is rummaging through the cluttered bookshelves that cover two walls of this small study.
“No need. The whole place will have to go. We can’t afford to miss a thing.”
“Thank God.”
She drops the papers in her hand with a sigh of relief, then waves to indicate the room.
“Is it that serious?”
“From what I just read, he’s a dyed-in-the-wool communist crank. Looks like another scientist driven doolally by his work.”
“Senator McCarthy might be overstating, but he’s not wrong. I’m beginning to wonder if all this science is such a good thing, either.”
He turns and pretends to check outside the window so she doesn’t see his smile. Turning back, he pulls out a lighter. She opens a slim silver case, extracts a pair of cigarettes, and puts both between her lips. He lights them. Then, with a little flourish, he sets fire to the page and drops it on the floor.
They step out of the room as the fire starts to spread. He takes the cigarette she holds out. After waiting long enough to be sure the place is well alight, they leave. Walking a short way down the road, they duck into a black DeSoto and drive off.
by submission | Jan 31, 2021 | Story |
Author: Judith Pratt
The statues were falling apart. I knew they would.
Poseidon’s trident cracked. Hercules lost an arm, and the Discus Thrower lost his discus. Aphrodite still tried to hold something in her hand, but her robe had disintegrated.
The bosses of Gods & Heroes, where I work, fired two of the designers and their resin supply company. To my surprise, they didn’t fire me, even though my own boss, Diane, is always saying “Sandy, you’re being negative.” She says that because II see problems coming and have to tell people about them.
Maybe I’m still here because many problems take years to explode, so everyone can be surprised when the database crashes or a customer sues us because their statue fell apart. No one ever remembers that I knew that would happen.
I try not to see these things, but they haunt me until the words are out of my mouth even if I’ve pinched it closed and gritted my teeth.
When I told my second husband that the cellar would flood during the next thunderstorm, he got angry. “Don’t I have enough to do without you thinking up catastrophes?”
It did flood, and, he wouldn’t talk to me for a week. This is the third relationship I’ve ruined.
When this husband left, I went to a shrink.
“I can’t keep my mouth shut when I see a problem,” I said.
She wanted to know about my family, if they didn’t listen to me.
My parents always listened to me, I said. Then they would respond by discussing all the other things that might happen, or that I might want, instead of what I did want, or what I said was going to happen. They seemed to listen, but they gave such endless consideration to what I said that I was never sure if I’d even said it.
That can’t be why it’s impossible for me not to speak about what I see coming, I told the shrink. That can’t be why I can always see what’s going to happen. “No one can see the future,” she told me. I didn’t argue, but I didn’t go back. And I didn’t tell her that her car would break down today.
What god did I offend? God of accomplishment, god of self-esteem, god of chaos? I’ve read every version of the Cassandra myth. Nothing applies to me. No snakes spoke in my ear. I didn’t promise Apollo that I’d come to his bed. I’m certainly not a virgin.
This year, this year is different. Everyone sees some terrible danger approaching, but no one can agree on what it is. Climate change or socialism? An epidemic or a plot to ruin the economy? The end of our country, or its rebirth? Some folks think that enough discussion will lead to a consensus. But this isn’t discussion, it’s shrieking across a great chasm.
What do I see coming now?
I don’t know. The shrieking has finally shut down my visions.
by submission | Jan 30, 2021 | Story |
Author: Michael Hopkins
Dr. Arden Hart floated through the airlock into the International Space Station IV.
“Well, well…daddy’s little girl finally made it.” Captain Gianna Moralez, the ranking office on ISS IV, hoped her new recruit would get sick. “So you have Doctoral degrees in mechanical engineering, electrical engineering, and agricultural engineering. And you’re up here to study the weather?”
“Yes,” Arden said.
“Couldn’t figure out what you wanted to be when you grew up?” Arden floated towards the Captain to shake hands and was met with a stiff arm to the chest. “Or, you just couldn’t figure out how to make daddy happy?”
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Arden snapped back, “I missed your educational background.”
Captain Moralez got nose to nose with Arden. “I would match my Tech School Degree and 28 years experience up here against your green ass and alphabet soup credentials any day.”
The two other astronauts, Eun Jung Gwan and Antonia Petrov looked on and knew better than to come to Arden’s defense.
“Suit up Hart,” the Captain said. “You, Lieutenant Petrov, and I are going out to perform a status check on the orbital debris shields. Dr. Gwan will man the control room.”
Hart wanted to object but said nothing. She started towards the suit room.
“Hold up Hart,” the Captain said. “You got a brand spanking new suit. Are you good to assemble it? The O2 mini tank and CO2 scrubber are pre-charged.”
“I’ve been trained,” Hart said.
Antonia Petrov smiled and told Hart to call her Nia. “I’m EJ,” Eun Jung Gwan said with a handshake. “Be ready in fifteen minutes.”
They made their way out of the station to begin the task of checking the 200 debris shields protecting the orbital laboratory.
“500,000, Dr. Hart,” the Captain said. “That’s how many pieces of loose junk are orbiting the earth.” Hart wanted to tell her it was more like 550,000, but let it pass.
Two minutes into the project, Hart heard a panicked voice in her helmet. “Hart! Hart! Are you there?” EJ was frantic.
“I’m here,” Hart said. “What’s up?
“Simultaneous suit malfunctions. Both the Captain and Nia are unconscious. CO2 levels jumped to 10,000 ppm and are continuing to rise. They’ll be dead in 10 minutes.”
“How the hell could two suits malfunction?” Hart said. “Any new system updates?”
“Updates every day. But I can’t fix anything from here.”
Hart ignored protocol, untethered, and pushed across the station to Captain Moralez. She tethered to her and made her way to Petrov, and attached to her.
“Status?” Hart said.
“13,000 ppm,” EJ said. “Both dead in three minutes.”
“It’ll take at least seven minutes to get these two to the southern airlock,” Hart said. “I’m going to hose up to both of them. Meet me there.”
“Don’t do it, Hart,” EJ said, “You’ll all die.”
“Get ready to pull us in,” Hart said. She needed a trifurcated connector for a three-way hook-up. She remembered the damaged Cloud-Aerosol Transport System (CATS) she was assigned to fix. It was only twenty feet away and would have the junctions she needed.
Hart took the pistol-grip wrench from her belt, zipped out four bolts from the CATS unit, took the value, and made the three-way hook up. Her oxygen supply would keep Moralez and Petrov alive, but she would also lose consciousness in a minute.
Hart snapped her titanium carabineer back to the ISS and slinked around to the south side. She could see that EJ had the airlock open. Blackness crowded out her vision and she passed out.
“Wake up Hart,” Captain Moralez yelled.
Hart saw the other three astronauts sitting in the airlock, helmets off.
“Petrov your incompetence with the suit maintenance almost got us killed! Hart, our CATS is floating in space, and you performed non-regulated suit mods on a walk for god’s sake. As for me, I’m screwed for taking a rookie on a project walk without a checkout run. EJ you should report us.
“When Hart went off book,” EJ said, “I turned off the comlink. We’re still in blackout. They’ll do a manual connect in ten minutes.
“EJ, totally against regulations,” Moralez said. “If we don’t figure out a plausible story all our asses are going to be shuttled back and run out of the agency.” She looked around. “Anyone have any ideas?”
Hart raised her hand, “I have one.”
Moralez stood up. “Okay genius, let’s hear it.” The Captain smiled and offered a hand to Hart. “Welcome to the team.”
by submission | Jan 29, 2021 | Story |
Author: Robert Beech
I woke with a sense of unease. Some sixth sense told me that all was not well in the world. Blearily, I turned on the light to see that my sixth sense had been right. It was midafternoon, I had overslept again, and the cage was open.
I slid into my housecoat and slippers and followed the damp footprints out of the bedroom and downstairs. Would the living room be a shambles? Again? Would he have eaten one of the cats? more than one?
I got to the bottom of the stairs and looked around. No signs of destruction. Maybe it wasn’t going to be as bad as I had feared. Then I saw the front door. Wide-open. That was bad, very bad.
With a sinking feeling, I grabbed the leash, headed out the door and down the front steps, and looked around. The footsteps led off to the left. Still in my housecoat and pajamas, I set out down the sidewalk, peering around for my missing pet. There was a mail truck parked about halfway down the block. That was a bad sign. He liked mail carriers, a bit too much.
As I continued down the block, a trail of letters and packages appeared alongside the damp footsteps. In some cases, the footsteps could clearly be seen trampling the mail that lay scattered on the ground. I stooped to gather it up as I walked along. No point in leaving a mess on the sidewalk. Or a messy trail. A little farther on I came across the mail carrier’s bag, damp footsteps could be seen going over it and continuing on down the block. Not good at all.
Another hundred yards farther down the block, I caught up with him. He was sitting in the middle of one of my neighbors’ yards, gnawing on a bone, looking obscenely pleased with himself.
“Did you eat the mailman?” I asked.
He didn’t answer but lowered his head apologetically.
“Again?” I shouted. “This is the third time. It’s the sort of thing that will get you talked about, and not in a good way.”
He looked away and resumed gnawing on his bone.
“Hey,” I yelled. “I’m talking to you, mister. Pay attention.”
He looked up at me uncertainly.
“What am I going to do with you?” I asked in an exasperated tone of voice.
He didn’t answer. I hadn’t expected him to.
Sighing, I slipped the collar over his head and gave a yank.
“Let’s get you home and cleaned up,” I said. “And then I’m going to have to finish delivering all this mail before people get home so it’s not so obvious what happened here. And you will be on your best behavior if you want to keep living in this house, got it?”
He didn’t say anything, but I hoped maybe the message had gotten through this time.
“Humans,” I sighed. And he had been such a cute little changeling when I’d gotten him.
