by submission | Mar 9, 2021 | Story |
Author: Joseph Hurtgen
In his F16, Judson Steel bore down on the speedy bulwark, the alien flying fortress that had focused its heat rays on what used to be downtown Chicago and was now within range of New York City.
“Missiles away!” cried Steel.
The tank’s armor sucked in the weapon, dispersed the blast across all of its surface area. The armor shimmered blue and then once again appeared as before.
Judson made a tight turn, headed back to try a Liberator bomb on the rogue tank.
A burst of light nearly blinded Steel. The F16 disappeared and the pilot fell through empty space. His drop was arrested by a crushing force. He was drawn painfully toward the tank. “I’ll be obliterated on the alien armor!” thought Steel. But, no, he was enveloped in liquid and soon stood before a humanoid female. She had on a pair of Daisy Dukes and nothing else to cover her green skin. “Jesus! What’d they do to you?”
“They? I’m the sole proprietor of this fortress. Jessie Heart.”
“But you’re a–”
“Woman? You’re most astute…”
“Steel, Judson Steel.”
Heart held up what looked like an iPhone and pointed its camera lens at Steel. “Any last words, Steel?”
“You can’t get away with this!” He leapt at the woman. When his hands touched her green skin, a shock hit his body, knocking him to the ground.
“Nice! That’s going to get a lot of views!”
“Views?”
“I shoot civilization destruction porn.”
Steel looked at Heart’s curves.
“Not that kind of porn! I raze cities and worlds, get it all on video, and then get paid through ad money.” Heart turned the camera on herself. She posed and smiled.
“You’re going to destroy Earth for views on some alien Internet?”
“Oh, not just any alien Internet. We’re a network of 500 planets.” Heart picked up a long scimitar, tested its weight. “It’s really too bad for you that your leaders weren’t faster to throw in their lot with us. But you know, can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”
“Our world is rich! We can give–.”
With a clean swipe, Jessie Heart sliced Steel’s head from body. She caught it all on video.
by Julian Miles | Mar 8, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The room is spotless. There are clusters of four chairs, divided from each other by transparent acrylic screens. The walls are covered in posters, white letters stark against black backgrounds.
The grey-haired woman in the chunky-knit sweater clutches her hankerchief like a child grips a comforter. She gestures to the posters and turns to the younger version of herself sat on the other side of a screen.
“Just reading those makes me want to stop you going.”
Max smiles at her mom.
“They’re designed to scare. Nobody wants to be responsible for taking a disease through, so anyone going has to be fully immunised, and current with their periodic shots, plus being screened within the last week. That’s why we’re separated.”
“But they’re so ignorant. I’m worried what they’ll do.”
“Mom, over there still looks just like over here. Same shops, same streets, same people. The fact they’ve chosen to not be vaccinated makes no change to their lives, except for disease management. That’s why we don’t allow them in, but they allow us to visit. In their eyes, we’re the cowards.”
“But that’s silly! They’re the ones who are scared of science.”
“Mom, I’m not going to have this talk again. Just like you respect the beliefs of other religions, so you need to respect these people’s beliefs, even if they make no sense to you.”
“We should have made them get vaccinated.”
“Beatrice McEldary! Vaxgenics is a banned movement on both sides, just like VXH8. Both are extremist organisations that don’t help anybody with their attacks.”
The hankerchief disappears into a pocket and the other hand points at Max.
“Just because I use your full name when I tell you off doesn’t mean you can.”
“Just because you’re worried about me doesn’t mean you can be rude about people you’ve never met. Honestly, Dolores would love to meet you. The amount of cooking and knitting the two of you would get up to is frightening to contemplate.”
“She would?”
Max nods her head enthusiastically.
“They’re neighbours, mom. There’s a big fence in the way, but they’re only a few kilometres from our house.”
“Mister Oberhaus told me his mother said it was like Berlin in her youth.”
Max nods.
“Never thought of that. I’ll have to interview her.”
“How long will you be?”
“Six weeks work, then quarantine. You’re allowed to visit me during those four weeks: I sorted out the permissions.”
Beatrice looks about nervously.
“I haven’t received a card.”
“You don’t need one. Just come down to the place. Your identity is on file. All you need to bring is your face.”
Max grins as Beatrice chuckles.
“Can’t really leave that behind, now can I?”
Her expression turns serious.
“How long will you be doing this?”
“My contract ends next year. I’ll be there for spring, but the teachers I’m training will be qualified by the summer holidays. After that, I’ll probably drop back a couple of times a year to check in and visit friends.”
Beatrice looks out the window.
“Maybe, when you go to visit, if I got my boosters, I could come and meet Dolores.”
Max blinks in surprise, then gathers herself.
“You could. We need more people to see it’s just a different ideology. They haven’t become monsters.”
She nods.
“I’m guessing it does good for friendly folk to visit, too.”
A low tone sounds.
Max gets up.
“It does. Bye, mom. See you in ten.”
Beatrice watches her daughter step out onto at a street she hasn’t walked down in five years.
“Hate needles. Love you. Time to see the doc.”
by submission | Mar 7, 2021 | Story |
Author: Andrew Dunn
My grandfather writes me letters. They are the old-fashioned kind, written on small sheets of paper with blue lines his calligraphy ignores. I imagine it takes him hours, maybe days, to write each one with lettering so perfect it seems a shame he only had black ink to use. It takes even longer for grandfather’s letters arrive. I’m always watching, waiting.
I told mom about grandfather’s letters once. She told me I shouldn’t talk that way, so I hid his letters in my closet and stared out the window, wondering when and how the next one would arrive.
By sparrow, raven, or mourning dove?
Grandfather explained in one of his letters that birds were the only way he and the mariners on his ship could send their words from the sea to those of us ashore. I was nodding as I read it. I knew my grandfather was a sea captain because mom kept a portrait of him on the living room wall. Mom said a famous artist painted grandfather perfectly in his starched white uniform, grey curls spilling out underneath a hat with crossed anchors, a sextant in one hand and quill in the other.
“The sextant is how sailors navigate.” Mom explained. “The quill is for log-keeping at sea. Sailors must be precise when they sail far out to sea.”
I didn’t doubt sailing required precision, but I was sure the quill wasn’t for log-books. Grandfather was dipping his quill in a jar of midnight ink when he wrote to me, telling me of places he’d seen and adventures he’d experienced journeying the seas.
But which seas?
I slumped on my bedroom floor, turning a globe in my lap, reading names assigned to oceans, lakes, and bays. There were thousands of names, and encyclopedias in the den told me many were known by more than one. There were ancient names long forgotten, indigenous names used by those who lived near waters they plied for subsistence, and nicknames for others. Grandfather’s ship could have been making way through any of them.
While I was studying the globe, grandfather finished a letter to me and dispatched it by way of a cardinal that dropped it on my path as I walked to school one morning. The letter, folded over twice and sealed by a glob of green wax, felt familiar in my hands. I was tucking it inside my jacket for safe keeping until I could read it later, alone in my bedroom, but I was impatient too – I couldn’t let grandfather’s letter languish inside a coat pocket.
I scanned the sidewalk to make sure no one saw me, then hurried into a grove of trees. I opened grandfather’s letter and started reading.
You might wonder which of the world’s many seas I sail. His letter began. I sail across the sea of light. Even as I write this, the bow of this old ship is slicing through swells that gleam as bright as diamonds, and the wake we leave behind shines like dawn.
I stopped reading and turned my head skyward, gazing up through a canopy of green and gold, finding shafts of morning streaming down through clouds. I folded grandfather’s letter, placed it inside my coat, and pressed deeper into the woods, wondering how far I would have to go until I found the spot where light touched the ground.
And if I found it, I wondered whether I could learn to write letters like grandfather did, with ink and quill, on a ship that was sailing fast on halcyon currents that shone like diamonds.
by submission | Mar 6, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alan Moskowitz
Other than a bottle of curdled milk, there was nothing in the refrigerator. Desperate, she grabbed the bottle with a skeletal hand and drank the brutally smelling mess down, hoping for a least some nutrition. It only took a few moments for her stomach to give it back. Her wasted lungs screamed for air as she coughed up the remains of the milk and sucked in the fetid air until she finally had control again. She threw the offending bottle against the kitchen wall, taking some little pleasure in watching smash to bits.
She staggered over to the cupboard, her stick-thin legs and exhausted muscles forcing her to maintain her balance by grabbing the edge of the rotting counter. Her faltering steps crushed the empty food containers strewn across the floor. She opened the cupboard door. Bugs scattered, too fast for her weakened fingers. She swept the inside of the cabinet, hoping beyond hope that one full precious can of anything may have been missed. All she felt were the brittle carcasses of dead insects. She moaned in disappointment.
The pain of trying to use her emaciated limbs became too much to bear. She collapsed onto the floor, surrendering finally to the knowledge that there was no more food, the earth was barren and sterile, and she, like the rest of humanity before her, would starve to death. She smashed her fists into the floor, raging at the horror of mankind’s stupidity.
Sheila woke up screaming, jerking up from the bed, looking around her in terror. She looked over at Marty, curled up, peacefully asleep, only the back of his slightly balding head visible. A dream, only a dream, and a nasty one at that. She took in several breaths, lay back, calming herself. She gently pulled the cover from him and gagged; Marty’s rotting skull stared at her, his once vibrant body withered and emaciated, her wasted flesh sloughed off into puddles of ichors on the blanket. She moaned in fear, too weak to scream, her vocal cords ravaged. She looked down at her own devastated body, felt her cold gaunt face. She tried to cry, but she had no tears left for herself, Marty, or humanity.
by submission | Mar 5, 2021 | Story |
Author: Dave Ludford
I’d just entered the orbit of the planet Obran when the form of Senator Drex materialized; a not very welcome visit. I set the controls to manual and prepared myself for whatever was to come; Drex and I had crossed swords on several previous occasions. The Senator walked towards me a few paces, looking around the bridge as though he’d never been aboard my vessel before.
“Drex, good to see you again,” I lied. He regarded me with hard, steely eyes, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Hessler, welcome. It has been a while since your last visit.”
“Not surprising, given that you virtually ran me off this planet last time.”
“You were trading stolen goods. You know we cannot allow that.”
“That was legitimate stock! I had all the necessary documents of authentication.”
“Which were probably falsified.”
I moved to remonstrate further but Drex made a placatory gesture.
“Past history, Hessler. I’m sure you managed to offload that stock somewhere, a trader of your abilities, if slightly dubious reputation.”
“I sold it virtually at cost, hardly made a dime. You’ll have made sure of that; a word here, a word there.” I could feel my blood pressure rising alarmingly.
“Such is my duty.”
“OK, but I don’t like having my professional reputation tarnished. Several buyers in the Frol galaxy- previously good customers- won’t trade with me now. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Again the brief pause, a hesitation. Then:
“A month ago a plebiscite was held on Obran and the result was narrow but decisive. We’re pulling out of the Free Trade Alliance to cut our own deals outside the bloc.”
I was dumbfounded; not sure, at first, if I’d heard him correctly.
“But that’s crazy! You’ll never get better deals than those within the bloc. The same goods will cost twice as much, or more!”?”
“I, personally, am not happy with the outcome of the vote but it was a democratic decision and therefore the result stands. We will no longer be dealing with traders the likes of yourself. I’m sorry but the decision is made, and that’s the way things stand.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Are you trying to ruin me? What have I done? Just tried to earn an honest living doing what I do best.”
Drex stood resolute, unspeaking, unwilling to enter into further debate. I knew better than to attempt further argument, it was pointless. Obrans have never been known to change their minds or reverse decisions. I slumped back into my seat, shaking my head. After a short while my anger subsided and I felt able to speak again.
“OK, so what about my current load? I’ve got a hold full of cargo that’ll take the best part of three hours to unload, including the wine your President is rather partial to and which he’ll struggle to get elsewhere.”
“We will, of course, honor that order as it was placed prior to the plebiscite. We are still in a transition period until new trading deals can be put in place, so you are free to land and unload.”
Later, as I left Obran’s orbit, I couldn’t suppress a smile at the knowledge that although my previous cargo hadn’t been stolen goods, that last load was, and the terms I’d negotiated with Drex’s buyers had been some of my best ever. I’d just made a killing on goods that hadn’t even been mine in the first place…
As a trader you are, by definition, a chancer.
Time to try my luck elsewhere.
by submission | Mar 4, 2021 | Story |
Author: Patricia Miller
It was an odd commission, but no one but Grimbello Brothers had the wherewithal to pull it off. The client was quite specific as to the size and shape of a cask to hold the finest jewel in the kingdom. It had to be a masterpiece, she insisted, but more than that, it had to appeal to a particular collector of unusual taste. He wasn’t someone prone to public, ostentatious displays, but rather was a discreet connoisseur, someone whose recollection was hazy when it came to provenance, and had the means and connections to escape repercussions for the occasional questionable acquisition. Possibly she didn’t have the rights to sell this jewel to the collector, but then again, he lived far enough away that it didn’t matter.
In the generations our firm had been tapping the horde, we’d pulled out numerous stones and baubles too large, and possibly too identifiable, to sell through our usual channels. This commission would be a suitable opportunity to put them to use.
We couldn’t afford a hint of gossip, so we worked in small groups, first fabricating the cask out of imported cedar and plates of lead crystal, lined with burgundy silk velvet.
A sapphire tiara was converted into ornate hinges. Ruby bracelets became roses in the centerpiece, accented with emerald leaves recovered from a truly hideous brooch. We twisted, annealed, braided, and wound gold, silver and platinum wire into gossamer filigree webs across the top.
The last task was fabricating a cart fitted with a suspension system. After all, it wouldn’t do to have it damaged in transit, not after we’d invested more than a year to create something we hoped would last for eternity.
Then it was done. And it was stunning, exuberant, extravagant, and every other adjective which could be used to describe something so audacious in form and function. The client was thrilled, the future owner on his way. All it needed was one final component to elevate it to perfection.
She stumbled into our clearing three days later. Of course we knew who she was. We worked in a cave. We didn’t live in one. Eyes as blue as the most brilliant sapphire, lips as vivid and red as rubies, hair the color of obsidian, skin as white and luminous as the pearls which graced the handles. The tale she spun about her poor dead mother, missing father, evil stepmother and some huntsman should have softened any man’s heart.
But business was business.
We don’t know what was in the apple, but for a small percentage, Grimbello Brothers has been promised another one for our next commission. Seems the collector has his eyes on a blonde…
