by submission | Nov 19, 2020 | Story |
Author: Dick Narvett
It sat on the shelf behind a T-Rex action figure and a feminist coffee mug with the saying “If they can put a man on the moon, why not all of them?”
Finding a laptop in Mr. Chapa’s secondhand shop was like discovering an Apple watch on an Egyptian mummy. Vern latched on to it immediately. It was the size of an IBM Thinkpad, yet felt incredibly light. It carried no manufacturer’s markings.
He had come to this place of discarded treasures to find a gift for his girlfriend. The occasion was the first anniversary of their life together. The laptop, however, had brought out the geek in him. He felt guilty about buying it, but eased his conscience by picking up the mug for Elena.
Vern carried his finds to the shop-owner’s desk. “Ah… Excuse me, Mr. Chapa. I’m wondering if this laptop works, and how much you want for it. It isn’t marked.”
Mr. Chapa looked up from his jigsaw puzzle. “If it works? Who knows? You found it where?… Never mind. Twenty dollars.”
Smiling, Vern handed Mr. Chapa a twenty, plus another dollar for the mug, and headed out the door into the brisk, morning air.
***
The next time Mr. Chapa looked up it was to the sound of heavy breathing, as if someone were rushing to catch a departing flight. A most unusual customer stood before him. The man’s features seemed exaggerated, yet were indistinctive. He could just as easily been in his twenties as in his fifties. His black hair, perfectly parted to one side, lay flat against his head as though painted on. He was smartly dressed in beltless, black slacks and a long-sleeved, blue shirt with no buttons.
“The computer… where is it? I must have it!” The man’s lips moved as he spoke, but he exposed no teeth.
“Computers! I have no computers,” Mr. Chapa said. “My only one I sold this morning.”
“You sold it? To whom? I must know!”
Mr. Chapa pointed out the window. “It is surely none of your business, but to the young man who rents that house across the street.”
The strange man turned and raced awkwardly to the door.
Mr. Chapa shook his head. “You would think it a matter of life or death this computer,” he muttered.
***
Elena poured the fresh-brewed coffee into her mug. “I hope you didn’t spend all of next month’s rent money on this fine present,” she yelled.
Vern called to her from the next room. “Lena, come here. Looks like this baby works. It’s firing up.”
Elena carried her coffee to the living room where Vern’s newfound laptop was just coming to life on his desk. The screen lit a soft red. The dark outline of a circle formed with an arrow protruding from the two o’clock position.
“What kind of operating system is that? Looks like the symbol for a male,” she said.
“Or Mars.”
“Mars?”
“Yeah, it’s also the alchemical symbol for the planet Mars.”
The symbol slowly faded, leaving a lone folder marked ‘Avatars’ on the computer’s desktop.
“Looks like the machine’s pretty clean except for this,” Vern said. He clicked open the folder. A list of individual files appeared, each labeled with first and last names.
Just then they heard a pounding. Elena looked toward the front door. “What the…”
The pounding grew louder and more frantic. Vern right-clicked on the folder and hit delete, then quickly rose from his chair to investigate the clamor.
By the time he reached the door, the pounding had stopped. He looked out. The street was empty.
by submission | Nov 18, 2020 | Story |
Author: Steven Holland
“The owl isn’t an owl.”
“What?” I asked.
In retrospect, this was a stupid question. Far better questions to ask would have been “how are you able to talk?” Cats aren’t known for doing this. Or better yet “why am I on a spaceship?” At least, it looked like a spaceship.
My cat looked up at me with her seaweed green eyes and repeated: “the owl isn’t an owl.”
I was struck by her voice. Crisp. Articulate. Confident. This wasn’t the voice of sexy kitty cosplay or a deliberately misspelled internet meme. No, this cat was educated.
The owl – which apparently wasn’t really an owl – flew off its perch and over to me. As it did, a mechanical arm raised a holographic display. The screen filled with some alien language – a combination of letters, hieroglyphics, and a suspiciously high number of purple triangles.
“There’s been a terrible mistake.” said the owl. “Sign this form and you’ll be returned to Earth immediately.”
“As your representative, I would advise against that.” said my cat. “This is an agreement for an invasive, full-body medical screening. Intergalactic law gives you the right to decline.”
The owl clicked its talons and glared at her.
“Uh… I decline to sign.” I said.
A different form appeared on the screen. Before the owl could speak, my cat interjected: “That’s a spleen donor volunteer form.”
“I decline,” I said.
“Fine.” muttered the owl. “Just put your thumbprint here.”
“That means you agree to a memory erasure,” she informed me. “The procedure carries a 3% risk of a fatal brain aneurysm.
“I definitely decline that.”
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“Things were so much better before all these damn regulations.” the owl grumbled. It clicked several buttons and then–
I’m not exactly sure what happened next. I snapped to attention as my car drifted into the ridged edge of the highway. Yanking the wheel to the left, I nearly overcorrected into a passing semi-truck before stabilizing course.
I took a deep breath. Maybe it had all been a daytime nightmare.
“Careful.” said my cat from the passenger seat. “Eyes on the road.”
It had not been a dream. Also, she wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.
As we drove, my cat began giving me instructions. We were going to make some changes at the house. We needed brand new food and water dishes and a litter box. The water needed to be changed every day – from the filtered water of the refrigerator, not the tap. High-quality gourmet cat food, not the cheap processed crap. The bowls needed to be stenciled with her name. Zaphrenia. With a “ph.”
I was glad she mentioned her name. It’s always awkward when you’ve known someone long enough to be their acquaintance, but can’t remember their name.
A sudden thought struck me. Had I ever owned a cat before? Well, I did now. And given the jam she got me out of, returning the favor seemed like the right thing to do.
After shopping at two different high-end pet stores, we returned home. We never spoke of that day again.
by submission | Nov 17, 2020 | Story |
Author: Connor Long-Johnson
We haven’t forgotten the moment the monsters came, and we still pass on the stories of that day. They descended in their rocket ships, cutting holes through our peaceful skies and filling our air with their toxic fumes.
First, they came in drabbles, then in droves.
The hoards greedily stretched their hands over our fields, our forests, and our skies.
The Interplanetary Peoples Agreement is what they called it up there, where they make the decisions for the rest of the galaxy. Down here we call it The Suicide Pact.
We should never have made a deal with humans.
They brought wonders we could never have imagined, flying machines the size of continents, powered by fusion drives.
Language, words we have never heard of like megacorporation, capitalism, and petroleum, flew from their mouths and swayed into our ears like leaves to the ground, finding new life in the rich soil of our curiosity.
Their arrival gave us unspoken promises that we might escape our terrestrial bonds and fly among the stars, our dreams powered by human industry.
We willingly welcomed them, our arms and minds open.
Our curiosity set ablaze, burning brightly like the dual suns above.
Then the rumble of thunder signaled the arrival of the warships.
The dropships descended like carrion to feast on the carcass of Praxion-5.
We cowered while The Federation raped our planet, too weak to fight but too loyal to flee.
The starlight fled as The Undoer, the flagship of the Federation’s fleet, entered orbit over the Ebony Continent.
The fission drill opened a fissure the size of the Great Crystal Glacier in the desert. Turning the black sands to glass in search of fuel for their conquest of the stars.
Leaving us on our knees, the humans left, their hunger unsated.
by Julian Miles | Nov 16, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Hey, Pete. What’s the name of this station again?”
“Celeste.”
“Appropriate.”
“Hush up, Davy. Get back to duty or the captain will murder us.”
“If he does that, he’ll have no-one to pilot or fix the ship.”
“Good argument, but I don’t want to listen to another of his speeches.”
“That’s a better argument.”
“Okay. So: what’s in the box, Davy?”
“Nothing, Pete.”
“Thank you for that. What was in the box?”
“No idea.”
“Scan the transit data.”
“There isn’t any.”
“Davy, the logistics computer told us about this anomalous box. Therefore, it was scanned.”
“Could the box be anomalous because it’s here without transit data?”
“Give you that. Okay, describe the box.”
“Can’t you see it?”
“No. The internal cameras are down in some sections.”
“So you can’t see me?”
“The captain can see your biotelemetry. I have nothing.”
“It’s a metal box. Two metres long, one high, one wide. There’s a nine-point locking mechanism in the lid, with an external lever.”
“Who’d open an unidentified shipment?”
“Don’t think that was the problem. See this?”
“No, Davy, I don’t. What is it?”
“There’s a hole in the lid. About a hundred mil in diameter. The metal is curled outward. It’s right next to where the lever is now.”
“You think something punched through the lid and let itself out?”
“Yes.”
“How thick is the metal?”
“About ten mil. It’s a laminate. Middle layer must be what prevented scanning of the contents.”
“Not unusual. But you think an unknown something arrived in a box from we don’t know where, got itself loaded into the holding bay, then let itself out and is now roaming the station?”
“Makes more sense than mass hysteria causing everyone to jump into the lifepods and leave.”
“So, after dumping the lifepods to hide its presence, what did it do with the bodies?”
“How many could you fit in an airlock if you stacked them?”
“On this ship? Standard four-suit locks, so I’d guess five across, maybe eight high.”
“Around 40, then. How many lock cycles have there been in the last week?”
“Apart from us, three. That’s odd. All Lock B, and at four-hour intervals. Last one was midnight last night.”
“How many crew should there be?”
“Around a hundred.”
“The math works.”
“Davy, why? Why would some lethal thing be sent here? It makes no sense.”
“Pete, this station is the furthest out. If you wanted to test something, this is the place.”
“Test?”
“To see if the plan to get it in here works. To see how deadly it is.”
“They’d have to monitor it.”
“Not if it went back to report.”
“In a pinnace? The range is tiny. Even if it scavenged the lifepods for boosters.”
A huge vibration shakes the station.
“Pete, what was that?”
“Hang on, Davy.”
“Pete?”
“Davy, that was our ship explosively undocking. Passive displays show it’s pushed the station out of stable orbit.”
“We can presume the captain is dead, then.”
“That’s cold. But yes.”
“Is this station really dead?”
“Absolutely. Even the orbit stabilisation systems are useless.”
“Then I’ll start tearing out communications gear and filling the second pinnace. Even if it’s been smashed up inside, we should be able to launch into atmosphere and survive the landing. You grab as much food and water as you can.”
“Don’t forget charge packs, Davy!”
“Good reminder. How long do we have?”
“No idea. Let’s get off this death sentence as soon as possible.”
“See you in pinnace two.”
“Looking forward to it. Well, the not dying bit, anyway.”
“Love you to. Get moving.”
by submission | Nov 15, 2020 | Story |
Author: Jatayu
When David first met her she seemed sad, but afterward, when their time had expired she held him close, asking him to stay a little longer.
When he came back the next week her eyes lit up and she smiled just a little, unsure if it was okay. They made love, each trying to please the other. She kissed his body and face, responding to his touch, whispering his name. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, rousing only when the concierge came to knock on the door.
David came back every week and soon every few days and, though expensive, their trysts lasted longer each time. She asked him what he liked to eat and every Friday they would have a late dinner on the balcony. There in the sun’s last warmth, he would tell her about his day and never ask her about hers. She asked questions and listened, her eyes always on his face, her fingers caressing his cheek or touching his hand.
Once, he mentioned a woman he was fond of and a look of hurt crossed her face. She gripped his fingers tightly and whispered,
“But you’re mine!” as tears slid down her cheeks. He stood up and drew her to him, whispering his love, kissing away her tears…
*
” I’m sorry sir but our units are not for sale.”
David regarded the dapper little man before him.
“She isn’t a unit. Her name is Christine and I love her. And she loves me. Please, name your price and I will meet it.”
The dapper little man named an exorbitant figure, but David was a wealthy man. He would have paid twice as much without blinking.
When David went to her apartment and told her what he had done, she trembled with excitement and threw her arms around him, weeping with joy.
“Oh my dearest, I promise you I will make you so happy!”
“Sweet woman, you already have.”
And they lived happily ever after.
*
The dapper little man was on the phone,
“TeleGen? Hi. We’ll be needing a replacement for our Christine model xj- 243622. Oh? Well. Tell me about the new models…”
by submission | Nov 14, 2020 | Story |
Author: Kathleen Bryson
We only travel at night and we only travel in a small pen. The pen is an invention that means we can keep our time travelling in a small place so we can’t create anomalies. We only travel at night is a phrase that popped up in a dream of my mine and now it is our motto. We explore dinosaur worlds but we cannot explore the future as it has not happened yet and it has not happened yet. We explore Ming dynasties and the less salubrious. We keep inside these little KFC buckets we call pens so it is not much fun so far despite how much we paid for the series of individualised vacation packages. Also everything is dark. Because we only travel at night.
Last week we travelled to 2006. The craze back then was big cities like Rome, London, Berlin, Budapest creating fake beaches and people coming out in bathing suits and umbrellas on the sands poured over concretes. It was just that it was so dark because we only travel at night and it was like entering a house party after its peak; people overdrunk and the floor sticky.
There was a flyer amongst the grains for a new floating pool named after Josephine Baker based on one in 1973, so we took inspiration and also travelled to Paris in 1973. There was the floating pool in the nighttime Seine and like the fake beaches the floating pool was community-minded, set up with lap lanes. No one was swimming at the late hour but we bobbed the pen around for a few floats to see the concentric circles rising, to make a mark upon this old time, but the circles on the water just grew and then faded. And like the fake beaches the floating pool in the inky river was a fake on a fake, an elaboration on something already curlicued. Like the previous sentence. We only travel at night.
We only travel at night. We are meta upon meta. We are the sunless thing that reflects the thing. We hate metacomments on the process, as pure evil as critiques of 1) one’s creative process or 2) good sex. We watch these other times like television shows. So we cannot claim Baudrillard is wrong. We consider however Baudrillard’s own writings on simulacra just reflections themselves too, the fractals spoiling. Or, worse, the water circles fading, we never were and really we never weren’t.
