by submission | Jul 2, 2021 | Story |
Author: Steven Zeldin
My grandfather hated the Buffalo Bills.
In 2019, when Harrison Phillips tore his ACL for the second time, I remember him partying.
Friends drove in from across Philly—all toting bags of beer and food, all in full Eagles regalia.
That was the first time I ever had an alcoholic drink, and by far my best memory with the guy.
It was also the last time I saw him.
Even over the long years after my grandfather’s passing, we remained an Eagles bunch.
I was Jalen Phillips for my final Halloweens and enjoyed every second.
Sundays were fun days, and family days—
the community and belonging that some got from church, we got from watching the pigskin.
I remember the winter of 2023.
It was the year after I got my license and the month I got my first car.
I had taken it out of Philly with my soon-to-be-ex, making the over six-hour trek to Buffalo.
“The Nickel City”: a fitting nickname, as the place looked like it was paid for with change.
Know your enemies, I guess.
This was the dragon’s maw, the Ninth Circle of Hell.
We pulled right up to Highmark Stadium.
I may have spray-painted some not-so-nice messages about the Bills.
I may have suggested an uncomfortable place for them to put their footballs.
Perhaps I regret some of those things.
Yet I do not regret all of them. I remember the trip fondly.
Eagles forever. The Bills could burn.
Cheer for the Home team. Boo the away team.
That was half the fun of it.
Sure, hostility was bad, and no one likes a sore loser.
But what is New York pizza except “the real pizza—none of that Chicago, deep-dish nonsense”?
Living somewhere gave you an identity. Part of that identity was poking fun at others.
“West Coast, best coast, East Coast, least coast” (both untrue).
“West Coast, worst coast, East Coast, beast coast” (the actual nature of the matter).
I was a Philly kid. I still am, at heart.
But that’s meaning less and less.
I work at Checkyll’s Philly Law firm, a thirty-minute drive from my house with moderate traffic.
My youngest is a lawyer at Samson’s. It’s in Buffalo.
On a generation-two hyperloop, at thirteen hundred miles per hour, it takes him twenty minutes.
That’s counting the short walk to the station and the walk from the station to his job.
This man has made a 280-mile trip for burgers and returned before his episode of House ended.
The burgers were still warm.
My house is no longer an Eagle’s house.
The grandkids come over attired in blasphemy.
Patriots, Bears, and Vikings jerseys are as plentiful as those of the Eagles—
And why not? The East Coast and Midwest are our backyard.
Not that I don’t want to strangle them sometimes. But I get it.
If I am going to be fully honest—and I may as well—I went to some of those traitor games.
I liked a few, a bit.
My children liked them a lot.
Thankfully, Los Angeles is still two hours away.
I hate the Chargers.
West Coast, worst coast.
We watch the game. We root for the Eagles. And the Bears, and the Patriots, and the Giants.
My grandchildren boo California lightheartedly.
And we celebrate when we win.
Yet the world is getting smaller.
I fear it’s getting smaller still.
When the entire world is in your home,
For whom do you cheer?
by submission | Jul 1, 2021 | Story |
Author: Timothy Goss
He was sitting in a wet towel when the phone bleeped. It was late, too late for good news.
Poullis’ voice cracked as she spoke, “They’re asking for you.” she said and fell silent.
His calender was cleared. His diary emptied. A damp towel lay on the floor where it dropped. His apartment looked the same, but things were missing, important things, things he cared about. He was prepared.
“He was warned.” They chimed.
Poullis was called in and questioned. She denied knowledge, but there were transcripts revealing her treachery acquired through sorcerous means. Poullis claimed fakery and forgery, and then she claimed skulduggery. But she had passed before the day was through.
The world turned cold. He burned incense and made an offering of blood in her name. It would please the Gods, he hoped, and he would see her in the next world. They would search for him, he knew that. They would find him, he knew that too. They had sentries everywhere, people he knew and strangers alike, equally committed to their barbaric cause.
Something saw him in the market. He heard his name, a name he hadn’t heard in years, and stopped and turned. They were fast, like a jaguar with claws to match. He suffered lacerations as he fled, and wondered if everybody heard them growl?
Hiding in trash cans and back alley’s, behind restaurants with the homeless who asked no questions, he nursed his wounds. It was a shadow world, unseen, a place where people look but rarely see. His absence had upset chronology. It was his time, his turn and things could not continue until it was resolved. It was as old as the time itself, with harmonic lines that stretched back aeons. He knew the songs by heart, although he denied it and heard them day and night. They found him alone in a crowd.
The next time he would be prepared. He needed a twin to double his chances and searched amongst is fellows, the dirty and under-trodden, the stinky and forgotten. He needed a twin to substitute, to take up the fight and pay the ultimate price, transition was assured with a placed marked in the stars.
Someone his size turned up in the river. Dressed up and animated they were inseparable and content.
When they came, they came in droves, all claws and teeth, and fur and teeth. They were marked by their origin, every place represented. They would take him without asking, or extinguish his influence. He was prepared and cowered somewhere safe. Like his ancestors he had lines to compose, lines to recall and lines to arouse the vibrations around us and ring out existence over and over and over again.
In the melee the rhythm was heard in a thousand thunderous voices and pounding limbs. He became one amongst many while his twin took full force. Then his voice rose above it and the heavens rang with every word, every vibration of energy spilling colour into material existence. The harmonics of the universe are so tightly woven, only the song, the vibration itself, caused movement and change, and change is the chaos that keeps it all together.
At the end he closed his eyes and held his breath. There was nothing more to sing, no more time to sing it. His time was done. His twin was done. The song man’s journey ended here and the next singer was unfurled.
by submission | Jun 30, 2021 | Story |
Author: Uchechukwu Nwaka
“What makes you think they’ll take my case here, Mama?”
Aki’s fingers are clutched tightly over the blanket that wraps his shriveled legs. I take his hands in mine and squeeze. The air-conditioning is a few degrees too warm and I don’t want Aki to interpret my clammy palms as nerves.
“Don’t worry. This particular Homo Reptilian doctor excels at Regeneration Therapy.”
It’s the sixth alien specialist, and with each rejection I’ve watched the flames of hope slowly flicker and vanish from his eyes. Each rejection comes after hearing the same set of words from my mouth. Aki returns a non-committal nod in my direction that shears my heart into pieces.
The glass door slides open and the pediatrician enters. His red reptilian scales are striking against his pristine white lab-coat. His yellow eyes track across the screen of his medi-pad for the longest minute of my life before he clears his throat.
“We were unable to contact some of the patients before Aki on the queue.”
He meets our gaze; first Aki’s, then mine. The doctor holds it longer than normal, and I fear he knows about the hack I made into their record systems. Did he find out about the mail I fabricated to the rest of the treatment participants… about the fake meeting to discuss options moving forward with their various RTs?
Were their bodies found?
Would Aki understand that it was all to give him a chance to walk again? If he’s lucky, maybe return to track in a few years. Would anybody ever understand the pain that threatens to swallow me whole whenever I hear his frustrated screams from behind his locked door? The hollow smiles that never reach his eyes anymore?
When the pediatrician finally opens his mouth to speak, a thousand scenarios run through my head, none of which end in congratulation. I see the alien doctor shake his head in that manner they always do… like they ‘understand’. I see myself rise, eyes watchful of the cam on the wall as I push the doctor towards the door he’d emerged from. I know my hands will reach into my bag, and the grip on the pocket knife will not dither.
The doctor’s medi-pad will fall, and I will snap at Aki to pick it. He will hesitate—he’s always been a kind boy—and I will yell. The doctor will try to scream, but my blade will meet his skin, and his fine red scales will nick in warning. Aki will snap out of it, wheeling himself towards me as he picks up the pad and we enter his office.
Aki passes the medi-pad to me. I gesture to the doctor. He knows what he has to do… if he values his life.
Then I imagine, backed into a corner, the doctor voices out the singular judgment only my conscience has spoken over the last few days.
“Your actions have ruined your son’s life…”
“Ma’am? Ma’am?”
My thoughts snap back into focus. Aki’s fingers are wrapped around mine and his eyes are misted over. There’s a different kind of emotion in them, one I’d yearned to see for so long I’d nearly forgotten. Was it… hope?
“Doc?”
“I was talking about fixing a date for him to begin his RT. First we’ll need his body to get used to the Homo Reptilian genes before attempting complete regeneration of his legs…”
The information is too much; I only need one piece of news now. Just one.
“So you’re taking my son’s case?”
The pediatrician smiles.
“Yes ma’am.”
by submission | Jun 29, 2021 | Story |
Author: Andrew Schoen
I careen through empty space—somersaulting past the stars. The background of darkness, luminously pinpricked by distant suns, suddenly becomes still. A white flash of light fills my field of vision, jolting me out of this existence.
I wake up to the sound of glass shattering on the tile floor in the kitchen. “Stupid cat,” I whisper under my breath. Wanting to remain in the liminal space between dreamscape and consciousness, I crawl out of bed and gently drift into the kitchen to assess the damage. Naturally, the cat is nowhere to be found—like a comet departing as suddenly as it arrives. Its narrow wake of destruction becomes visible when I flip on the lights hovering above my head: thick fragments of fractured glass strewn about the floor like the constellations observed in my dreams. Between them, tiny cosmic flecks glint in the light. I scan my surroundings until my eyes meet the broom crammed between the fridge and countertop—my destination. Realizing I need to navigate the star-like shards to reach it, I plot a course.
My first step is a success—I plant the ball of my left foot onto an empty space where the shards appear lightyears away from each other. Shifting my full weight onto this emptiness, I contemplate my next landing space: another Sea of Tranquility that should allow for safe landing. I swing my other foot toward it like some extraterrestrial being traversing galaxies with ease. Just before touching down, a hair-like sliver twinkles and catches my eye. But it’s too late to abort—my big toe presses directly onto this infinitesimal splinter. I transmit a gasp into the abyss, muted so as to avoid waking the entire universe.
“One more small step,” I think to myself, “there’s no turning back now.” With gritted teeth, I shuffle my toe away from its initial landing pad, dragging a thin trail of blood across the cold floor. Against a backdrop of infinitely dark tiles, crimson droplets aimlessly float in zero-gravity, bumping into other specks of debris. I take one giant leap toward the broom at the edge of the universe. Finally, I’ve crossed the vast gulf of space that is my kitchen floor—mission accomplished.
In one swift motion, I brush the stars into the dust pan and dispose of them in the state-of-the-art refuse hatch. All that remains on the floor are the remnants of a dead solar system—tiny bits of space dust, chunks of crumbled asteroid, scraps of thawing ice ejected from interplanetary travelers—all separated by great voids of nothingness. A blank slate to be painted upon by the next celestial creator that stumbles across it by chance (or the next mischievous cat who knocks a glass off the countertop).
On my return journey to my dreams, I take a pit stop at the medical bay to repair my toe. A satellite of medical tape makes one, two, three revolutions around the toe before flinging itself out of orbit to redock in its usual space. After flipping the lights off, a thin layer of darkness descends upon my little corner of the universe.
I blindly fumble my way back to bed, hoping to resume my intrepid voyage to yet another starry dimension.
by Julian Miles | Jun 28, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Here goes nothing.”
I always thought being stuck in a time loop would be fun. It’s what started me on the scientific path that led to my current state: Professor Emeritus Epa Shadel, prodigy and teen superstar turned hardworking genius in the field of time studies. Right now, I’m supposed to press the activation button to try and escape this loop for the 47th time (subjective).
Building a time machine had always been my intention. Time observation turned me cold. I didn’t want to watch, I wanted to experience.
It is, I have to say, sobering to know my decision to run the prototype device was so wrong. In a fit of pique at having my funding pulled after 12 years, I discovered it worked!
For nine years after that, the fame was wonderful, despite the new technological race I’d started. Then reality changed state. Everything unravelled. Nothing survived.
The confusion at waking in my device at the moment I stepped back from closing the door for the first time was awful.
The second time it happened was heartbreaking.
The third, terrifying.
For 45 iterations of those nine years, I’ve tried to prevent the technological escalation I set in motion.
This time, I’m determined. I’ve concluded that killing myself is the only way.
Which I proceed to do.
I watch my lifeless form fall with a feeling of alarm. Seeing my head bounce off the activation button as my body collapses is accompanied by a rush of both humour and fear.
There’s a flash.
I die?
“Good morrow, stranger. What should we call you?”
The voice sounds masculine. I get the feeling of multiple presences. It occurs to me to open my eyes.
I’m sitting up in a low bed. The room about me is draped in fabrics that move in the gentle breeze. No, wait. The bed is rippling in the breeze, too. I hold a hand up. That ripples as well. What?
“Like a pebble dropped into a pond from a great height, your arrival has impacted what passes for reality around here.”
I turn my head to regard the speaker. He’s rippling, too. Aside from that, he looks like a classical picture of a pirate. Next to him is a tropical warrior queen. Then there’s a mechanic and a businessman. At the end is an elfmaid cradling a huge leatherbound book.
“I know, it’s crazy. I’m Anton. Left to right, that’s Porey, Jim, David, and Mehalnor.”
Words. He’s using them. So can I.
“Hello.”
David cheers.
Mehalnor places the tome on the foot of my bed, then sits on it cross-legged.
“You were doing something involving time. Science, magic, or accident; doesn’t matter. Whatever you were doing, you persisted for longer than you should have. Regardless of origin or effect, in the end, you tried to kill yourself.”
I nod.
“Unfortunately, by then, what you originally did had become part of the passage of time. When you tried to change it irrevocably, you became the paradox. Causality removed you.” She grins. “Think of it like trying to remove scars. They might fade, but you can never go back to the original skin.”
Fascinating.
“I presume that’s a simplified explanation.”
Jim nods.
“Best we’ve got.”
I smile.
“So how did we end up here?”
Porey shrugs.
“Good question.”
Well, now.
“I’m Epa. I’m a scientist. Maybe I can help find an answer.”
Anton nods.
“Anything to help pass the time. Nothing to do here except walk the beach, admire the dozen suns setting, or talk.”
Marooned after destroying all creation. Is there even anywhere left to escape to?
by submission | Jun 27, 2021 | Story |
Author: Mary-Wren Ritchie
My gut alerts me with a plague of insects in my head and a whirlpool cascading waves through my phalanges.
But I’m already on the spacepod and I feel the shape of Gemini projected onto my scales.
I meet the constellation arrangement of the fligo’s seven assorted eyes.
They stir their three antenna through the heavily controlled air supply creating milky protein vapor overhead.
“Are you OK?” They ask via vapor.
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Do you have a fligo?”
I am tempted to lie. Fligos usually leave molin alone when they’re spoken for. Deciding integrity over safety I hear myself say, “Why?”
“Maybe I’m interested.”
Acid douses my insides and my scales stand on end. I’m surprised by how angry this makes me — the assumption that the most important part about me has more to do with another creature than it has to do with me.
“I am an extremely interesting being. The least of which is my fligo status.”
“That’s fair.”
“What?”
“You make a good point.”
Is this fligo fucking with me? Or is there something wrong with its possessive processing center? I’ve heard tales of malfunctioning fligo ousted for not desiring domination and control but wrote them off as mere fables meant to give young molin hope. Maybeeee…
I look closely at this fligo. Lavender pockmarks sprinkle its eggplant face. Their yellow eyes twinkle reminding me of my first star reading lesson. I repeated my families words before setting out to Earth today, “Trust your instincts even if you’re unsure. Atmospheric interference differs from planet to planet.”
The fligo is studying me just as intently, crunching on its tentacles, regenerating new ones.
“What do you enjoy about being a molin?” they ask. Light green aura radiating genuine interest. I decide to answer despite their species exploiting the answer to this very question for centuries.
“Our commitment to each other and our natural gravitation towards the stars.”
“Oh. Have you ever been in a black hole?”
“What? Of course not. No one has been in a black hole and escaped. That’s the entire concept of a black hole.”
“It could happen.”
“Really? Have you been in a black hole?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. OK.”
I stare out at the stars through the port window. The speed of the pod and vastness of space reduce the huge balls of fire to fleeting lines of light.
