by submission | Mar 24, 2021 | Story |
Author: Robert Beech
There was a snowblower in the living room. If the weather broke soon, they wouldn’t need it much longer, but for now it sat by the door, intermittently belching a spray of fine white crystals over the living room floor. The snow dragon nestled down into the soft white stuff blanketing the floor and dreamt of the day it would be cold enough to go outside again.
In the next room, the wizard melted snow in a cauldron to feed the snow blower. It was an unending process. The snowblower turned the warm water back into snow and sprayed it back into the house to replenish the dragon’s bed then, as the snow gradually turned into grey slush, the wizard shoveled it back into the cauldron and melted it to begin the cycle anew.
Once, there had been no need for any of this. Once, the snows covered the tops of the mountains all the way through the summer and then swept down into the valleys when winter came and the days grew short. Even longer ago, the valleys, too, had stayed frozen year round, humans had fled south in search of warmer climes, and the snow dragons soared freely between the mountaintops and the clouds in a world that was wholly theirs. But now, the tide had turned again, the world grew warmer, and each year the snow came later and melted sooner, and the dragon and his keeper were forced to retreat to their tiny artificial ice age at the top of the mountain.
The snow dragon was bored and hungry. He could go a long time without food, months or even years if he needed to, but the chase was what gave life its meaning, its zest. But there were no ibex now skipping nimbly from crag to crag to exercise his skills. The humans had eaten them all, even as their farms moved ever higher up the slopes of his mountain. The dragon snapped idly at the spray of artificial snow as it arced over him and settled disconsolately back into his bed. He thought briefly of eating the wizard, but he needed the wizard to keep feeding the snow blower. And there would be no joy in such a meal, no thrill of victory after a long and glorious chase among the peaks, merely a sad acknowledgement that the end of an era had come.
Ice crunched under the dragon’s claws as he burrowed himself into the artificial snow. All too soon, they came up against the hard stone tiles of the floor. The dragon shook his head in annoyance. The tiny bit of cold space he could find left him no room to move. At this rate, he would soon be reduced to nothing more than a frozen lizard curled up inside a snowball, waiting for it to melt. The thought infuriated him.
From the doorway to the other room, the wizard watched as clouds of steam began to billow up from the heap of snow in the living room. With a roar, the dragon stood, shaking off his covering of snow and ice. His eyes, once pale blue, now glowed a fiery red, and streaks of crimson began to ripple along his flanks. The wizard opened the door and the dragon stepped out onto the bare mountaintop, devoid of any hint of frost. The dragon spread his wings, which now pulsed with the heat of his re-born fire, and launched himself into the sky to soar over the scorched plains below. A new era had begun.
by submission | Mar 23, 2021 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
To imply his job was monotonous and boring would be an understatement; the work that Jackson did was mind-numbing, soul destroying.
He joined together little pieces of metal, to be precise they were triangles of stainless steel. These triangles were thirty millimetres in length and each had a half moon-shaped cut-out on one side. When pushed together this formed a hole through which Jackson inserted a short bolt. He also attached a washer on either side and a nut which he tightened with the wrench provided. And that was it; a simple task that required a little dexterity and little thought. The finished parts were of course diamond shaped with the washer and bolt at the centre. Jackson had no idea as to what purpose they could possibly serve and he didn’t care.
The job was well paid and the shifts were short, although some would argue that three hours was a long time to sit at a task so uncomplicated and so uninspiring. But it was manageable, it was do-able. And the money was good and if Jackson worked enough shifts it was more than good, more than enough.
The factory was vast but the work rooms were small. The employees all toiled in isolation, each locked in what was basically a cell, with a bench and a chair and space enough to pace but only just.
The pieces were always dumped on top of the bench, an unruly heap waiting to be sorted and the finished parts collected in a grey plastic basket.
Jackson couldn’t help but wonder a little about the others and the work they did. Was it identical or did it vary? Were there subtle differences? But he didn’t ask, he understood instinctively that this was forbidden and wouldn’t be tolerated. And anyhow, it didn’t matter. Jackson really didn’t care.
As soon as he entered the room he sat and set to work. He didn’t dawdle and he didn’t pace. If Jackson didn’t complete the Quota during the allotted time he would be penalised. For every minute he ran over he would lose money but if Jackson ran over it wasn’t ever by more than a few minutes and more often than not he finished before time. Sometimes by as much as ten, fifteen or even twenty minutes’ early.
Jackson wondered if the others were as quick and efficient as he. But of course they were. After all, it wasn’t brain surgery and time was money and time spent away from here was precious.
by Julian Miles | Mar 22, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“You’re a killer, Jorn. What you’re doing out here? Everybody whispers about it.”
There’s only so many precautions you can take when you’re planning escape routes. Eventually, you will arrive somewhere others know you want to be.
“Why, matey? We were the finest special ops team. They used our missions as tutorials, man. Tutorials!”
Another fact of military life is that you spend your time hoping to meet soldiers who magnify your skills, and for you to do the same for them. The team gestalt is exhilarating. Betraying it is usually unforgivable. Right now, I’m hoping for a miracle.
“Jorn, mate: you’re done. The rest of the company are scattered across this wasteland. I click once and they’re headed this way, covering every escape option you can think of along the way.”
Tino’s already clicked. This is a delaying tactic. My record of escaping has started coming with bodycounts that make even hardened killers and their masters nervous. I see him quickly tap his belt. His comms have gone dark and he doesn’t like it one bit. Give him his due, he doesn’t show me anything other than that.
Time to try.
“Funny thing about Escalanza, Tino. How we had so many go off mission and never understood why?”
“They stopped enquiries after you vanished.” He flicks a finger up. “You found out!”
Four years. It’s taken him four years, and confronting me, to put that together.
“What do you know about the Nineteen Realms, Tino?”
“All the magic crap from kiddy cartoons and fantasy books rolled into a comfy blanky for tree-huggers, headcases, and cowards.”
There’s the heart of the problem. The revelation about the faerie worlds sent mankind into a collective epiphany of denial. Decades later, they’re still trying to erase the hated reality.
“So why are they still hunting Professor Wong? Why are you still stomping across worlds that seem empty, yet kill hundreds? Why do the MIA counts keep rising?”
I see his brows furrow. He’ll either talk or engage.
His elbow flicks outward. We trained for weeks to get the ‘nought to kill’ time down to quicker than most people can react. The enhanced projectile comes from his open-ended holster at nearly twice the speed of sound. It stops eight millimetres from my face.
She does so love giving me a scare.
“Tiny death,
screaming ore,
fall to nature,
and exist no more.”
The lilting refrain comes from the air to my left. The projectile turns to glowing dust and drifts away on the wind.
Tino staggers, eyes turning glassy. Bastard trick, overriding a man’s own body.
“Mathrey, we need to be gone. They’ve puppeted him.”
He vanishes. A tiny creature of midnight hues appears before me, hovering like a hummingbird on wings of molten silver.
“We knew they would. He was your friend. Their best chance to get close.”
Sick betrayal ending a loyal career. Gods damn them all.
“Where did you flicker him to?”
She rests a tiny hand on my eyebrow.
“To the puppeteer’s fortress in the sky.”
That should get their attention. Nothing like your own human bomb arriving in your command centre to make you cautious.
Two squads of former Earth special forces appear about me, each member with one or more specialists from the Nineteen Realms as partners.
“Mathrey, let First Envoy Kresdall know that I waive my objections. The only way to stop this, and to save the Twentieth Realm, is to save the humans that infest it from themselves.”
“That which Earther politicians call an ‘intervention’?”
“No, Mathrey. We go with honesty, as always. This means war.”
by submission | Mar 21, 2021 | Story |
Author: Grant Goehrig
Everyone knows not to step foot on Ms. Hellebore’s property. Everyone knows those high peaked gables where the crows go to scream, that rotting balustrade with the termites inside, the black shingles that curl at the ends, the conical witch’s hat turret. Everyone knows that acrid smell that comes from inside and spreads out all over town like a miasmic blanket. Everyone knows about the Hendersons, who used to live next door. However, nobody knows what happened to them after they reported Ms. Hellebore’s overgrown willow to the zoning committee. Everyone knows what Ms. Hellebore looks like, but if you put everyone with a claim to this knowledge in a room with a sketch artist, you’d have as many renditions of her as people in the room. Everyone knows about her dog because we can hear it gnashing and shrieking and squirming and writhing and bleating and crying and laughing every night. Everyone knew the Carter twins, who, graduating from throwing stones and peering into windows, decided to simply go inside one day. But I’m the only one who knows what their faces looked like as they paced the cracked walkway up to that awning shrouded in cold shadow. I’m the only one who saw their pupils dilate past the whites of their eyes, the only one who knows that imploring words have no sway over those who make themselves objects of interest to Ms. Hellebore. Now everyone knows me at the police station and greets me with fake laughs and a reassuring hand on the shoulder. Everyone knows what I told them was the truth, but Ms. Hellebore has a way of twisting the truth, ripping it apart and reassembling it into the walls of her awful house.
by submission | Mar 20, 2021 | Story |
Author: Terence Wilson
Another name for N.A.S.A. is Never A Straight Answer. When one considers the facts, it fits quite well. Among the inner circle of Star Chamber elites, the true purpose of Explorer is far different from what the history books and fake news would have us believe. In fact, it’s so far out; even the truth seems incredible. But it’s still our tax dollars and work for the black budget projects that could even send E.T. home. Try asking for a straight answer on that, and you’ll never get one.
Star Trek has romanticized space exploration and Star Wars even more so. It’s either space for science or space for war. And that’s the end of discussion. It’s always hard work. From this comes the real reason for, or specifically Explorer. When it was discovered that Europa, one of Jupiter’s moons, had zones with a temperate climate capable of sustaining earthly life. And not just the air temperature but water as well with swells, and even a few waves with a curl. Shallow bottoms, warm waters, and atmosphere are perfect conditions for surfing. Exploration requiring the right waves, and not just the right stuff.
True astronauts get beyond orbital space. But for the feel-good inclusive culture, anyone that gets even a smidgen beyond the atmosphere is called an astronaut. This boy was the real McCoy! He earned his wings in war and as a test pilot. He’s a mason, of course, but also a surfer and a nudist. Being a spaceman is hard, grueling work! Aside from that, the space-suit is warm and one tends to sweat profusely. Ergo, as a reward for such hard work comes a raise in pay and a vacation. A holiday on the distant moon of Jupiter named Europa.
When it blasted off the fanfare was global. All social media, smart-phones, radar, and telescopes tracked the ascent. With bated breath earthlings looked skyward or listened. A point of light moving at thousands of miles an hour to escape the pull of the world and accelerating to past 20,000 mph. maybe 17 miles per second, as fast as human thought goes. In minutes the big, blue marble seems so small it could fit into the palm of one’s hand.
The news spoke of the great triumph of science and pushing the boundaries of the human experience. If CNN or FOX News simply said he was going to Europa on holiday to go skinning dipping, imagine the reaction that would’ve brought!
In deep space, it can get quite lonely. If you scream, no one can hear you. Aboard the ship are manufactured amenities to help keep the spaceman sane, and happy. But holograms can only do so much and drugs can impair one’s ability to reason. Video games are okay when it’s a wonderful collaboration of audio and visual, but even those, DVDs, and smartphones reach their dead level. A man sometimes requires more than can be had from the fantasy world to satiate the true needs of his being like going to Europa, taking off the spacesuit, and skinny dipping into one of its warm, turbulent waters. You’d be the first and perhaps the only nude 390.4 million miles away.
The European soil feels good between the toes. Not as radioactive as reported. A few purple swells are seen with waves no higher than two meters. Great for surfing and skinny dipping on Europa.
by submission | Mar 19, 2021 | Story |
Author: Bruce McAllister
There was a Martian kid I got to know in Palo Alto, California, when we lived there and I was in the third grade. This Martian kid, who had no other school to go to, sat up toward the teacher’s desk, and when we made the California Gold Mine out of chicken wire, plaster of Paris, and some rocks sprayed with gold paint, there was something in the classroom (or in his memories of Mars) that kept the Martian kid from going inside. He would lie on the floor near the teacher’s desk, getting all dusty on the floor (I always wondered how he managed not to sneeze), while we got inside the mine or played near the mouth of it. The teacher ignored him, didn’t want him in the class, and none of the kids tried to help him up. As we played, I would look back at him, and the corners of his big mouth (Martians don’t have teeth) were turned up like a crazy smile and I didn’t think he minded. Sometimes his mouth would open and close without making a sound, as it did when the man came one day to class (we were making salt maps of South America, or were we studying the missions?) and taught us words in Spanish and Portuguese.
The day I had to give my oral report (I chose to talk about sharks, rays, and skates—I loved them and had gotten two books on them from the library drawn pictures of the different kinds, though the pictures were too small to see really) I stammered a lot, but fInally I gave my report. At the end, I looked at him there on the floor looking up at me, and there were tears in his eyes and his mouth was opening and closing. This was the last time I saw him. They say he died a little later and his family went back to Mars. Sometimes I think he was moving his mouth like that to say “Thank you,” but other times I just can’t think this, and I know he was drowning in our air but didn’t want to interrupt me.
