by submission | Jan 3, 2021 | Story |
Author: M. M. Kaufman
“What is the color of seashell?”
I made a loud hmm noise and scanned the paint swatches spread across the rug. If Tea Olive kept this up, she would have the entire apartment covered in no time. That’s if I could find more colors. I picked up a few squares and held them out.
She studied the squares of white, beige, and pink before taking them. She set them on the seat of the nearest chair and sighed. She leaned back and nearly knocked out the chair’s duct-taped leg.
I had imagined a bigger space for our hideout, but more square footage meant more windows, doors, and other security risks. Smaller was manageable, if too cozy for a four-year-old and her mother.
“It’s a start. Seashell is a tough one!” I said. “That has to be hundreds of colors.”
Tea Olive was always grumpy when she didn’t have all of the colors for a certain object. She stomped one boot and whined, “I want more colors.”
“We can’t go through this every time, Tea. Do you know how many things I want?”
She kicked a cabinet door and said “I don’t care.”
“Do you know who cares even less about what either of us wants?”
Tea Olive let her whole head loll back on her shoulders and moaned.
I walked her to the balcony. I turned off the lantern and pulled the thick, dark curtains back so we could see down into the courtyard. Blanketed in snow, half a dozen zombies shuffled around the frosty, moss-covered fountain. They left tracks in the snow that exposed the red brick underneath. We had chosen the colors for the courtyard yesterday. We didn’t include the zombies. We did not want to imagine their colors.
Tea Olive gave the zombies a wave before I closed the curtains and turned the light on.
I pointed to the colors and said, “Pick something easier.”
She kneeled down and swirled the swatches up.
“Pick something I can really imagine. I can’t even remember the ocean,” I said as I stepped into the kitchen to finish dinner.
I had found the giant paint swatch display crushed under an industrial refrigerator last week. I snatched up every color I could before darting behind a dumpster. A pair of zombies sniffed my way, then moved away. Never thought trash would smell like safety.
Tea Olive played with the swatches nonstop after that. We spent hours shouting out objects and finding their colors in the giant pile: Horse. Firetruck. Apple. Sky. It was endless fun assigning colors to the universe. I didn’t think I’d be good at normal homeschooling and there wasn’t any point to that anyway with no real schools, jobs, and well—human society.
I cut open a packet of cheese sauce and placed it between the pan and its lid to squeeze every drop onto the wet noodles. I dished out two bowls and carried them into the living room where Tea Olive sat pooled over her colors in deep concentration.
“What are you trying to find now?”
Tea Olive reached for the bowl without taking her eyes from the colors. “I’m looking for the color of escape,” she said. “Do you know what it looks like?”
I looked around our tiny home that held my tiny daughter and our tiny life. I’ve never known anything about escape, I thought.
“Maybe it looks like life,” she said.
I looked down into her dark eyes that no swatches could ever capture. “Tea, if life has a color, it is not here.”
by submission | Jan 2, 2021 | Story |
Author: Zannier Alejandra
There is comfort in routine. Wake up, pray, shower, and get dressed. Regulation boots, black cargo pants, black shirt, and, lastly, the hood. Mollifying inertia, the only thing that keeps me going.
One hundred and thirty-eight. That’s my number. Today, I’ll add another name: Maylin Rotta.
You could say it was in my blood. My father was a black hood, and his father before him. Perhaps, many generations ago, my ancestors back on Earth were also black hoods.
When my father took the black, the hood was synonymous with justice. He was a punisher of crime and violence, the keeper of our safety. He marked the end of an era.
By the time I inherited the hood, things had gotten bad, execute-a-child-for-stealing-rations bad.
One hundred and thirty-eight. That’s my number. The number of people I’ve retired since I took the hood. Maylin Rotta will be the next.
Our station was built to be self-sustaining for eight decades. A lifespan. It’s been one hundred and fifty years. The last of the Earth natives died long ago. We found new ways to create food and oxygen but it’s not enough. Population needs to be controlled.
I pray every day. I pray for us to find a new world. A small planet to resupply. If I were a religious man, I would take comfort in this. But I only pray because it’s part of my routine.
I wish I were a religious man because that would give me the certainty of life after death.
Maylin Rotta is fifteen years old. Her younger brother had an accident and broke an arm. She stole medicine from the infirmary to help him with the pain. She was caught and sentenced for this crime. In truth, she was sentenced because we would not survive the year with the current population.
There’s no spectacle surrounding the deaths. No public square, no noose, no ax. Just a plaintive march to an airlock. People have had it with the death surrounding us. If they don’t witness it, they don’t have to feel guilt.
Once we get there, I prep Maylin in the usual way. Shackles off, flight jacket, hairband. I offer her a bible and some paper to leave a goodbye note. She writes to her brother.
I press the button to the airlock antechamber and push her inside, closing the door behind us. The second door leads to a smaller chamber. The death chamber. There’s a timer at the door, after one minute the floor of the chamber will open, releasing its occupant into space.
I start the timer. I take off my hood, but I don’t push Maylin inside the death chamber. Instead, I get in myself.
“Run,” I tell her. “Hide.”
It takes her a second to react, but she eventually does as told. After the minute is over, I fall.
One hundred and thirty-eight people I’ve killed, but not a single more.
by submission | Jan 1, 2021 | Story |
Author: Nilgin Yusuf
I had so much more to do. Physically, I’d almost reached the seventh milestone and according to the Decree of Zenith, that was it. Show over. But mentally, no. There were planets I still wanted to visit: Copernicus, Vellium, Quadus; men I wanted to impregnate, new drugs to experience. I wanted to whizz out on Axis B, all crimson and gold, preferably with Brett. But here I was, at the edge of my existence, and it didn’t seem right. Brett gently swung in his anti-gravity pod, as I nervously paced up and down.
“Hey, man,” said Brett. “There are ways. And means. Twice, those fuckers have tried to check me into the Plant. Fuck that. I’m hanging onto these organs. They can fuckin’ go harvest someone else.” I stopped and stared at him.
“Is it…here?”
“It’s somewhere safe, on loan, from a friend.”
Brett had balls of iron. The punishments for anyone caught in possession of a Regenerator were terminal. It was rumored the plutocracy had one in the Chambers of Judgement and that our leaders were actually eight thousand years old. But us cogs came with a finite warranty; keeping us into old age was not financially viable. My wrist vibrated and a vermillion message glowed. It was my check-in date for the Plant; my seventieth birthday.
“First things first,” said Brett. “You might want to bite on something.” I slipped off my foot pad, placed it in my mouth, and clenched my jaw muscles. Brett took a small blade from his boilersuit pocket, made a neat incision inside my arm, and chivvied out the microchip.
“Cyborg no more and officially deceased. Do you want to say goodbye to that Travis, Travis?”
“So long, pal,” I said to the microchip.
“Let’s go. There’s no time like the past.”
We zoomed along corridors and down endless flights of stairs, eventually arriving at a steel-lined, concrete bunker in the basement. Inside, a large, spherical, transparent structure balanced onto a metal base.
“In you go. It might feel stuffy but try to relax. Regenerating cells takes time and love.”
“Put your details in there, your DOB, and let it know how many years you want back.”
What did I need? Another ten? Twenty? I should have gone with ten. As the door closed, Brett stood outside, his boyish good looks giving me courage.
The Regenerator emitted a low-frequency sound and the temperature begins to rise. I held onto a bar and the digital screen displayed 69. I began to perspire, sweat breaking on my forehead as the humming intensified. The numbers began to descend, 65, 64. Brett was watching me. My back pain of several years disappeared and the grey hair on the back turned chestnut brown. 55, 54. My body started to retract. I looked down to see my middle-aged spread evaporate. 48, 49. As the divine spirit of youth reenergized my veins, I seemed to be glowing from within. I felt new strength as a muscular definition re-contoured my arms which felt firmer, more sinuous. My younger body felt incredible. I wasn’t going to the Plant! I would do all those things. Brett was no longer smiling. He had moved closer to the glass door and was staring at the control panel. 27. 26. Jesus! I hadn’t wanted to be this young! Brett was banging on the wall but I couldn’t hear him and noticed my clothes were suddenly too large. My trousers were slipping down and the control panel seemed to be changing position, growing larger, until I had to look up to it.
by submission | Dec 31, 2020 | Story |
Author: Andrea Goyan
In the stark examination room, I cradled Maxine. When I kissed her forehead, her bitty fingers grabbed my nose, and she giggled. My six-month-old miracle baby.
“There are worse things,” the doctor said.
I kissed her again. “I don’t think so.”
Penner Disease had come for my daughter. It was named for the scientist who’d found microbial evidence of the virus in Arctic glaciers. Cell by cell, it would destroy her, until she slipped away like the melting ice shelves that unearthed it in the first place.
But not before I loved her for 1,269 more days.
#
I spooned pureed vegetables into my almost four-year old’s mouth. “Swallow,” I said, wiping away the food that dripped from Maxine’s paralytic lips.
I changed her diapers.
“And I’m one of the lucky ones,” I murmured, repeating the empty words spoken to me at this month’s compulsory insemination. “Humanity’s hope.”
I rubbed ointment onto the lesions that bubbled on Maxine’s waist. She groaned, her face red, pained. I replaced her bandages.
Only eight percent of women on Earth can conceive. I’m one of them.
I sipped the secret herbal potion that rendered me infertile, by choice.
It was my life. My choice. Humanity be damned.
With Maxine fed and cleaned, we went outside. Slumped sideways in her wheelchair, her eyes lit up as she watched the birds.
I lifted her frail hand to point at them. “Spread your wings, little darlings. Be free.”
Maxine’s icy hand nestled in mine remained motionless. Despite a cloudless sky, warm wet drops moistened our skin. It wouldn’t be long now. A mother knows.
by submission | Dec 30, 2020 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Marks
No safety or surprise, the end
-The Doors
Our city was built to live with water, water and ice. Our city was an engineering marvel, a hydraulic metropolis. It managed the drainage of two rivers, two giant serpents slithering through our streets during the annual spring melt.
Our city was mere minutes from the shores of a glacial lake, an ancient sump that swelled in the spring like a mother rabbit, a guppy prepared to give live birth. The rivers and that sump would mingle, mingle and merge and we were ever ready.
Our main streets doubled as rinks. In winter, we would skate to work, spare our skies the discharge of burning coal and oil. Our lamps never burned gas. Every one of our buildings was translucent, soaking up lumens from the sky. We had four seasons then. Four seasons and a single moon.
Now we have only one season. One season and two moons.
The first moon, known simply as “Moon” gave birth to a second, a “child moon.” This happened after someone detonated charges beneath the lunar surface. We were told that this was done in search of precious minerals, rare Earth metals grown scarce down here. But those charges were too great and the moon split apart, inviting our end . . . for you can imagine the impact of two moons on our planetary tides.
Now we live with water, water being our only season. The rivers, that great lake have become a single beast, slithering across the landscape like quicksilver. Our lives are lived in a tub: turn on the taps, unstopper the drain. We rise and fall on half a league of water each day. But we know that all of this is temporary.
The child moon has spurned its mother, choosing our dear Earth for its parent. Every day it comes closer, stalking the magnetic skirts of our atmosphere. When it crosses the Kármán line, that transparent boundary between breathable air and the vacuum of space, our experts say everything will be over.
Engineers and planners, formerly the most rational of folk, gathered today in our downtown. They shook their fists, tore their hair and swore at the sky. They spurned the moon and spat upon the water, claiming that a great hand would come down and spirit them away. God is an engineer who cannot allow so many great minds to perish. The Lord is lonely and he is jealous, they insist.
Other folk, a mixture of young and old, sat on boards and practiced Yoga. They meditated and intoned, hammering at tablas and strumming tamburas, sending out a message of peace. They love the child moon. The many Yogis now in our midst, insist that our city is paved with copper pennies and we should make one collective wish.
Tonight I sit on my roof watching the moon approach. It is now so big, there is almost nothing else in the sky. Our city bobs up down like fishing bobbin, the water rocking us all in our temporary cradle. On other roofs, other witnesses like myself light tiny fires that we press to our lips. Our fragrant prayers smudge the sky; we grow light-headed with this ritual. There will be no Deus ex machina, no second act. I know the performance is over.
The sky groans like a mother in childbirth. There is a deafening blast across the azimuth. Far away, someone has their finger on a button. We’ve been promised a thousand rockets that will birth a new republic. A leader says, “It will be the greatest show you’ll ever see.” The greatest show on Earth.
Closing my eyes, I feel the air shudder and remember a bedtime story from childhood.
Goodnight stars
Goodnight air
Good night noises everywhere
by submission | Dec 29, 2020 | Story |
Author: Ken Carlson
As mayor of Chathamville, a small town, Collette had to work late often. Don and the kids adjusted.
She was in her office to spend a few minutes on a Sunday. She wasn’t due back ’til Tuesday, but she liked to make sure nothing caught her by surprise.
Growing up in this do-nothing-burgh Collette couldn’t wait to get out. Now that she’d been to law school and lived in Chicago too long, it felt great to be here.
The job wasn’t easy. The town never replaced mill jobs lost a generation ago.
Her laptop wasn’t connected to the network. She’d have to speak to Tony, her assistant, 24-going-on-17.
Footsteps, probably Mr. Traynor, the janitor. But that wasn’t the slow plodding of a sixty-something custodian.
She saw a dark form running, wearing a mask and tank of some kind.
“Tony?” Collette called.
The figure stopped.
“Mayor,” he said, “You’re not supposed to be here.”
She laughed a little. “The kids were driving me nuts, I thought I’d catch up on…”
“No,” he said, “Mayor…Collette, you were supposed to be at the lake house, a safe distance away.”
“What is it?” Collette said. “What’s wrong?”
“The Council met on Friday.”
“To review the parking rules; nothing new.” Collette frowned and took a few steps toward her plucky, young administrator who was different, pale.
“They,” Tony said, “brought in somebody Gerry Monahan knew about the budget deficit.” Collette frowned. Monahan was a nut ready to call for martial law if there was a report of torn mattress tags.
“This guy was a consultant for Bucks Pictures. They were going to film here last summer.”
Collette said, “Some alien invasion movie, the next Grovers Mill, but it cost too much to bring the actors and special effects out here.”
“Monahan put forth a new plan. It was put to a blind vote. With the motion carried, he and his people ended the session and walked out. The next day the rest of us found out.”
Collette said, “This town needs the money. When do they start shooting?”
“Tonight.”
“What? Where are the actors? The crew.”
“They’re not coming. They’ll put a few stars on a green screen, add a few more in post. They sent some cameras to be put up around town. They didn’t want to build a small town to act as a movie set for their story, couldn’t afford it. They just wanted a place that was …disposable.” He sprinted for the door.
Collette ran down the hall. Tony had hopped in his parents’ Honda as they tore down Main Street.
The mayor walked slowly down the middle of Main past a dead stoplight. The first building to blow was the library. She fell to the asphalt.
Another explosion, the high school; then a car dealership by the town green. Back on her feet, she walked through the center of her hometown, small businesses went up in flames; the bakery, a nail salon, a Mexican restaurant. It was an inferno, a war zone with no allies, only enemies.
A lone car barreled toward her, the headlights bearing down. She couldn’t run. She fell to her knees.
The Volvo wagon screeched to a halt. It was her husband Don. He picked up Collette. Sounds from her car were her children screaming for her.
Don helped her into the car as the fire station went up. Collette, the town’s last mayor, looked back at the devastation that was Chathamville. They say you can’t go home again. That became true for her when her home was gone.
