by Stephen R. Smith | Aug 17, 2021 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Alex stood next to James and tried to make sense of what he was looking at. He had been annoyed at being called from his bed at this ungodly hour, but that feeling was slowly being replaced by curiosity.
“It’s a time machine, kind of,” James was explaining, “it lets me lock onto memories and revisit the time and space they occurred.”
Alex needed coffee. Or sleep. He was on the fence as to which was the better idea at this point.
“I need you to watch me, monitor the journey, if anything goes wrong I need you to pull me out.”
Alex surveyed the room, the seat in the middle of overlapping egg-shaped coils of copper, what looked like a series of high-voltage transformers chained together and the cables tethering them to each other and the rig, massive conductors straining apart as if trying to escape each other’s proximity.
“What are you going to do? No, never mind, monitor how? What’s going to go wrong, and how would I know unless…” he paused and waved at the equipment “unless this all explodes?”
James pointed to the desk, to a bank of green phosphor displays.
“There, watch the log output, if the controller panics, you’ll know, then power it down there.” He pointed to a large red shutoff on a breaker panel by the door. “Then get out.”
Alex shook his head, grunted, then nodded. Too late for coffee, and it was clear he wasn’t getting any sleep now.
“Nadia and I got together the very last time at a bar, right before she ran off with…”, he winced, the name was burned so vividly he couldn’t bring himself to say it, “with Fuckwit von Shit-for-brains.” He paused, remembering. “We had drinks, we ate, we talked until closing time. She came home with me, and we had the most amazing…” He paused again, blushed. “It was amazing. She was amazing. I need to get back there, find out what I did wrong, fix it.”
Alex didn’t say a word. What would be the point?
James keyed the start-up sequence, then as the machine started to hum, he sat in the chair in the middle of the coils, buckled himself in, and closed his eyes.
The hum rose to a whine, then a deafening roar, then silence.
***
James opened his eyes, he was in a bar. No, the bar. He’d never forget this place. There was a low-frequency buzz, conversation maybe, just out of earshot? Glasses appeared and disappeared on tables, at the bar. The big ornate clock that almost filled one wall spun, the hands a blur.
In the corner, the table they’d sat at. He worked his way across the room, focused only on that space. The closer he got, the harder it became to move, as though the air were getting thicker.
He forged on, leaning now into an invisible gale force, willing himself to that corner until he could reach out and touch the back of the chair he’d sat in, so long ago.
It refused to move, fixed in place as if welded to the floor, and he had to force himself between the arms and the table, to finally slump into the seat itself, the force now pushing him into the seatback making it hard to breathe.
Glasses and plates came and went in a blur, and across the table, where Nadia had sat that entire night, smiling, talking.
Nothing.
The seat was and remained empty.
There was a violent tug, the pushing force now a fist wrapped around his spine, yanking him back, through the chair, the bar, from the past into the present to deposit him, aching and gasping for breath in the seat in his lab.
He looked up into the curious and concerned eyes of his friend.
“Well,” Alex asked, “what happened?”
James struggled with what had just happened.
“I must have missed something, miscalculated something, everything was there, just the way I remember it, but I was alone. She wasn’t there.”
Alex stepped back and shoved his hands into his pockets.
“James,” he said gently, “you know she was already gone long before that night. Why would you expect her to have waited in that memory the way you did?”
by Julian Miles | Aug 16, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Is all she asks. Four bloody words. I stand there like an idiot. Meanwhile, buildings burn and people run about screaming. Alarms, sirens and explosions blend into a constant din. The news said it was a ‘massive layered drone swarm attack’. Whatever that is, it’s turned my life into an apocalypse movie.
I stare blankly at Esther. Giorgio, on the other hand, is ready.
“We need to get to high ground so we can see what’s going on.”
Smooth-talking bastard. I hate him.
She looks at Giorgio.
“I know what’s going on. I’m trying to survive it.”
He looks confused.
“Okay, then. Supplies. What first?”
That kicks him into gear.
“Weapons! Tools or kitchen knives.”
That gives me an idea.
“We should head for Steve’s. His place is above the kitchen shop a couple of streets down.”
Giorgio waves his hands.
“No, my dude, no. Can’t rely on anyone except ourselves. Can’t guarantee what people are planning.”
‘My dude’? Really?
Esther slaps the back of his head.
“It’s a start. If this Steve’s in, we might get lucky. If not, it’s still a place where one of us is known. Less risk of confrontation if he comes home to find we broke in.”
She looks at me.
“We run to Steve’s. You lead.”
Sounds simple enough. I never really thought about running through a disaster. I mean, who does? I manage about a bus length before some woman slams into me, knocks me down, then punches a stiletto heel through my hand as she scrambles up and runs off.
I scream. Esther wads tissues either side of the wound, then uses her hair thingy to keep them in place.
“We need to get a better dressing on that. Let’s go.”
Giorgio gets to the next junction ahead of us. A wheel comes in at chest height. He turns to face it, arms up. By the time we get there, he’s down, face ripped apart where the trials bike went over him.
Esther spits in the direction of the departing rider.
“With spikes on? Cocksucker.”
I look down at my smooth-talking bastard dead best friend. Fuck this. Fuck this. Fuck th-
Esther slaps me.
“Tears later. Run now.”
Her stare could melt metal. I run.
Steve’s door is open. Sounds of a fight upstairs. She pushes me in, swings the door closed, then bolts it and puts the chains on. After that, she squeezes past and takes the stairs two at a time, dagger in hand. Where did that come from?
I’m halfway up the stairs when there’s a scream. I enter the lounge to find her helping Steve onto his settee. The room’s wrecked. I can see three sprawled bodies.
Steve waves to me.
“So this is the hottie you’ve been pining over, Andrei?”
Okay, floor. Swallow me now.
He grins.
“Always best to tell the hitter up front, so she can allow for it.”
She crouches by him.
“What happened?”
“Went out for more water. Got some, came back to find three tossers taking advantage. Was doing okay until one of them knifed me.”
“Bad?”
He nods.
“Past saving.”
Sticking his hand in a pocket, he pulls out a set of keys and gives them to her.
“Place is yours. You can shelter here. Dump the bodies, including mine, down the road. Got supplies for a week if you’re careful. Things should have settled by then. Be nice to Andrei. He’s a great guy when he’s not overthi-”
No dramatic pause.
Just gone.
She closes his eyes with a trembling hand.
“Now it’s time for tears.”
True.
by submission | Aug 15, 2021 | Story |
Author: Amy Dusto
Excerpts from the Times-Gazette daily puzzle, September 5, 2061
7 down, 5 letters
-A writhing, flying group of insects or nanobots
(Hint: together they’re like a friendly cloud that eats carbon! Be assured they don’t bite people, though.)
28 across, 11 letters
-A fundamental principle of particle observation
(Hint: the gut feeling one has just before turning on a brand-new technology that, once going, will be hard to stop.)
15 down, 6 letters
-Nonzero possibility
(Hint: some might even say this was our last one, as a species. So cut us a break?)
40 across, 5 letters
-Where the billionaires fled to
(Hint: they deserve a vacuum, don’t they?)
13 down, 4 letters
-Where the rest of us are stuck
(Hint: Starts with an h… oh, come on, there’s a less pessimistic option! “Stuck” is really a state of mind!)
Solution: Please contact Drs. Morena-Huber and Carvell of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration if you have one. Unhelpful messages will be deleted without response.
by submission | Aug 14, 2021 | Story |
Author: Michael Dempsey
Peter, standing in the bathroom, heard a voice crackle over the intercom. “Mr. Walker, you have five minutes to leave your apartment. If you go on your own volition, you can remain free. If you do not, we will forcibly arrest you and take you to the authorities.”
Peter froze. Who was that? What was she talking about? He rinsed his hands and looked up at the bathroom mirror. He smiled, and wished that his smile was more symmetrical. It had always bothered him. He tried smiling again, but it didn’t improve.
The voice from the intercom spoke again. “Four minutes and thirty seconds.”
This is crazy, Peter thought. I haven’t done anything. He started pacing around his studio apartment. Someone had said that walking was good for thinking, so Peter walked when trying to concentrate.
“Four minutes.”
Peter tried to think of his worst moments. There was a time that he had pulled a chair out from under a classmate in elementary school. She ended up breaking her wrist. His shoulders tensed as he remembered it.
He stopped in front of the living room mirror and smiled. He shook his head at how uneven the smile still was and resumed walking.
What else? Just last week he had taken credit for someone else’s work. A colleague of his said they should start a subscription service with monthly billing and make it complicated to unsubscribe. The department head couldn’t hear her so Peter repeated the idea. The boss thought it was Peter’s suggestion and loved it. Peter was embarrassed about the confusion but was happy that the boss was pleased with him.
“Three minutes.”
Peter kept pacing. He noticed some grime on the floor and wondered when he had last mopped. Months, probably. He was disappointed in himself. His mom had always kept the floors clean when he was a kid. The last time he had seen her was three months before she died. She talked about how cute he had been as a boy, especially when he played Superman in the treehouse. She told him how much she loved being his mother. He just nodded and smiled, wondering how his smile looked.
Peter stopped in front of the mirror again and asked himself why he didn’t tell her how it felt to be her son. He was surprised to see a tear roll down his cheek.
He turned to the closet and packed a small bag with a few sets of clothes. He walked out as he heard the voice from the intercom say, “One minute.”
A woman wearing all white greeted him in the lobby. “Mr. Walker, thank you for complying. This was just a drill. You may return to your room.”
Peter shook his head. “You were right, I’m guilty. I always have been. Take me wherever you like.” Behind the woman was a large mirror. Peter smiled and looked at his reflection as the woman led him outside. Better, he thought, as he kept smiling.
by submission | Aug 13, 2021 | Story |
Author: Ryan Watson
853 is a rather unremarkable number. It is the approximate weight of a male grizzly bear in pounds. A sloth will travel at approximately 853 feet in an hour. It marked a central year of the Danish Viking raids of Europe, resulting in a Swedish Viking raid reply.
Robert Mattheson knew none of these things however.
Robert Mattheson was doing laundry in the basement of his Minnesotan home when a stuck pant leg, caught at the bottom of the basin, had him lean forward overtop of the machine.
It was simply bad luck that at 8:53 pm Robert Mattheson found himself tumbling through the hatch and into the past.
Robert Mattheson was not a scientist; he had not been previously experimenting with time travel. Neither was he an engineer, making untested changes to his washer. He was an accountant. Just a man dealing with an extraordinarily uncommon occurrence in the confines of his laundry room.
One might imagine that the act of traveling backwards through the stream of time would be a dramatic experience, but it is not. One minute Robert was tugging gently at the hem of his work pants and the next he had found himself falling flat on his back on the grassy floor of a Red Cedar Forest.
“This is certainly strange,” Robert thought from the ground. He checked his watch, finding the time to now be 8:54, and stood up. He looked around, confused at his sudden change of scenery. Still holding the wet trousers that had miraculously accompanied him on his journey, he wondered how it came to be that he was now in the woods.
Robert had no way to know that he had not travelled any distance whatsoever, that he was, geographically speaking, exactly where he had been standing 1400 years in the future. But he also had no way to know, or reason to suspect that he had travelled into the past. It simply made more sense to believe he had had an episode, and lost track of the previous day. He had never had an episode before, but to him this must be what one must be.
Draping his damp pants over his shoulder, Robert set off into the woods in the direction he believed to be his home. He would never make it back, and was subsequently fired from his firm for his sudden and continued absence.
by submission | Aug 12, 2021 | Story |
Author: S.R Malone
An officer with a square-set jaw greeted us at our front door.
“Daddy, who is this man?” Myra asked.
“Oh, this kind gentleman is from the army,” I crouched by her side, “He’s here to take you to space camp.”
Liar.
She stared at me with wide, innocuous eyes; the eyes of a firstborn whose lawful duty was to serve for five years off-world in the military. More importantly, the eyes of a daughter who does not wholly believe the truth, nor understand it, but cannot help but trust the word of her loving parents.
“Have a fun holiday, pumpkin,” I said, choking on tears.
Myra squeezed me as tight as she could while her mother passed her backpack to the serviceman. He smiled, dutifully. She sniffled, clutching Myra. They wept together, until the serviceman gently led our child down the pathway to the curb.
Over the tops of the neighbourhood gleamed the upper struts of the launch pad, towering over rows of spotless prefabricated houses. Unified Earth flags stood sentinel on countless laws, blowing mockingly in the breeze.
***
I watched Myra join other innocent faces in the convoy, all prepared for their holiday.
Fury bubbled under my flesh as her pale face pulled away from our street, the row of black SUVs fading to dots in the distance, like a chain of ants as they rounded the corner and climbed the hill to the launch pad.
This day was one I was dreading for seven years. Ever since I held the waxy black and white stills of Nora’s womb back then, a concoction of pride and anxiety swelling in my stomach.
My foreman rang the house earlier, giving the all-clear for my absence today; such is the way of the world now when your eldest is called up.
And that evening I stared heavenwards as the craft’s retros fired up and it ascended into the misty dark blue. I settled on the edge of the porch, watching it soar free of suburbia.
Every night I sit and impatiently await its return, as others do.
I did not anticipate the acidic sorrow that would fill my veins, casting red eyes over Myra’s room, a dark museum to her memory; a baseball bat slunk in the corner, her dolls arranged as she had left them, having a tea party. Her plastic crossbow with foam darts; her little brother Ryan has one too, but he is too young to understand why they are never played with anymore.
The Mathesons from No.10 pass me tonight, waving and smiling their sympathetic greetings. I’m perched here every night, and the neighbourhood knows it. The neighbourhood likes to discuss it.
“Conscription Day,” sighed Emmett Matheson, the last time they’d invited us for dinner, “It isn’t easy. But it’s our duty to the planet, and that’s something worth the sacrifice.” He’d led me into the study, and we’d shared a Scotch. I’d positioned myself near the window so I could watch the skies. “We can’t fight it, and nor would I want to— no, sir.” My gaze had wandered to the photo of him and his lad, a picture a decade old.
Tonight, I blow a kiss to the dying embers of the day as the milky yellow glow from the living room presses out against the gloom of the porch.
Myra would be ten years old today.
I just hope, pray even, that she had a brilliant day.
In the dusk, the spotless homes lining the streets light like fireflies.
This was what we sacrificed for.
This, our utopia.
