by submission | Nov 21, 2020 | Story |
Author: Tyler James Russell
When a wall of bone and fascia bloomed from the earth a hundred miles from our village, my dead almost-girlfriend stood over my bed, waiting for me to wake up.
“You,” I whispered.
We’d been longtime girlfriends but only vaguely girlfriends just before she died, making out for the first time the same week a vein throbbed open and the rushing blood sledgehammered her brain. Now, in the dark, her eyes buzzed. Her hair floated and sang.
I didn’t know anything about the wall, not until later, picking up whispers on the road, second and third-hand. People said it was pollution, visitation, a further sign of the planet’s death. As far as walls go it was stupid, just erupted in the middle of a field, dividing nothing. You could walk all the way around it.
She was cold. Every time she opened her mouth, she sputtered. Like her lungs weren’t made for air now. We did our best. For certain things, it doesn’t matter. I imagined mirrors facing each other on either side of some watery barrier, trying my best to anchor her to this side, to me.
There were riots. Mobs and fires. Armies were called in. Some treated the wall like a holy place. A man with no mouth left it speaking. Allegedly a pregnant woman burrowed into it and came out with a baby that glowed. But then a parade of pilgrims arrived to be cured of their sins and one by one they touched their foreheads to the surface and it killed them. Their companions dragged the bodies away, then went back and took their chances.
* * *
When we finished, I felt whole. After she died, all my want had been sharpened to this tiny dagger, this lethal-need. Now I slept like I’d finally been stabbed with it.
But by morning she was wormy again, fly-covered. Centipedes crawled under her skin.
* * *
I set out for answers. It was dark, but everything was always dark. Even day was a shadow. Apparently, the same thing had happened in other places too—a jagged streak of deaths and short-term resurrections, bodies like wind-lifted leaves. Maybe it would have brought a better person hope, but the more I heard of miracles, the more I wanted to burn the world down. A black hole ate everything I fed it.
I followed the Moon-ring from horizon to horizon, heading west. Monolithic shapes drifted in the sky, so exactly the color of night I was never sure what I was actually seeing and what I only thought I was seeing. The wall, when I got there, was the same way. It grumbled and shifted, a thing constantly being born. There were ribbons of color in the air. I thought maybe I’d feel different when I saw it for myself, but everything was still the same.
Soldiers, mounted and armed, streamed out of the hillsides. The pilgrims closed their eyes, held hands in a protesting line. Just before they collided into slaughter, one by one, everyone lifted into the air, floating. I watched them pedaling their feet, faces giddy, in awe.
It made it easy for me to nab someone’s weapon and do what I did.
by submission | Nov 20, 2020 | Story |
Author: Gwynfryn Thomas
Shena’s fingernail glistened under the afternoon sun. This one didn’t hurt when it came off – it fell like a mere petal onto the dusty ground. A breeze stung the exposed skin. Wrapping his tongue around the sore finger, he kicked a spiral of dust into the air, almost tripping into the hole. He’d been digging again, against his grandmother’s advice.
Stories of the old world teetered on the cusp of extinction and his grandmother knew them all. By her telling, their land once homed an unfathomable number of people. They’d named the place London in the old language and it was the crossroads of that world, in a time of great fatness. People would come from lands now long-barren – from Yorup and Amer and Frica and all the places Shena dreamed of after his grandmother had spun another tale of far-flung, far-gone adventure. In this London, there were so many people together they had to pile up huts so high the inhabitants would rest with birds at night.
Shena couldn’t imagine what so many people might have looked like. He’d only ever met maybe thirty, and that was at a profound event: the celebration when his mother moved away to start a new village.
He couldn’t imagine the time of fatness his grandmother spoke of, nor just how many grandmothers’ grandmothers ago that must have been. So he dug, knowing that stories were buried not only in memories.
Once, there existed people whose only task was to dig. That was the way of things, he’d heard – one person was digger, one person was fixer, one was builder, one was protector, and they all shared what they’d dug or fixed or built. Everyone knew their one task well. Shena had too many tasks: listener, fetcher, cleaner, and soon—now that the first wisps of a beard had sprouted—husband. That was the way of things now, in their land.
So he dug, hopeful it was not only stories buried here.
His grandmother warned of terrible things buried across their land. But she insisted Shena wasn’t old enough for those stories yet, not before marriage. The dangers hidden under the earth might bring great destruction once again and once he has children of his own, Shena can learn of them to keep their village safe.
So he dug, to learn for himself. To save himself not from the past but from the dangers of the future.
After many days in this desolate spot, he heard a dull tink. Scratching at the dust, he uncovered something flat. A cold, hard material he’d never touched before.
It was a red triangle. He looked at the black symbols daubed on its surface: wavy lines and a bolt of lightning through a skull. He stared at the painted face, the terrible laughter of it. Shena laughed back.
Another of his fingernails fell to the ground. He grew tired. It must be all that digging. Shena lay in the dust under the afternoon sun, hoping to dream of tall huts and flocks of birds. Or maybe to dream of his mother. It should be just/only a quick sleep. He still had plenty to do.
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.”
