by submission | Aug 6, 2020 | Story |
Author : Mark Renney
Despite the confines, we are encouraged to want things. Although we can only achieve so much, it is instilled into us, from birth, how important it is to be successful. Successful means a house and the ability to fill it with all that we need plus a little more; big, bright, shining things. A flat-screen TV, surround sound a car in the garage, something sleek and stylish. Despite everything, despite the constraints and the cut-off point, here in the mid-levels there is still a lot of choice.
We are middle-management material and work only for particular corporations and particular government departments rising only so far in the ranks. I think it is harder for us here in the mid-levels because we are so close and many of us could easily make that little leap upwards if allowed.
I often stay on at the office after my colleagues have left for the day. I don’t use the computer nor my own devices. I don’t want my presence recorded. I am not breaking any rules but am aware that my behaviour would be considered a little odd.
The lighting drops to an energy-saving level and in the half-light I sit with a newspaper trying to read. But mostly I listen to the noise coming from above where they remain hard at work. At regular intervals, I fetch a drink from the vending machine. Carrying the little plastic cup, I wander as I sip from it. The coffee is always too hot and bitter. I listen to their laughter and I try to pick out individual voices, one-sided telephone conversations. I can’t make out the words but it all sounds so focused and urgent.
I hear those that leave out in the lobby and I flinch but they don’t look in through the glass doors. They don’t see me. They are far too pre-occupied, eager to get home, or perhaps they are heading for a restaurant or bar. Maybe their day’s work isn’t over and they still have much to debate and decide.
Eventually, I have to think about leaving in order to catch the last train. It is still a hive of activity up there and this annoys me. I want to outlast them, be here when they aren’t. I consider booking a hotel in the city or sleeping here in the office. A clean shirt, a different tie, and who, come the morning, would be any the wiser. But I don’t bring in that shirt and tie. After all, it’s only one floor and what would a lull, in the early hours of the morning, prove?
Many in the mid-levels decide not to enter these tall buildings. Despite the fact that they have garnered the necessary experience, ticking the right boxes, they choose to keep working for the smaller companies, those that operate out of the storefront offices both here and in the suburbs. They don’t have the security, the retirement plans, extra holidays, and bonuses but if they work hard they can earn almost as much out there. They call it the ’Real World’ and this is frowned upon by those above but ultimately they haven’t any choice but to accept it.
I made that leap from there to here as soon as I could. And that is all I have managed to do. I step into the lobby, push through the doors, and make my way to my desk in the far corner. I haven’t ever been required elsewhere, I haven’t even as much as stood on the stairs.
by submission | Aug 5, 2020 | Story |
Author: Mina
– Daddy, tell me the story of how we were saved.
– OK, love. Have you got your bear Benji?
– Yes, he wants to hear the story too.
– Then let’s start…
In the final days of an ancient planet, four ships were sent out to the four corners of the universe to seek a new home. The planet’s resources were severely depleted at this point and the escalation of natural disasters had wiped out a large percentage of its population. But the survivors pooled what resources they had left to launch their ships into space. Each ship carried a crew of two hundred and the genetic material for thousands of plant and animal species. After six months, each ship passed beyond maximum communications range and was left alone to face its fate. No more was heard of three of the ships. We know only the fate of the fourth ship, Fortuna.
– Fortuna was our ship, wasn’t it?
– Yes, that was our ship. And after four centuries of travel, it was battered and overcrowded, its population having tripled during its journey. One day, it was hit by a meteor and left so badly damaged that it could no longer sustain itself as it had successfully done for so long. It was in these desperate times that they met a god.
– What did the god look like?
– At first, the crew thought they had drifted into a dense nebula, vibrant with colours. Most of the crew heard a haunting melody in their minds, resonating with loss and loneliness. But the Captain heard an actual voice asking him what their purpose was. He wondered if he had gone mad but he replied that they were the remnants of a dying civilisation, seeking a new home. The ship had enough stores to feed its crew for two more months with strict rationing. The voice said it could get the ship to a viable planet in that time. In exchange, it asked the Captain only for his company. The Captain agreed mainly for the sake of his crew but also because he was lonely too, as his wife had been one of the fifteen killed when the ship was damaged.
– What happened next?
– The nebula contracted around the ship and pulled it along faster than it had ever moved before. For six weeks, the Captain talked to the voice inside his head, sharing his life and his people’s past history. In the first week, the Captain asked the voice its name, but the nebula had forgotten if it ever had a name – it believed it was the last of its kind. In the second week, he gave the voice a name, Sola, and introduced it to centuries of literature. In the third week, he discovered that the voice liked music, especially the blues. In the fourth week, the crew were relieved when the melody in their minds lightened, streaked through with notes of hope and tentative joy. In the fifth week, the crew acquired a new addition to its science team, yet it was as if she had always been with them – her whole lifetime suddenly part of the fabric of their minds. In the sixth week, the Captain married Science Officer Sola and the ship arrived at its destination, a habitable planet with verdant continents and sapphire oceans. The nebula disappeared and the crew wondered if it had all been a dream.
– But mummy stayed with us?
– Yes, but that’s our secret. Mummy chose to become one of us. For the others, she has always been one of us, but she wanted you to know the truth. She kept her vast knowledge, which allowed her to help us settle here, but she became frail and human, giving up her immortality to be with us. You know what that means, don’t you?
– Yes, you and me and Benji must love her as hard as we can for the rest of our lives because it’s the only way we can thank her.
– That’s right, love. Now, time you were asleep.
– Night daddy.
– Night, night princess.
by rogerley | Aug 4, 2020 | Story |
Author: Roger Ley
This is the story of two fairly skinny white men on a planet that was dying fast.
Of course, the men were men only in their own eyes, in the eyes of other species they would have looked quite different. Oh, and it wasn’t the planet that was dying it was the planet’s population.
‘How long will it be before we can take vacant possession,’ asked the larger of the two. They had been hovering over the Himalayas, admiring Mount Everest, but now they moved to ponder the vastness of the Saudi Arabian desert.
‘Well, it’s a half-life problem, master. The population will be halved in two planetary rotations and it will be halved again after the next two and so on,’ said the other. They had moved to look down on the magnificence of the nearly empty city of Moscow.
‘So, the hominids will always be here?’
‘Yes, master, but in very small numbers and in an aboriginal form. Their technology will collapse very soon.’
‘We would have preferred an uninhabited planet, but this solution is adequate, I suppose.’
‘The planet will be empty for all practical purposes, master, and it’s hardly our fault if a random virus jumped from one species to another with drastic results. It’s not as if we encouraged the process,’ said the junior of the two, glowing slightly yellow.
‘Just a lucky coincidence then,’ said the older entity wryly. ‘Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers and there’s really nothing left on Mars. We’ll take it. Arrange for the population to move across at the next conjunction. I expect you’ll get an enhancement for this.
‘Thank you, master, you won’t regret this. Let me show you the Antarctic, I’m sure you’ll like the penguins, jolly little fellows, so comical.’ They drifted away.
by Julian Miles | Aug 3, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
A thousand droplets of unseen dread. The sudden transition from person to pariah. You see me wipe my eyes and tear the mask from my face with that same tissue, crumpling the lot and sending them with sure aim into a nearby bin.
Without bothering to look up to see your looks of condemnation, I pull another mask from my pocket, slip it from the wrapper and put it on. That done, I take the two steps to the bin so I can dispose of the wrapper as well.
I look about. You all look away. I turn and exit the store.
I’m a block away by the time the active component in the mask reacts to my saliva. The resulting compound combines with the one soaked into the tissue. The wrapper adds the final ingredient.
Two blocks away: I hear a scream from behind.
Three blocks away: I turn into an alley and use a tissue from a different pocket to remove mask and face. The pile they make is starting to smoke before I’ve taken three steps.
After reversing my jacket, I emerge from the other end of the alley, a cheerful smiley face mask concealing my features while the reflective weave in it ruins any attempt at facial image capture.
The autocar is waiting in the taxi bay, a private hire booked by someone who only exists for the next twelve hours, and answered by an autocar that isn’t on the company’s books.
As it takes me to the train station, I watch the news about an incident downtown. Something about a suspected gas leak at a convenience store. There are unsubstantiated rumours of it being an attack.
They won’t be confirmed before I exit the train with a different jacket and mask, and disappear into the evening of a nearby town riding another autocar that doesn’t exist, booked by a new temporary digital ghost.
Some pandemics actually walk amongst you, taking advantage of what you sacrifice in the name of a freedom you never actually had.
by submission | Aug 2, 2020 | Story |
Author: Anjan Chatterjee
ROVID-87 decimated dogs. That was over 700 years ago.
For my research, I was combing through old books in Central Archive. Only a few books survived the disasters. I was trying to understand dogs and what happened to them.
A terrorists’ virus had spread through the Web and destroyed all digital information on drives and clouds before 2406. Later, in the aftermath of the climate catastrophe of 2442 to 2475, bacteria evolved that fed on paper, leaving few analog records intact. These remnants were sealed in sequestered libraries. Rarely did anyone, including scholars like me, get access this old knowledge. It took me three years to get permission.
After decontamination and quarantine in the Archive antechamber, I entered that hallowed space. The reading room had a hush about it. High ceilings, low light, private carrels. A few silent scholars glided by, their eyes downcast under the watchful eye of the librarian, who was ever vigilant for information anarchists.
I was fascinated by the animals called dogs. I had found an obscure reference to them being our best friend. What did that even mean? In the archives, I discovered that humans were carriers for the ROVID-87 virus that made its lethal jump into our canine companions. Some best friend we were. The descriptions of dogs were fantastical. These mythical creatures had worked on farms, pulled sleds, hunted with people, sniffed bombs and drugs, raced around tracks, and pranced in beauty pageants. Even more incredibly, dogs lived in people’s homes. People collected their excrement and lay with them in the same bed.
The pictures of dogs made it hard to imagine that they were one species. There were tiny dogs, large dogs, skinny dogs, fat dogs. Dogs with long hair, dogs with short hair. Dogs with droopy ears, with pointy ears. Alert dogs, lazy dogs. Long tails, no tails. Every shape and color imaginable. That diversity ended with ROVID-87. The pure breeds were the first to go, delicate creatures that they were. Then curated mixed breeds and precious ones. Scientists observed that when left to their own mating devices, dogs converged into the same phenotype. They weighed thirty to forty pounds and were brown and wiry. Junkyard dogs. From the aftermath of ROVID-87 to the climate catastrophe these feral dogs were the only ones that roamed the earth.
Deep Hunger followed the climate catastrophe. It was the second time that humans betrayed their best friend. This time intentionally. Dogs died so people could live.
There it was. The history of dogs. The history of our duplicity. It was a lot to take in. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a world of dogs, a world before ROVID-87.
As I opened my eyes, I saw my reflection in the glass of my carrel. The seeds of a thought grew from the pit of my stomach. I am brown. Wiry. About 150 pounds. Across the way, I looked at the vigilant librarian. She was brown and wiry. About 130 pounds. Another scholar walked by, lost in thought. An inch or two shorter than I am, they were brown and wiry. Maybe 145 pounds.
I thought of everyone I knew. Young, middle-aged, old. Family, friends, lovers, colleagues, strangers. Brown and wiry. One and all. Could it be that we humans were also physically diverse before the disasters? Some short, some tall? Some slender, some broad? Thin noses, wide noses? Round eyes, narrow eyes? Straight hair, curly hair? Every shape and color imaginable?
I laughed at myself. What a silly idea. My imagination was running wild. Just like feral dogs of yore.
by submission | Aug 1, 2020 | Story |
Author: H.B. Varley
She held the baby close. One hand nuzzled his head, the other laid upon his mouth. They laid curled in the back of the car, below the seat and the windows. She didn’t let him see, and kept him close to her chest, so that her heartbeat might calm him. He was quiet… for now.
There was still bloody glass where the creature had struck through the front window, puncturing the driver’s chest, the stinger passing through bone and muscle and the leather seat as if they were all cotton. He had died instantly, and for that she was glad; his sputters and gasps for life would surely have panicked the child. After that, the great shadow had stalked away, and slowly, quietly, she brought the baby close and climbed into the back.
And there she waited with him, waiting for him to try to speak, to cry, anything that would give them away. It had not gone far, she knew this. They never did. They stayed close until they were certain there was nothing left to eat.
She heard a bristling crunch nearby, a claw upon concrete. Again, and again, drawing closer and closer to the stopped car in the middle of the road. She felt her heart race, and she wanted to scream, but to make a sound was to kill them both. She held the baby a little closer, begging whatever would listen that he stayed quiet, stayed asleep.
And there was a cry, a baby’s howling. It sent through the air and she could hear it clearly.
It was far away, above them. A young child cried, a baby no older than the little boy she kept so close.
And the bristling stride turned to a charge, a pounce off of the ground. She heard wings spread and buzz off, droning on loudly, sailing away, the baby’s cry instantly drowned out.
She heard the cry go silent, start up again, as if fighting restraint. But soon the beat of the wings stopped, and another scream joined the cry.
