by submission | Oct 22, 2020 | Story |
Author: William Gray
Look, we don’t have much time here, okay? Corporate really cut corners on these new spacesuits. That ripping sound is not reassuring…I’m pretty sure I’ll get a view of Earthrise before….well…
This all began years ago. After earning an expensive, useless University degree, I found myself sitting at a desk, typing away in a claustrophobic cubicle. A slave to The Screen.
For all intents and purposes, I was flushing my life down the fucking toilet.
I signed up with Lunar Mining Expeditions, Inc. Their motto was “Work a little, ride for free. Work a lot, make some money”. Perfect! I could feed myself and, at the same time, do work that wouldn’t turn me into a damn screen zombie.
So, here I am. If Earthlings are looking up at the sky right now, gazing upon the moon, they’re looking at me. If they’re not envious, they should be. Mother Nature has been a rotting corpse for over a millennium now. I might be in a spacesuit, kicking lunar dust around with anti-gravity boots, but at least I’m not on Earth, walking along a fetid shoreline, industrial-polluted muck squished between my toes!
My time is running out but I will say briefly that I worked a LONG shift today. I wanted to do some exploring far away from the mines. It’s forbidden, but who the fuck is gonna stop me? Anyway, I made it to these highlands. A bit of a climb, with a tiny slip on my way up, but I made it to the top. What an amazing view!
Are you familiar with Baily’s Beads? No? Ever seen a lunar eclipse, or even a picture of one? You’ll notice the corona is never a flawless circle. That’s due to inconsistencies on the moon’s surface. I am standing on one right now. I’d love to continue educating you on eclipses, one of my favorite subjects, but that ripping sound….it’s not getting any quieter…
The problem? That tiny slip. A sharp rock tore the leg of my suit. It happens all the time, usually not a problem. The vacuum of space suctions the skin up into the rip, causing it to bleed. The blood coagulates and seals off the leak. You get a “space hickey” but no big deal.
This time, though, the rip was rather large.
My entire leg is swelling. Why? Intravascular pressure differential, relative to lunar atmosphere, causes vein engorgement. It’s a fascinating process, but I really, REALLY have NO time for a lecture right now.
As the suit unzippers around the swelling, it feels like a mosquito bite, then a bee sting, then a knife cut, as the skin separates along the ripline. Soon the entire suit will be compromised.
Let’s get this over with. I’m removing my helmet.
There it is-Earthrise! So beautiful! I must be the first person ever to gaze upon it directly, eyes unprotected. I still have about ten seconds, but I REALLY want to get this over with. I hold my breath.
Pressure builds up in my chest. My pulmonary lobes, three on the right and two on the left, explode in rapid succession, one after the other, according to size, like bubble wrap popping in my thoracic cavity.
Why didn’t they all pop simultaneously? I would explain the delicate interplay between lunar atmospheric physics and pulmonary pathophysiology…if only I had the time…
by submission | Oct 21, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Henson
When earth passed through the Great Inter-dimensional Anomalous Wave, everything went blurry. After things cleared up 56 hours later, it was a different world.
Great Grandpappy Goose was one of the last to remember when the world had three spatial dimensions. He said everything about living in 2D was hard to get used to — having height and width but no depth, needing to hop over things rather than go around them, the impossibility of knots. It all seems normal to me, but then I’ve never known anything other than our 2D existence.
I’ve read about 3D life in the history sheets— books as they were called back then when there was thickness — whatever that was. But much as I try, I can’t visualize a third dimension. Was it curled above? twisted below? wrapped inside? Where did it go when a person moved about? Did they pull it behind them like a chain?
Some artists are inspired by the concept of three dimensions. They paint their visions of 3D trees, horses, nudes. I find it all a bit creepy. Scientists have described a 3D reality using endless formulas and equations only they can understand. I once saw an engineer’s conceptual blueprint of a three-dimensional bridge and got dizzy just looking at the drawing.
I hadn’t thought about the whole 3D thing for a long time till I saw Great Grandpappy Goose a few weeks ago. He was especially agitated trying to make me understand how things used to be. Maybe he sensed his end was near, and that he wouldn’t have another chance. He showed me his front, which narrowed till he disappeared for an instant before his back widened into view. Then he reversed the process till he was facing me again.
“And,” I said. “what’s your point?”
Grandpappy held up his hands as if I were aiming a flatshot at him. “Try to imagine, son. There used to be more to us than length and width. We also went from front to back, like this.” Grandpappy moved his arm up and down. “No, not like that, like this.” Up and down again. “Drat … Depth, son. Everyone had it. Everything. It was so much better. Please tell me you understand.” His voice quivered.
I thought for a moment. “Yes, Great Grandpappy Goose, I do.” I didn’t really understand, still couldn’t get my head on three dimensions. But Great Grandpappy’s passion had convinced me that having length and width without depth diminished our world.
I miss Great Grandpappy Goose, but am thankful to still have Granny Gander. I’m visiting her tomorrow. Granny Gander never lived in a 3D world but does remember other things that disappeared before I was born. I’m certain she’ll lament how the world’s worse off now that there’s yes and no without something called maybe, black and white without gray, right and wrong without doubt. This time when Granny Gander starts reminiscing, I’m going to put down my flatgame.
by submission | Oct 20, 2020 | Story |
Author: Anthony Nguyen
I woke up outside my body.
My husband welcomed me onto a server called dasn.incorporealliving3.mw.
Like normal, my mouth moved and words emerged,”Hi John, it’s been a while.”
“Yeah babe, ya don’t have to be so formal.”
“I feel like I’m breathing while I’m talking.”
“They programmed our neurological patterns into the computer for comfort.”
“Comf—”
“Which is weird,” he added. Then I imagined him stroking his stubble and taking deep breaths, taking in the clean atmosphere as he stepped off the ship and onto a new world. “Well babe, it’s weird ’cause they could just put us under, then unfreeze us when it’s time. There’s no need for this…out-of-body reality.”
“I guess it feels more comfortable, like I’m still in my body,” I said as I thought about nudging him. I decided to pull up the feed of my body’s pod—lifeless.
But I felt alive. It was an uncanny feeling.
Similar to our school days when we hogged the lunch table with the tall shady oaks, my husband and I hogged the dasn.incorporealliving3.mw server, affixing a passcode that only close friends and family knew. p0pkorn.
Yes. Zero and k.
Although it was wholly unnecessary because the client recognized our friends and family. Though, it was fun brainstorming a passcode.
I visited my physical body everyday—it resided in pod 47B, right next to my husbands’. There was something about the lifeless, tangible face that made me envious of life. Simulations just weren’t the same. Because if I had wanted to, I could feel the wind grace my skin as I relaxed under the shade of a cypress. But instead of walking out to Ma’s cypress in Monterey, the computer would’ve simulated it for me—and it wouldn’t be real.
Sometimes, my husband and I traversed other servers, where people had transposed fancy Michelin-starred restaurants or worrisome street food, or vacation spots of New Zealand beaches and Tokyo cybergardens.
Ma copied the Tokyo cybergardens server onto her own, so whenever I visited, the aroma of sakuras, soy sauce and second-hand smoke assaulted me.
“Take off your shoes,” Ma reminded me. She walked to the dinner table and imagined a ceramic tea set out of thin air. “Oiya, I made ramen, not the instant kind, the real kind—Hikigaya taught me.” Hikigaya was the Japanese chef simulation, who in all honesty, adorned the biggest, most inviting smile.
“Ma have you ever thought about simulating dad?”
“I’ve wished it, but old age has gotten to my head. Oiya… I don’t remember him too well.”
“Then are you ever lonely? Do you ever crave authentic relationships?”
She started pouring the tea, then placed it in front of me. “I have you.”
I warmed my hands with the teacup, admiring the strips of pink as it wrapped around the black. “How do you know I’m real?”
“Well because you’re my daughter. Also, nobody has as much difficulty with existentialism as you do.” Her restrained giggle escaped through her nose.
I continued to meet up with Ma every week. She learned most Japanese dishes within the first five years. Then she moved onto Italian, then Greek, then Mediterranean, then we lost track of time.
It was no longer an accurate form of measurement for we were infinitely ensnared in the cosmos. Time was a weird force, pushing us to socialize, learn, create, and wait—wait until our bodies were free to explore and settle in the next simulation. But until then, we were bound to this one.
by Julian Miles | Oct 19, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I raise my hand above my head, knuckles to the rear, palm to the sky, fingers softly curled, thumb tight. As the weight tips the arm leftward, I let it drop and curve away to the right, knuckles uppermost until that extension stops like there’s a wall at my back. The wrist rotates to place thumb uppermost, forming a straight line that runs from mind to arm to blade.
The entity tumbles past, thoughtlessly falling, its attention taken by the purple flood that spills from the gashes cut just above both knees.
My fist turns, my arm curls inward until the heel of my palm touches my brow. The fist tilts and I whip the blade over and down, flinging ichor from it before reversing grip and coming to a standstill. The blade parallels the back of my arm, tip level with my ear.
“You did not kill dyn?”
I flick a glance in the direction of the voice. She hasn’t moved. My duster shifts in the wind that crosses this alien steppe.
“It would have been a waste.”
“Dyn would have killed you.”
“That much was obvious. It is why I struck instead of conceding.”
“You are not like your companions.”
“Inasmuch that I am not dead, or in some other detail?”
Spinning hard left, I stop by kicking my right foot into the dirt. My right arm swings like throwing a hook punch with knuckles up. I twist, lean, and extend. My wrist flexes and the reversed blade flicks out to carve a gory track through the dorsal crest of dyn who had scuttled in from behind.
Returning to an upright stance, I switch grip, flick more ichor across the grasses, reverse grip once again, and bring the blade back to rest behind my shoulder.
“I was leading into a witticism as you toppled, riven to the quick by that dyn. You have lifemarked two of my finest. I may have to reconsider the claims of my dynar as to their excellence.”
There are unhappy growls from the multitude that ring this impromptu challenge circle.
“Lifemarked?”
“Your strikes will leave marks upon their healed forms. Until those marks fade, those dyn live and move to your will. That is our way.”
“And if the marks do not fade?”
“Then they serve for life. Thusly we call it ‘lifemarking’.”
“If I die?”
“It is dishonourable for them to kill the lifemarker. Moreso, should you die before them, they will also be killed.”
“Simple and effective.”
Another dyn is sneaking in. Snapping my left hand out, I extend a finger. In a silence of bated breaths, I wag the finger from side to side. The dyn rises from the long grass and slinks back into the crowd.
“You chose not to lifemark a third?”
“Eventually, some dyn will get lucky. I would prefer that to happen whilst in service, rather than as a ronin upon a foreign plain.”
I turn to face her.
“I’m a long way from home, dynri. My ship is wrecked, my ammunition spent, and my companions are dead. All I have is some small skill with this blade and a willingness to kill for a cause. Will you give me one?”
“Killing tools like yours are called ‘shongi’. But what you wield is far more. My dynar whisper that it is lightning sworn to your service.”
I’ll take that as an omen.
“We could be at your service.”
“Then welcome, dynar. What names do it and you bear?”
I grin.
“Call us Raitoningu.”
by submission | Oct 18, 2020 | Story |
Author: Jeff L Mauser
The soft high-count sheets are cool against my skin. I’m greeting by soft spring sunshine, I smile. Throwing the curtains aside, the green fields of home flow from beneath my window as far as I can see.
The aroma of coffee sashays in, overlaid with the enticing whiff of bacon. They lead me to the kitchen. The love of my life, Debra, turns and smiles. I brush my lips against the nape of her neck. I know better than to disturb her when she’s cooking. Especially when she’s cooking bacon.
I fill my coffee cup, sitting down at the built-in kitchen table. Sipping the tantalizing elixir I enjoy the quiet moment.
“Smells good Mom,” Buddy shouts bounding into the kitchen. “Dad, can you help me with this math homework?” He plops his books onto the table sliding next to me.
“Ah, Sure.”
“Unbelievable,” Sissy lets out a long sad sigh. “Weren’t you part of the Feminist Movement back in the olden days’ Mom?”
“Olden Days? I’m going to the Federal Building later to protest the President’s choice for the Supreme Court, young lady. Don’t give me any olden days stuff.”
“But Mom,” Sissy says sitting at the table. “You’re cooking breakfast. Isn’t that like a ‘housewife’ thing?”
“Yes, but it’s agreed no one wants to eat your father’s cooking?” She’s balancing two plates on her left arm and holding one in her right hand.
“Dad’s good for donuts.” Buddy says laughing, then “Thanks, Mom.” He digs right in.
“Hey, I resemble that,” laughing. She kisses my cheek, putting a plate in front of me.
“I don’t understand how you can be subservient, to Dad.”
“I’m not, dear. When you fall in love you’ll understand.” She puts the plate in front of Sissy.
“Well then I’m never falling in love,” Sissy mumbles with a mouth full of food.
We smile. Debra said the same thing when we first met at a Human Rights protest. She sits and begins eating. Buddy and Sissy have eaten most of their bacon, eggs, toast, and Hash browns. I have taken a few bites. I’m savoring the family time.
Leaving for school Buddy and Sissy put their dishes in the sink. Finished I take her plate to the sink. I turn and she is in my arms. We hug, tight.
“Do you have to?”
“Yes.” We kiss.
The feeling of her arms around me linger as the bright spring sunshine fades. Her warmth dwindles as the sound of the guards’ baton against the bars come closer. I open my eyes to grayness. Gray walls, ceilings, floors, and faces. I disengage from the full lotus position to stand next to my bunk.
The guard passing my cell steps back glaring at me. “Weren’t you were floating above the floor.”
“No Sir. I was sitting on my bed, which is wrong. I should be standing facing you when you walk by.”
The guard scowls. He knows I’m right. He also knows what he believes he saw. The longer I’m silent, the less he trusts himself.
“That’s right boy. You’re always wrong. I’m always right. Got that Prisoner 6497368”
“Yes sir.”
Lights outs, and again I drift away home. This time with our time ending, I acquiesce to her loving entreaties. Wrapped in her loving arms, I focus on her warmth and our need for freedom.
The guards’ baton against the bars fade. Assured of my success I relax for an instant. Just long enough to see the look on the guard face as my Cheshire cat grin is the last of me he sees.
by submission | Oct 17, 2020 | Story |
Author: Greg Roensch
You’d be 40 years old today, my age at the time of the first strike. There’s some comfort knowing you didn’t have to live through the disasters that came like seasons – drought, famine, disease, war, more war.
I awoke one morning without sight, which happened to many of us. We were placed in barracks according to our IQ. All blind, we ate as one. Slept as one. Felt as one.
Our power came slowly at first, before blossoming into full force. We’ll use this incredible gift to improve things, I thought in the beginning. We’ll create a better world. But the generals had other ideas.
When they no longer needed us for military purposes, they used us to keep the order. To keep the people in their place.
“Why didn’t you revolt?” you would have asked. “Why didn’t you turn your power against them?”
It’s hard to explain, daughter, but we never thought to fight back. We never saw that as an option.
I still dream of you. Like last week when I saw you skipping toward me on a long sidewalk, your face bathed in sunshine as you made a point to avoid contact with the lines in the cement.
“Good girl,” I cheered, “you’re almost here.”
“I’m coming, papa,” you called out, though the distance grew between us.
“Faster, honey.”
“Papa,” you cried.
“Run!” I shouted.
I was jolted out of my dream by the familiar voice of G-5309.
“Silence,” he commanded and struck the bottom of my feet with a metal baton.
Groans came from the other bunks in the barracks.
“Be quiet,” he ordered. “Or you’ll get more of the same.”
I willed myself back into my dream, but you were gone.
Did you look more like me or your mother? I can’t remember anymore.
“No one’s to blame,” I told her. “It was just one of those things.” But nothing convinced your mother to forgive – or to stay.
Last night, I dreamt you knelt before a two-story dollhouse, like the one we built together on your seventh birthday.
“My child,” I said, tears welling in my eyes.
“Quiet, papa,” you whispered.
Clutching my fists to my mouth, I peered over your shoulder at the dollhouse, only to realize that everything was covered by thick, black ash, like the kind that fell on the last day I saw you.
“My child,” I repeated, my words drowned out by the uncontrollable sobs coming from every bed in the room.
