by submission | Oct 3, 2020 | Story |
Author: Bryan Pastor
Far from the city center, where the lights are so dim that stars can be seen, lies a rare view, a stand of trees. The trees, of which kind had long been forgotten, poked their yearning branches high above the squat gray monotony of the surrounding tenements, tendrils of living fire that suggested life could thrive, even among the concrete and asphalt.
To the locals, the trees were a source of great civic pride. The sheltering branches provided everything they needed. During the summer, it was a cool place to gather. In the winter, it was the setting for great snowball fights. Regardless of the time a day, people could be found, meeting, discussing, playing cards or chess. As heated as any discourse may have run, always, always it was followed by a handshake or a pat on the back. Not the least amount of romances began beneath the gentle boughs; the trees heard many voices whisper sweet nothings, though not a single tree was blemished by initials carved in a moment of passion. Under the trees was where people gathered when one among them passed. The trees were the heart and soul of the community.
“What took you so long, where’s your crew?” barked the dark-haired man in the blue suit, despite the sun being hidden by the surrounding building, he wore sunglasses.
“No crew.” The foreman announced, holding his hands up.
“What do you mean no crew?”
“None of the locals are willing to do the work. Say the trees done belong to anyone.”
“They belong to me.” The man in the suit barked back. “I have a deed right here that says so.”
He stomped around for a few minutes.
“Fine get a crew from out of town.”
“No can do.” The foreman replied. “The union rep told me he would make our lives very difficult if we tried to go around him.”
“Get me a chainsaw. I will do it myself.”
The foreman retrieved a chainsaw and a can of gas. The man in the suit snatched it from him and skulked off into the trees.
The moment he stepped beneath the swaying leaves the noise of the outside world faded to silence. A car passed on the street beyond, but for all he could tell it was a ghost. Undeterred by the sudden change, the man in the suit marched on until he found a small tree, barely a sapling. All he needed was one. Once the community understood that he meant business about putting up the off-tracking wagering parlor then they would play.
He took off his jacket and hung it on a branch, before kneeling over the saw.
“Can I help you?” A voice asked, it seemed to come from every direction.
“I know how to work a saw.” The developer replied.
“That’s what I am afraid of.” The voice replied, now right in front of him.
“Listen, pal.” The man in the suit started. He began to rise, but stopped. He was staring at someone who looked exactly like him, putting his jacket on. The man reached for the inside pocket and retrieved the deed. He looked the papers over and smiled.
“Hey you can’t…” the developer started, but was cut short as he felt himself lifted up into the canopy.
A few minutes later, a man in a blue suit emerged from the trees, carrying a chain saw and gas can.
“On second thought,” he explained to the foreman. “Maybe its better these trees stay here for a while longer.”
by submission | Oct 2, 2020 | Story |
Author: Liya Akoury
Names are strange things. Back on Earth, we inherited our fathers’ names, but there are no fathers here. We’re twelve women and twenty-four girls. So, we’ve done away with them. We also used to have ranks. Yael was “Captain”, then “Levinsky”. Now, she’s just “Yael”. I was “Officer Cohen”, then “Doc”. Now, I’m “Agnessa” when my services are required and “Aggie” otherwise. The others decided that “Agnessa” is their psychotherapist, and “Aggie” is their sister-in-arms.
Bafflingly, Yael still calls me “Doc”. I’ll spare you (“You”? Who am I writing this for exactly?) the psychoanalysis. Yael’s maintained her pathological distrust of “shrinks”. She’s the only one who’s never been my client. To her great credit, from the beginning, she’s trusted my ability to see the crew through the initial years. She simply, categorically, didn’t trust me to see her inner self. This told me more about her than any therapy session ever could.
Enough circumlocution! Granted, you, dear reader (a distant grandchild?), don’t know that I’m stalling. Yael came over last night, after putting the kids to bed. We often meet alone and usually in the evenings. When Yael was “Captain”, she needed to keep a pulse on the group, get input from me. By some inertia, we’ve maintained this habit, though she’s not, strictly speaking, our leader any longer. So we talked of this and that, the schooling of the eldest daughter-dozen (“DD-ones”, Hannah calls them, ever the engineer), and the teething of the youngest (“DD-twos”).
Yael joked, as she often does, about how deserving we all are of a nice, stiff brandy after a long day of building, harvesting, breastfeeding, and cleaning up various bodily fluids. I don’t disagree, but I can hardly remember the taste of alcohol, let alone the exhilaration. In a decade, we might have enough spare resources for wine grapes. We’ll be plastered from the smell alone, from the thought of it. Imagine the girls’ reaction to their twelve mothers, incapacitated, deranged by a fruity drink! I told Yael this, unabashedly. Despite her high castle walls with archers and a crocodile mote, we’ve grown close. She proceeded to feign intoxication, stumbling around my room, slurring her words, paying me bawdy compliments. It wasn’t half bad, at least to an audience of one. I laughed, she kept stumbling.
Then, she sat on my bed – a breach of protocol. We both felt it at once and froze, two fawns in the headlights of this unexpected, unprecedented proximity. Of course, we’ve been this close before. We’ve slept in the same tent, cuddling to fight off the desert chill in our inadequate sleeping bags. We’ve bathed from the same bucket, when the fog harvests yielded enough water. We’ve shat in the same latrine, when Reina fed us spoiled rations. But we’ve never sat on my bed, in my room, alone. The moment stretched out, heavy and charged. We sat, awash in its awareness. Yael met my eyes.
“Aggs…” she said.
That was all. Writing this now, I want to laugh. I’m a psychologist! I’ve carried all of these women through hell. I should be able to predict every word, every micro-expression. I treat them from the comfort of my little ivory tower, but not Yael, never quite Yael. With no apparent warning, she lowered the draw bridge (forgive me, dear granddaughter for these endless medieval metaphors, which probably make no sense to you!). She pierced through the walls with a single word. And not just any word, with my name, releasing it from her lips for the first time, carving it to be special.
So we made love.
by submission | Oct 1, 2020 | Story |
Author: Steve Bailey
Mr. Goebbels sits on a shelf in the kitchen of Roger’s apartment. It is a virtual digital assistant that displays pictures, answers questions, reports the news, and plays music. Roger gave it the nickname.
Whenever Mr. Goebbels shows pictures of his wife Diane just before cancer killed her, with her gaunt face and bald head, grief grabs Roger and holds him for a few minutes. But there is an image of Diane that makes him happy when it appears. It is an old black and white photo from their college days, her thick curly hair poking out all over from a bandanna, her clenched fist in the air.
He is fixing dinner for his pets one evening when a female voice comes out of Mr. Goebbels.
“Remember the Wilis, Roger?” it asks. “The dance is on.”
Roger looks at Mr. Goebbels and sees Clara Simpson, his girlfriend from high school. He has never seen the picture before.
Startled, he asks. “Who are you?”
“Who am I?” calls out the voice of Clara Simpson. “I’m the girl you ditched, and I died from a broken heart. This is the dance of the Wilis.”
Frightened, Roger unplugs Mr. Goebbels. But the picture of Clara reappears.
“Dance!” Clara commands, and Mr. Goebbels begins playing Twist and Shout.
Roger responds. “This is madness!”
A drawer holding cutlery shoots open, and knives begin flying around the kitchen. One impales the cat’s tail to the wall. Roger rushes to the aide of the screaming cat that scratches him deeply on both forearms.
He begins to dance the twist, and the knives all fall to the floor. One song immediately follows another. Every time Roger stops, the knives go airborne. He is becoming tired.
Suddenly the music stops, and the black and white photo of Diane appears.
“If she is a Wilis, I am Giselle. You and I will do a dance of dialog.”
“Where are you?” Roger asks, “Heaven? The Underworld?”
Diane’s picture immediately disappears.
Bye, Bye Love blasts out of Mr. Goebbels.
Roger tells Mr. Goebbels to show the picture of Diane. But the virtual digital assistant is unplugged to the living, and Clara Simpson is on the screen.
“Dance! Dance faster!” Clara shouts in a shrill voice as Roger struggles to keep up with the music. The cat-inflicted wounds on his forearms sting and ooze blood.
An hour later, the music stops, and Diane is back in control. She begins a discussion on modern art, and Roger sits down at the kitchen table to rest and respond.
“This ends at sunrise,” Diane tells Roger. “By then, either we will have defeated that tormented spirit, or you will have joined us in death.”
As the night wears on, it is back and forth between the two dead women. Clara’s choice of music remains locked in the era of their high school years. Diane’s selection of discussion prompts include political theory, philosophy, and art history. Their conversations become lively, and Diane gains control of Mr. Goebbels.
The pale blue predawn light shows in Roger’s kitchen window. The dance is coming to an end. Clara is gone, Diane is on the screen.
She plays their song, and when it is over, Mr. Goebbels’s screen is dark.
Roger takes the virtual digital assistant out to a scrap yard and pays to have it crushed.
Back in his apartment, he rummages through old boxes and finds the original black and white of Diane. He frames it and places it on the kitchen shelf where Mr. Goebbels once stood.
by submission | Sep 30, 2020 | Story |
Author: Alicia Yau
Colonization spaceship ‘Victoria’ has been orbiting a gas giant with the most chaotic magnetic field in the solar system for weeks without returning signals to Earth.
You yell, “They are not supposed to park there. Their destination is the watery moon of the gas giant. What’s going on with them?” Years of effort and a lot of money invested to open a path to dreams of every single passenger: young or old, paying for this ride in hopes for a bright future in an exotic world mooning the gas giant. Pioneers have paved the roads by terraforming some caves. If this is a confirmed disaster, the loss will be astronomical in terms of human lives and finance. You sigh.
…
“One more week… still the same.”
Breaking news: the advent of a faster-than-light ship (FTL-beta) is realized.
You hurriedly form an investigation team to ride the FTL-beta to arrive at Jupiter in less than thirty minutes, study ‘Victoria’, and report no damage, except no one is found. Searching, evidence of a bloody handprint, and video records are discovered and brought back to Earth.
…
“Forensic reports…”
“Oh, the print is not blood. It’s ketchup!”
“It may be signaling to us that the situation is not deadly.”
“These videos show two passengers panicking and having frequent paranormal encounters. Oh my god! You see… the shadows were moving to engulf them and they disappeared.”
“It seems like the shadow-beings like chaos.”
“Like sugar in coffee. Ordered sugar-cubes dissolve into disordered particles.”
“But, is it possible to reverse this order—disorder?”
“Why not? Dissolved sugar particles can slowly re-deposit to form ordered crystals and go back to their ordered state.”
“Oh… that means if we strive to maintain order, the shadow-beings will not like us in their dimensions.”
“Ahem… Remember mass-energy equivalence? Since the shadow-beings cannot show up as clear video images, their masses are weaker than that of humans. And, since they cannot move things to cause significant damage, their energy is also extremely weak. That means… they may not be able to kill human beings. They just want to abduct us into their dimensions if we live in chaos.”
You puff your chest, “Let’s form a rescue army. When they’re on-board ‘Victoria’, they will create chaos to lure the shadow-beings. Once the beings capture them, they may have a chance to see the abductees and tell them to keep calm and live orderly. Hopefully, the shadow-beings will expel all of them back to our dimensions.”
…
“Report from FTL-beta: …the rescue team was captured by the shadow-beings and successfully met the abductees. The scene was horrific. The abductees howled desperately like animals. Most of them were blaming each other. Some were having fights with each other. Luckily, not a gun or knife was found. The eerie dimensions looked just like ‘Victoria’ except everything was in fading, depressing colors and the light was hopelessly dim. The place seemed as if humans could live forever there without having any food or drinks; it was like an eternity of time. An erupting urge to behave insanely was felt by everyone on the rescue team. The rescue team told everyone to stop panicking and behave in order… The rescue has proceeded as expected. We are preparing to return to Earth with FTL-beta while the empty ‘Victoria’ is autonomously orbiting the gas giant until its fuel is used up.”
Your eyes become misty and thankful.
…
The colonization project has been abandoned and unmentioned.
…
The Earth, flooded by wars and crimes, became full of rumors of shadow-beings.
…
“Stop! Stop-” —..—
by submission | Sep 29, 2020 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“You can always get someone to do your thinking for you.”
—Gordie Howe, famous hockey player
“I want him off the ice. I don’t care if you have to take him out!” Patterson adjusted his dress pants over his stuffed pin-stripe executive suit.
“Boss, you can’t mean that. It’s a game, for God’s sake! We have to adjust.” Coach Billings took a deep breath as he monitored the blood rising in the team owner’s neck and face.
“A game? Listen, Billings, we hired you to win the Stanley Cup, not be a cheerleader for the competition. We’re going into the finals. Every U.S. team is behind us…but that foreign monster goalie has got to go.”
“There’s no rule,” Billings responded.
“No rule? His shoulders are seven feet wide. He’s nine feet tall. For the sake of decency, he has three legs. What does that do to our children when they see that? I’ve got daughters…and a wife.”
“Please don’t ever pull that card when we’re in front of the press. They’ll crucify us. There go our merchandise profits.” Billings shook his head and let out a huge pressure-relief sigh.
“Really? They made that thing into a bobble head, showing his horns. That’s pure Satanism!” Patterson slammed his flabby hand on the mahogany office table.
“Okay, first, they don’t even understand that concept where he’s from. They respect everything like it was full of consciousness…even the puck.”
“What are you talking about, man? Have you been drinking?” Patterson stood over the slouching coach in a threatening posture. “I was a forward for fifteen seasons. Those kinds of beliefs belong inside some hippy commune, not on the ice. What about deporting it?”
“Speaking of ICE, they have no authority. The Canadians gave all of that species citizenship last week. They’ve all moved to Canada. What can I say? They love the frozen north where even the Inuit won’t go. Must be like their home world. We can’t deport Canadians.”
“If we only could,” Patterson snapped back, moving away from the bullied coach to push his face close against the tenth-story window. “Those Canucks would let an aardvark play if it gave them an advantage. Probably let them coach, too.” Patterson rolled his fingers back and forth over his arthritic thumbs.
“There’s another possibility, but it won’t help us until next year. We’re working with the former employees of SETI.”Billings straightened and leaned forward for some support.
“The who?”
“The astronomers that looked for life in the universe by listening for radio signals.”
“Oh, those losers. So what?”
“They’re working with the Department of Defense; they have a research group called DARPA. Right now they’re sending out messages to the same region of space where our foe came from.”
“And?”
“We figure every life form has enemies. Maybe we can get them to show up before next year, make a trade deal, and do some creative signing when they land. You put a threat like that on our team and I guarantee their goalie will lose it. What do you think?”
“Me? “Patterson groaned, turning. “I’m going to look for another sport.”
by Julian Miles | Sep 28, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
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At least with the second Faraday cage built as an ‘airlock’ around the entrance to the living module, burst transmissions from anything inside won’t do them any good. ‘Them’ – so imprecise. Winning wars depends on information. Having nothing reliable about my opponents always, I hate to admit, brings me down.
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Oh, I hear you, Fighter666. But if I attribute to them the worst that could possibly be, I’d not be up against h-
Hierarchies like this.
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No, WhiteManzRule, any type of targeted genocide is not the answer. It might be satisfying for you, but it’s never a solution.
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CharlieTexan, you crack me up. I’m PrepOne. I’m alone. Not even a pet. My trust in that sides with Fighter666 and Tsunetomo: if it’s all or nothing, then it has to be nothing.
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Tsunetomo, WhiteManzRule? He wrote the Hagakure. Last of his kind; I sympathised with him.
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No, Chalky37219, strategy from foreign places isn’t useless. You have to understand that man has been fighting amongst himselves, on every level, for a very long time. I guarantee some observer has already understood and noted the principles. Today’s technology makes things interesting, but the fundamentals are unchanging.
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Steady, Fighter666. I don’t mean you should betray your brothers. I mean that anyone trying to uphold the ‘noble savage’ ideal is an idiot who will die quickly. Someone will take advantage and blindside the poor fool. It always happens.
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Chalky37219, I guess you’re new to this.
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Easy there. What I mean is you’ve got some of the right ideas. After all, you found your way here. But you’ve still got a head full of mainstream garbage. Remember, no matter what the situation, the Road Warrior is an archetype, not a lifestyle. Live as alone as possible, trust very few, make the best of every situation, and always fight to kill. That saving the weak or riding about in a hopped-up coupe is strictly for television. If you’re going to be long-term, you’ve got to figure out that any type of chariot is too noisy. Plus, they need maintenance and space. If you must get wheels under you, get a decent bicycle or tricycle and learn how to fix it. Means you only have to worry about fuelling yourself.
> >
CharlieTexan, I’m safe enough. Watching the goings-on in the world with interest over secured feeds, and working on ending my weakness for spicy burgers with a side of greasy fries.
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No, Fighter666, I don’t think it’s going to happen soon. It’s just another facet of preparing. When it happens, I don’t want to be distracted again by silly cravings while trying to act decisively.
> >
When, Chalky37219? Well, there needs to be more decay. You know, further breakdown of urban infrastructure along with government indifference to it, then shortfalls in services that rely on someone apart from the individual paying for them. Followed by shortages of staple diet items for those without access to wealth. Around all that will be creeping fascism with Victorian British values, encouraged with tenuous but media-backed justification. That’ll be the main indicator. Soon after, someone will get desperate enough to do something drastic, and that’ll light the fuse. But remember, it’s NEVER going to be one of the conspiracies. It’ll be a perfect storm, and it will wash this world clean like has happened and been forgotten so many times before.
> >
What, Fighter666? Just me getting tired and wordy in the early hours. Doesn’t mean anything. Okay, people. I’ll be back discussing the latest good fight tomorrow. Valē.
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