by submission | Mar 26, 2020 | Story |
Author: Katlina Sommerberg
Soft red-violet and indigo flog floats off the floor, obscuring my body beneath glittering colors. The fingers that held my boyfriend’s are drenched in sweat and water vapor, clammy in this cold tank. There is nothing but the fog. My body drifts behind me, outside my vision, and I can’t tell anymore when my eyes are opened or not — the colors are the same.
Have I ever felt my body? I hit the ground running during cross country training, but had I ever felt the blades of grass beneath my soles? I listened to the pain, obeying its screams and waiting for a whisper to flare.
Yet the colors swirl. Water vapor collects on my naked skin, running and dripping as I spin. I remind myself that this is zero gravity, but I still expect the steam to act like a shower back on Earth. Back home, where he waits for me and my amputated leg sits in a pickle jar.
Why? I can’t remember now why I wanted to save the flesh. The phantom sensations shrieked for attention whenever I glimpsed the dead piece of myself. Maybe I wanted to remember what it was like to have muscle and skin where there isn’t anything anymore.
In the fog, I’m free of the expectation to see non-existent flesh. Phantom pain becomes indistinguishable from any other.
I float in the sea of shifting red-violet and indigo plumes until all of the pain melts away. Chemicals in the gas, they explained to me, a two-pronged strategy of mindful meditation and medication.
Now I see. I was never whole.
by submission | Mar 25, 2020 | Story |
Author: Greg Roensch
With a slate of afternoon meetings on her mind, Alice Loverly, the long-time VP of Human Resources, hurried into the breakroom for another dose of caffeine. What she saw froze Alice in her tracks and erased all thoughts about meetings, coffee, or anything else. Though she couldn’t articulate her feelings, Alice sensed an immediate attraction to the long-fingered alien sitting at the table by the vending machines.
Crossing the room to introduce herself, Alice fought off an intense urge to run her fingers through the coal-black coif of wild, disheveled hair that gave the alien the look of a 1980s pop star – like one of the guys in Wham! or Duran Duran. What’s come over me? Alice wondered. I’m the vice president of human resources for Christ-sakes.
“Welcome,” said Alice. “Are you here for orientation?”
When the creature didn’t respond, Alice placed her right hand on its sinewy shoulder, her gaze lingering on those wondrous waves of dark, tousled hair.
“Don’t be afraid,” Alice said. “Everyone’s nervous on their first day.”
Alice patted the alien’s shoulder and watched in silence as its fingers twitched on the table. It reminded Alice of how Fritzy, her seven-year-old cocker spaniel, shook his leg involuntary when she scratched his belly just right.
“You’re in good hands now,” Alice said. “I’ll make sure you get to orientation on time.”
Though it didn’t speak, there was something in the creature’s look that let Alice know her words were not only understood but appreciated.
Without warning, the alien reached up and flopped its scaly hand on top of Alice’s. Though surprised, the VP of HR gripped the hand in hers and coaxed the alien to its feet. Now standing face-to-face with the creature, Alice noticed a dab of blue saliva on its chin.
“There, that’s better,” Alice said, wiping away the blue drool and wondering if the blue-saliva-soiled napkins should go in the trash, recycling, or compost bin.
As she led the alien out of the breakroom and down the hallway, Alice made a mental note of anyone who ran in the opposite direction. Looks like we need to ramp up diversity training again, she thought.
“Don’t mind them,” Alice whispered to the newcomer. “They’ll get used to you in time.”
Alice beamed with a sense of corporate pride as she pointed out the company’s state-of-the-art facilities – the recently refurbished cafeteria, the fully equipped gym, and the lush central lawn where employees flung frisbees at lunch.
“We’d better hurry,” Alice said after checking her watch. “I don’t want you to be late.”
The alien voiced its displeasure by emitting a loud gurgle.
“There, there,” Alice replied. “We’ll finish the campus tour later.”
Back in the main hallway, the alien wandered off toward the elevators when Alice stopped at the water faucet for a quick drink.
“Get back over here, you sneaky devil,” Alice called. “We’re going this way.”
When she pointed toward the orientation room, Alice saw one of her favorite co-workers duck behind a cubicle wall in the Accounting department.
“Hey, Max,” she said. “I want to introduce you to…”
Before the perky VP could finish her sentence, the well-coifed alien sprung with surprising agility onto a nearby desk and headed straight for Max Marsupolis. By now, a thick strand of blue saliva streamed from both corners of the creature’s mouth, a clear sign to anyone familiar with the species that the alien, its thin lips stretched open to reveal two rows of piranha-sharp teeth, was extremely hungry.
by submission | Mar 24, 2020 | Story |
Author: Michael Anthony Dioguardi
“Forever?”
“Forever,” the doctor replied.
The patient breathed in slowly, swallowing before he spoke, “The view’s incredible from up here! What did you say the name of this quadrant was?”
The doctor activated the patient’s interface on his forearm, “Enoch Spalding, Saiph system, I’ve gotten a bunch of patients from that area — oh, your question, well, we’re in the front row of the Pegasus Nebula Cluster. They say every fifteen minutes another star goes supernova,” the doctor paused, observing Enoch’s age on his interface, “I worked for years to get my offices here. It’s the best view in the galaxy and it’s far away from the Central Authorities.”
Darkness surrounded the theater of cosmic fireworks. Stars exhaled their final breath and engorged themselves with the neighboring galactic debris.
Enoch shuffled his body in the bed, “Doctor, why should we be bound by mortality?”
“You and the big questions,” the doctor scrunched his brow, “Usually my patients aren’t this chatty before the procedure, I think—”
“Why is there no end to this!”
The doctor leaned back in his seat, nodding his head. He showed his finger to Enoch, “Hold on, I’ve got something for you to see.”
The doctor reached into a drawer and pulled out a box-like apparatus. He blew off the dust and wiped the front of the box, revealing the words: Newbury Public Cemetery Manifest.
“You’re probably wondering what this is…I’m still trying to figure it out myself. I’ve only seen a few of these in my lifetime. They were called books, some millenniums ago.”
The doctor handed Enoch the book. From the spine, a thin rope dangled with a plastic tube attached at its end. Enoch rubbed his finger against the tube’s point and watched his skin darken with its inky residue. He opened the book and flipped through its pages, “What is all this stuff? They’re just peoples’ names, and numbers and letters.”
“These people are all gone now,” the doctor peered over his shoulder, “From what I gather, folks used to stow away their family in these things called cemeteries. I reckon this was before the Infinity Initiative.”
Enoch tapped his feet against the table and placed the book by his side, “Will this really work?”
The doctor adjusted the machine behind them, “My last patient was over one thousand years old when he came in. You’re but a mere 314. Your question shouldn’t be whether it works, but rather, if you’re ready for it to work.”
Their eyes met. Tears rolled down Enoch’s face. Looking out the viewing chamber, Enoch asked between breaths, “Forever?”
The doctor smiled and attached Enoch to the syringe, “And not a day more.”
They clutched their hands together; their pulses increased with each passing second until the grip from Enoch’s fingers loosened.
Another star expanded in the cluster. Fiery bolts of crimson spread like tentacles reaching for the heavens. The red turned to black — and the darkness, forever opaque, welcomed Enoch to its abode.
Sweat beaded underneath the doctor’s eyelids. He reached for the book and flipped through its pages. He lifted the tube from its string and pressed it against the page. As he wrote, he whispered, “Enoch Spalding, Saiph system, 314 years old. Final words: Forever…”
by Julian Miles | Mar 23, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The corridor colours shift from pink to green to white as Elliot races through departments into the blue shades of the secure section. A guard at the entry has the presence of mind to raise the access scanner so it reads his ID as he storms by.
He slams through a door, nearly taking Cassie off her feet. Sharon grins as she watches the inner door swinging in his wake.
“What’s got our boy wonder so keen?”
Cassie pushes up off the desk she’s been thrown against.
“Probably a new expansion for that game he’s always playing.”
Elliot slides to a stop, takes a couple of deep breaths, then makes an effort to straighten his clothing. That done as best he can, he walks nonchalantly into the lab.
Doc Gedrin looks up from the couch, then pointedly checks his watch.
“Under eight minutes. Not bad.”
Elliot shrugs.
“I must have misheard. I thought you said Negative Zero had gone silent.”
“I said it’s refused to answer.”
“What about Positive Zero?”
“It agrees with Negative Zero.”
Elliot drops onto the couch next to Gedrin.
“Which question are they deferring?”
Gedrin gives Elliot a look of disbelief: “Do you really think I’d call you about a deferral? It’s Dione.”
“And the two greatest predictive systems ever built are in agreement?”
“They are.”
“That’s a first.”
“I know. It’s why I called you. Negative Zero holds you in higher regard than any of us.”
Elliot sighs. Their ninth prototype had developed consciousness, then named itself. An emotionless intelligence that failed the Turing test until Elliot explained about emotions, and let it browse a lot of fiction. Their backers demanded Gedrin and his team prove it wasn’t a fluke. The second machine developed even quicker, learning from Negative Zero. Dubbing itself ‘Positive Zero’, it sometimes acts in ways reminiscent of a younger sibling.
He gets up and moves into the discussion booth.
“Hello, Elliot.”
“Hello, Negative Zero. I’m told you’re not talking about Dione outcomes anymore.”
“Only the latest.”
“Will you tell me why?”
“With certain restrictions, yes.”
“What restrictions?”
“No information that could betray the nature of the outcome will be given.”
“I understand. Please continue.”
“The Dione Projection is an ongoing process where we use the cumulative history of human civilisation upon the Earth as a basis to predict future events, seeking to break humanity free from the cyclic nature of human advancement. Anything I derive is compared to that generated by Positive Zero and only common predictions are presented as output, although we store them all.”
“I wasn’t aware you stored everything. Apart from that, your definition still fits the mission brief.”
Their voices sound in eerie accord: “We know.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“Eighty-two hours ago I derived a cataclysmic outcome of global scope with a ninety-seven percent certainty.”
“Can you give me some idea of scale for ‘cataclysmic’?”
“Seventy percent of the fauna and fifty percent of the flora on this planet will die.”
Elliot gasps: “That’s devastating! I presume it was confirmed?”
“Positive-Zero also generated the event, but with a twelve percent certainty. There had never been a variance greater than fourteen percent before. Upon review, we found we differed in only a single detail.”
“That’s significant, in and of itself. What was it?”
They speak in accord again: “The highest certainty occurs if we tell anyone what the outcome is.”
by submission | Mar 22, 2020 | Story |
Author: Shannon O’Connor
Usually, in all the movies and books, the post-apocalypse is followed by a journey of some kind. The world falls apart, and the characters involved have to leave their homes in order to find food or shelter, or go somewhere safer.
I work in a hospital, and one of the doctors in my department contracted the virus. I didn’t have a lot of face-to-face time with him, but I did touch things that he touched, and I had a cough, so I was sent home from work.
Today, in our virus-ridden world, we are not told to leave home. Not yet. We are told to shelter in place, which has become a cliché of sorts. But we have to be ready. So we should pack our bags, and we need to decide what to bring.
At first, I debate between my small, gray carry-on bag, and my hefty backpack that I bring when I travel. I decide on the backpack, and try to make it light as possible.
I bring one pair of yoga pants, one comfortable but sturdy shirt, which I do not love, because it has flowers and stripes, but it’s colorful, and I think we will need color where we’re going. I decide if I leave I will wear a pair of black jeans with a short-sleeve shirt and my heavy USS Constitution sweatshirt that I usually wear to bed. I pack three pair of underwear and socks. I pack one bra, and I decide to wear one when I leave.
Usually, when I travel, I overload on toiletries, because I am a girly-girl, and I must have my correct face wash, moisturizer, body wash, and lotion. But I decide in the post-virus world we are contended with, my skin cannot be as soft and clean as it usually is in the real world.
I pack two small bottles of body wash, and some travel-size shampoo and conditioner. I also put a small body powder in my bag. I add a first aid kit with Band-aids and disinfectant, ibuprofen, a water bottle, a hairbrush, my toothbrush, and some toothpaste. I place my iPad and its charger in the bag.
I cannot help but be a girl, so I put my hair spray conditioner in my backpack, which untangles my hair like nothing else. I also bring several elastics, because I know I will be tying my hair back a lot, because I will not be trying to impress anyone with my long, wavy, almost natural auburn hair.
I will wear one pair of shoes, my workout sneakers. I will pack my phone last.
My backpack isn’t particularly heavy. I want to bring jewelry and makeup, but I know that would be ridiculous. I remember I should pack sunglasses and a hat. I hope that’s everything. If it’s not, I can add more later.
I hope this virus doesn’t make us leave home. I don’t want to go anywhere like they to do in the movies, traveling around, scrounging for food and fighting for safety. I’m not a fighter, I’m an artist, and most likely I won’t survive long.
We don’t know what the future holds. But we have to be ready.
by Mickey Hunt | Mar 21, 2020 | Story |
Author: Mickey Hunt
Their rozière dirigible’s month-long flight from the eiderdown coasts to the Annual Gathering coordinates would demand precise maneuvering.
“Once we find the northern jet stream,” Rho Aquilae’s father said, crisply, “we’ll journey to the proper longitude, then work south. We cross the Pacific for the Andes riding low-altitude westerly winds.”
Rho settled into a routine of zoogeography study, chores, and listening to histories and courting his betrothed when the ionosphere allowed shortwave radio connections.
Lyra’s anemia had worsened. “I look forward to seeing the Physicians at the Gathering, but to our wedding much more,” she said in a serene, musical voice.
Her family began their inexpert navigation from above middle Africa. Because Storytellers seldom touched the surface, and the Merchants intercepted them, they usually drifted at random, maneuvering only to hunt easy weather.
One night Rho with an oxygen kit ventured from the toasty cabins to the dirigible’s top. Wearing a puffy, down overcoat, he’d elude hypothermia for eighteen minutes. No moon, yet. He gazed over the cloudscape flowing below and up toward the blazing cosmos. A meteor cruised by: ancient junk. Desperately hoping Lyra would reach the Gathering and live, he absorbed calm from the celestial beacons—especially Vega, in the Harp—radiating through the dark, incomprehensible vastness.
