by submission | May 3, 2020 | Story |
Author: Mark Wallace
Peter was on edge as he walked down the corridor to his apartment. It had been a routine day at work in the Public Communications Office, but on the walk home his nose had started to feel a little stuffy, and a sense of foreboding filled him.
His apartment door swung gently open as Peter approached. He paused in the red light that filled his doorway as the obligatory daily Notifiable Diseases Test was conducted. A new flu, Crescent Virus J, had just been declared notifiable. The light flashed green and he gave a sigh of relief and entered.
“Good evening, Peter,” came a disembodied voice, clear, clipped, and female.
“Evening, Ariel,” said Peter, flopping down on the sofa.
After a few seconds, the voice of Arial returned: “Would you like me to put on dinner?”
“No thanks, Ariel. I’m not hungry. Ask me again in an hour.”
“Sure, Peter.”
After a few more seconds of silence, Ariel spoke again: “Peter.”
“Yes.”
“Your blood pressure is a little high. Is everything ok?”
“Yes. Just a tough day at work.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“No, it’s fine. I just need some rest.”
“If you need to talk, I’m here. You know that everything you tell me will be in the strictest confidentiality. Nothing you tell me will ever be repeated, except to the proper authorities and then only when such disclosure is in the interests of the common good.”
“I know, Ariel, but I don’t need to talk about it. I just need to rest.”
“Sure, Peter.”
Peter closed his eyes and lay in silence for a few seconds, trying to calm himself and control his breathing. Then Ariel spoke: “Your heart rate is 15 bpm higher than normal at this time of evening.”
“Thanks, Ariel.”
“Would you like to take any action?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“I recommend the administration of SigmaGluc12 in this situation.”
“What is that?”
“It is a compound designed to work both on the bloodstream and in the neurons. It decreases blood pressure, heart rate, and the type of neuronal activity that has been shown to often contribute to these symptoms. If you like, I can show you a presentation from Dr. Cynthia Twisler of the National University on the workings of SigmaGluc12. She is the leading expert in the field.”
“No, thanks. I think I’ll leave it. Give it a few minutes.”
“Ok, Peter,” said Ariel.
In the silence, Peter began to shift uneasily. After a few minutes, he said: “Ariel, did you send a report?”
“What report are you referring to?”
“About my heart rate or blood pressure. Just now.”
“All instances of uncharacteristically elevated hr and bp where the subject does not accept the prescription must be reported to the Ministry of the Common Good. Purely a standard measure.”
“What happens then?”
“The report is sent through the relevant channels in the Ministry.”
“Which channels?”
“If you like I can read you the relevant section of the Prevention of Harm Act which deals with this measure.”
“No, it’s ok,” said Peter. He knew that that long and impenetrable Act would not give an answer. He had edited part of it.
He didn’t know how much Ariel knew, or where her report had gone. His Notifiables Test had been green, but had it really? He fell into silence, and an uneasy sleep haunted by dreams of approaching sirens and knocks at the door. He remained dimly, troublingly conscious of slight nasal stuffiness.
by submission | May 2, 2020 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
Davis misses the road. More accurately, he misses the discipline it has provided and he no longer expects it to re-appear. Davis isn’t searching for the road, in fact he believes that if he is to find the centre, to reach the point of impact, then it is necessary to leave it behind, abandon it and this hasn’t proved difficult. No roads have survived out on the plains.
But the evidence that they had once been prevalent is everywhere. Much of it is unused and un-useable – phones and tablets and other devices with screens. Many are broken, have been kicked about and stamped on but most are still intact, still in their original packaging.
Kneeling down, Davis grabs a phone. It is the one he had wanted but hadn’t been able to afford. He claws at the box, pulling away the clear plastic and holds the phone in his hand. He realises that this is the last model, that there won’t be another sleeker and faster and more desirable version. Davis pushes the green button and waits but nothing happens.
The roads are redundant and the idea of starting in one place and making for another, of heading toward a destination, is futile. Grudgingly Davis has to admit it is fitting the roads haven’t survived out on the plains. That they are no longer a part of this landscape, that the landscape has changed. It is even flatter than before, and even more barren, apart from the debris of course. And Davis realises that in order to get what they need he and the others will have to keep coming back and sifting through it.
Davis still misses the road. He considers creating one of his own by using the now useless or unnecessary things. He could build a kerb or a wall or even a bank, building on either side of him as he walks.
by submission | May 1, 2020 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
David rushed up in his period woolen tunic, out of breath. It had taken him forever to get there traveling by foot over the mountains into the Valley of Elah. He looked out over the two amassed armies, facing off at each other on the flat battlefield. As casually as he could he meandered down into the multitude of soldiers to the south, picked up a disregarded cloth bag of bread loaves, and started handing them out. A short time later the theatrics began.
On the opposing line of warriors, one stood up, towering above all the others, twice as tall as any other man with the girth of an ox. He was draped in shining armor and carried a shield and lance. David climbed upon a rock to get a better look.
The titan let forth with a booming voice that stung the ears of everyone that heard it. “Will anyone today, dare to come forward and challenge me to duel or will you all continue to stand there cowering like sheep in the fields!” Followed by his thunderous laughter.
When the echoes subsided David spoke out as loud as he could to the assembly, “This day the Lord will deliver you into my hands, and I will strike you down, and I will give your dead body to the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth, and (blah, blah, blah…).”
David finished his soliloquy with as much verve as he could muster. It seemed to have worked as the throngs of soldiers behind him cheered and banged their weapons upon their shields. Though he doubted any of them gave him a snowball’s chance in hell of defeating the brute.
The behemoth strode forward and brazenly tossed his shield to the ground roaring with mirth as he looped his spear in spirals over his head. David clambered down off the rock and met him halfway on the trodden filed.
Reaching down into his pouch David felt the smooth metal orb. Keeping it concealed in his palm but positioning it so the micro-glass eye was between his fingers. He touched the button on top, emitting a momentary green laser beam that he positioned, unbeknownst, on the giant’s forehead. Then he rubbed his thumb along the axis, and he felt it hum into life. David dropped it into a canvas sling, spun it a few times to gather momentum then released it into the air. The projectile immediately started firing its dynamic thrusters steering it to its predetermined tracking and then it accelerated to a speed of 3,000 feet-per-second. It penetrated the thick cranium and immediately released the eruptive pneumatic air burst, turning the gray matter inside into liquid jelly.
Goliath collapsed in a ground-quaking faceplant.
The entire world was quiet for a few seconds. Then the Philistines commenced a mad scramble retreat in seven different directions abandoning swords, shields, and horses. Soon followed by whoops of joy as the Israelites charged after the fleeing horde.
David calmly strode up to the corpse, appropriated the monster’s heavy sword from its sheath, and lopped off the gargantuan head, dragging it back to one of the abandoned tents by the hair. Rooting around inside the gelatinous ooze his fingers finally came upon the plasma energy cell that was in all these alien’s skulls and unclipped it from its cable hub. He wiped it clean and examined it. Thankfully, it was undamaged. He would easily be able to jury-rig this to the engine, with plenty of power to jumpstart his ship and finally get him off this primitive, godforsaken planet.
by xdhz8 | Apr 30, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Henson
Colors are less vibrant, flowers without scent. Water doesn’t feel as wet. All this and more so our simulated world consumes less energy. And data errors slipped through. In NewWorld my toes are webbed — a constant reminder of where I am. Still, life here isn’t bad. But most of us would love to get back to RealWorld despite its flaws.
As I sit at the hover table in the interface chamber, the Council of the Wise — a man, woman, and a third who looks not-quite human — enter and sit at an identical table in RealWorld.
“Mr. Singman, this is Councilwoman Perez and Councilman Wilson,” says the artificial sentient. “I’m Arthur. You’re petitioning this Council for return to reality because you have a story?”
Councilwoman Perez leans forward. “Most living space made available from the recent interstellar colonization initiative is reserved for the Breathing Room Project,” she says. “There will few NewWorld returnees. I don’t believe having a story sufficiently raises your Value Quotient.”
“Not just any story,” I say. “An original story.”
“Mr. Singman,” Councilman Wilson says, “It’s been 300 years since the last original story?”
“I have one.”
“Not credible,” Councilwoman Perez says. “There are no new word sequences left.”
“That’s never been proven,” Arthur says. “Mr. Singman, proceed with your story.”
“No. You have to bring me back to RealWorld if you want to hear it. And you must agree to let me stay no matter what.” I’m glad emotions are dulled in NewWorld or I wouldn’t have the nerve to try this.
The three whisper among themselves. “Mr. Singman,” Arthur says a moment later. “You’ve piqued our curiosity. We’ll bring you here to tell us your story. If we deem it original, can you stay. Wait while we have your body pulled from cryogenic storage and refreshed.”
#
I find myself sitting across from the COW. At the real hover table. In my real body. Brrr. Not fully warmed yet. I resist the urge to take off my shoes and socks and check my toes.
“Proceed,” Arthur says.
I swallow hard and begin, starting years ago when I learned my Value Quotient was insufficient to remain in our overcrowded solar system. I describe how frightened I was when they yanked my consciousness from my body and streamed my mind to NewWorld. I tell them I was relieved when I got there. The place isn’t home, but isn’t horrible. There’s art and music, although the paintings are washed out and the symphony is tinny.
I describe how I learned to play the clarinet, my articulation so-so. I talk about my dog Lilly. She loved to play Magic / Split / Heel, a game we made up. I talk about the time I fractured my tibia when my light board flickered. I reminisce about Jennifer. We might’ve fallen in love, but feelings in NewWorld are too pastel. I admit my irrational fear of birds. I even tell them how I refer to the Council of the Wise as the COW — why hold back? — but mean no disrespect.
I say nothing profound because there’s nothing profound about me. I remind them I promised an original story, not a deep one. And I feel I’ve delivered. My story isn’t merely a sequence of words. It’s a life. My life. Unique. Original.
When I shut up, the three whisper among themselves again. I hold my breath….
When Arthur tells me I can stay, I pull off my shoes and socks and look at my toes. Then I walk to a window. Big sun. We must be on earth. Not home, but close enough.
by Julian Miles | Apr 28, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Not for you, but for me.
“Emily, Uncle Karl, and the twins. All together in that great big truck of his. They’ll be laughing and we’ll laugh too.”
Laughter. You’re my only source of that, but I’m not the only cause of it for you. Watching your delight at things I dread, like the mutaflys that flutter by looking so pretty you can almost forget they’re hunting for fresh blood. A swarm can suck a small human dry in the time it takes her brother to run up two flights of stairs, find the insect spray and get back too late to use it except in petty revenge.
“Karl will have one of his flame throwers and he’ll make the garden safe again.”
You love the garden, all the waving leaves and those pointy-edged flowers in the pond. They’re very pretty. Hypnotic. Even a big man can’t resist being lulled off guard and pulled down by whatever waves those pointy-edged flowers.
“The twins will have new dresses and shoes to show off, and ribbons from the market for your hair.”
They’d called to say they were coming to do just that when the last round of mutanukes whistled down, most exploding close enough to the ground to set the tops of the tallest buildings on fire. The luckiest got caught in those fires and died. Everything else was enveloped in a cloud of biological horrors. It caused various maladies, but foaming lung, hypercancer, and explosive dysentery were the most common ways to die.
“We’ll go down to the basement and drink the last of grandpa’s wine, then we can all hop right into that truck and get away from here.”
That’s where I was, down in the basement, all masked up against the dust and mould, cataloguing poor Grandpa Roget’s wine so we could sell it off. I should have been out back, mowing the lawn, snatching glances at you in your flowery shorts and halter top. As usual, you only wore one gardening glove and I’d guess you were singing off-key while you pruned the roses.
“Everyone will be far out of town before evening and we can watch the sunset together.”
The mutanuke that went off high overhead was likely a misfire. I heard the noise and I swear I heard you scream. I scrambled out through the coal chute, leaving the hatch open so we could get inside quicker.
Outside the murk had started to settle. I saw you and the ladder on the ground. You’d either breathed in a little or fallen off the ladder in haste. I dragged you into the basement, closed the top and bottom hatches, then used a lot of the wine to wash us both off. Stinking of fermented, sun-kissed berries, I patched your head wound before carrying you up through the screens at the entrance to the basement.
“There’s beer and ham and cheese, sweetheart. Won’t you come and join us?”
“Join who where, Gareth?”
I look down and see a child’s innocent recognition shining in adult eyes. I was overjoyed when you first came round, convinced you’d get better. Now I curse myself for the selfishness of dragging you inside. Any second now, you’ll smile and I’ll fall in love with what remains of you all over again. I can’t grieve for the family we lost while you laugh as you draw rainbows across the wallpaper. I can’t grieve for you, because darkness waits for me there.
All I can do is tell you lies while you are sleeping, so I can be true when you wake.
by submission | Apr 27, 2020 | Story |
Author: Isaiah Stott
The ship drifted through the starry sky. Its engines long cold. The walls on the inside of the ship had been stripped, cables and mechanical parts littered the halls. The emergency lights on the floor flickered, as somewhere in the ship another generator failed.
A synthesized voice echoed through the ship. “You haven’t started your daily tasks yet. Are you feeling well Ensign? Shall I play the video again?”
All the operational screens showed a beautiful young woman. “Hi, honey. I imagine you are busy right now, So I decided to leave this message for when you have a bit of free time. Addie was asking about you again today. I keep telling her that her daddy is off on an adventure saving people from pirates and thieves.” A gleeful squeal rings out off-camera and Addie runs past the camera in an onesie holding a toy. “She really loves the gifts you sent her from the outer colonies. I know we talked about this, but I think once your contract is up you should transfer into the private sector.” She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “We miss you and hope you can make it home soon. We will be waiting.” She signed off with a smile.
“I know, I know. I’m almost home, Sam. I’m almost home.” The Ensigns voice thin and weary. His footsteps heavy and methodical as he moved around the ship.
“Ensign, another generator has failed, we are down to 32% power. Restoring the generator may not be possible this time. I had to turn off some auxiliary functions. Currently, life support, heating, water purification, nutrient reclamation, and the distress signal are functioning at maximum capacity. Should another generator fail, I will have to begin cutting those off.”
“How many days until we are in Federation Space?”
“28 days, 13 hours, 12 minutes, and 58 seconds. Be sure to do your daily exercise as well, you need to keep in top physical form.”
“Generator first don’t you think? If it is fixable, I’d like to get that up and running as soon as possible.”
“Good call, Ensign. I feel it has been a while since your last psych eval. How are you feeling today?”
Ensign picked up his toolbox and made his way through the skeletal remain of the ship. He could still see the bridge no matter where he was. “Did you remember today is Addie’s birthday? I hope she has made some friends. She won’t want a cake, she’ll want . . . a pie. Yeah, a blueberry pie. Sam will wake up early to make her one. It won’t turn out well at first, she was never very good at baking.”
He groaned quietly as he bent down to look at the generator. “She won’t give up though. She will keep trying until she gets it right. She will probably drop it off and have lunch with Addie.”
“Ensign, that does not answer my question.”
He looks up from the generator his beard rough but kept short, he runs his hand through his salt and peppered hair. More salt than pepper these days. His eyes gleaming. “Hopeful, I’m feeling hopeful.”
