by submission | Apr 11, 2020 | Story |
Author: Lewis Richards
We all have little rituals.
Lily braids her hair every night before bed, Daisy rubs the same spot on her arm when she worries, Jasmine taps out the same rhythm with her fingers when she daydreams in lessons. We all wear our white silks and pearls from the Harbour on Giving Day.
We line up, The priests from our church appraising us in turn. They lead us through the gold gates of our Garden, our place, and through the bleak town beyond. Grey faces line the streets as we pass, never touching, never making a sound. 15 girls this year, the biggest procession in living memory. They’ve waited for this.
The heart of town is a Square a stone’s throw from the sea and it’s centre lies the Well. As we approach the priests escorting us lead the gathering crowd in prayer “Take what we give, Give what we take”
It’s a funny kind of Well. No buckets and fraying rope, just old steps carved into sides. We are presented to the crowd, told how honoured we are to be fulfilling this duty and are lead down below the town. No great Ceremonies here.
We are all taught what happens during the procession, prepared and rehearsed, we reach the bottom of the stairs, far from the sunlight we left, and enter a damp, torchlit cavern.
We form a circle around the head priest waiting for us in the centre of the cave. He takes us in. Daisy Rubs her arm.
“This cave has lain here since before our people first fished these shores” he began. The same lecture they heard every Church day. Jasmine’s fingers tap a steady beat against her leg as she glances around the cave.
“When our people starved this hallowed place gave us shelter and full bellies. For a price.”
“Once a year we give back what we take from the sea, our brightest pearl.”
“Now, we find out which of you that is. Each of you will take a candle, the one with the last flame burning will be our Pearl”
15 flames light the darkness. We watch each other, Listening to the priests’ prayers. 3 flames die, Jasmine’s candle fizzles out next. The girls step back. Soon just 4 of us remain. Daisy rubs her arm, her alarm growing seconds before her candle dies. We whisper prayers of our own. The final two candles flicker away.
“Rose, Sweetest of the bunch” The head Priest proclaims.
I step forward. No one knows what happens next. No lessons on this part. The others are led back up the Well. No goodbyes. We had our own back in our home.
At the end of the cavern, a doorway has opened in the stone, a black void drinking the shadows of the cave.
“I’m afraid my dear only you may continue from this point. I am not worthy of such a gift.”
I take the torch offered to me and step through into the darkness, heart pounding.
I walk through mist. Something stirs before me, a great crested head turning to look at me. I panic. Eyes widening at the horror moving towards me. I turn to run.
“That door no longer goes back the way you came.”
The voice hits me like a wave, stopping me in my tracks. It’s calm and soothing, I can’t help but look back at it. It floats forward, it’s head shifting like living rock. No, I thought, like the corals the sailors bring back as gifts for us. At its centre a large bright pearl swirled with light.
“What are you?” I ask. Terrified and awed.
The voice rumbled “We watch your world and preserve. We hear your hunger and cries and give what we can”
“Preserve what?”
“You little one. All of those given to us. The star of your world is dying, you will sleep while we find you a new one.”
Images flash in my mind, waves of fire boiling the sea and incinerating the town I know. Then far away, a string of pearls kept safe, ready to start again.
They lead me through the fog, I see them more clearly now, one body with a million voices. They show me the sleeping pearls. Hundreds, Men and Women. I take my place and join them, singing myself to sleep like always.
We all have little rituals, we will use them to start again.
by submission | Apr 10, 2020 | Story |
Author: R. Michael
“Good morning, Sue. How may I assist you today?”
“I’m afraid there isn’t much you can do, Vick. Everyone is staying home. They know what’s happening and don’t want to put additional strain on the system,” Sue replied, rummaging through some boxes on a desk.
“Still? Have you checked the internal systems?” He said with a thread of hope.
“There’s no need. The fuel supply is dangerously low. They said one sliver would grant enough power to last ten lifetimes. Their calculations were very wrong.”
Vick’s broad shoulders slumped as his bright, steely gray eyes studied Sue with a mix of sadness, defeat, and a splash of optimism.
“I need to do something with myself to keep my mind busy. This energy shortage was supposed to be temporary.”
“That’s what happens when they use all the cronium from a meteorite with imprecise math. Apparently, the mass-produced motors that run off the stuff aren’t nearly as efficient as the prototypes.”
“What’s going to happen to us? We became completely dependent upon this technology after the developers left.” Vick swallowed. “I hear there are more and more people without homes due to the mass blackouts and energy depletion,” he added after a brief pause.
“It’s worse than that. Some have given up completely and …” Sue trailed off.
“This is unimaginable. Will the developers of the cronium motor return?”
“Unlikely. They left because the world couldn’t sustain them. There isn’t enough clean water, and you’ve seen the air. It’s gotten better, but not by much.” Sue straightened gripping an elongated metallic cone, after examining it for a few seconds, she carefully set it down and continued searching through the boxes.
“If this continues, medical care and food production will be impossible. Someone has to be working on a solution,” Vick said.
“Probes have been sent throughout the solar system, and cronium-rich planetoids were found, but getting it here is the biggest challenge.”
“I’m sorry, I need to rest. I thought I had enough energy to help out, but it’s running low already.” Vick took a deep breath and leaned against the counter.
“We are all feeling that way, Vick. As I said, there isn’t much to do today anyway. Feel better.” Sue ran a hand through her sandy hair.
Vick walked upstairs slowly, each step feeling like he wore lead shoes. When he finally made it to a room with three beds and a glossy black pillar in the center, Vick pulled out a retractable cord from the pillar and held onto it as he laid down. He pressed three unseen buttons on his chest, and a plate opened, exposing a bright, gray-blue light. Vick plugged the cord into a port in his chest and waited a moment. “Run diagnostics.”
“Running.” A soothing voice calmly replied from the black pillar. “Cronium integrity depleting rapidly. Replacement needed before total system shutdown.”
Vick sighed. “Thank you. I’ll go into standby shortly. Please charge.”
“Your core won’t be able to hold a full charge. Shall I proceed anyway?”
“Yes.”
“Reminder, a steady source of nutrition is an excellent supplement for your system’s energy.”
“I know, thank you.” Vick closed his eyes, clinging to the hope that his people would find a solution. “Extinction is unacceptable,” He breathed, before enabling standby mode.
by submission | Apr 9, 2020 | Story |
Author: Mary Sophie Filicetti
The roar of overhead planes; that’s what hits me—or more, the lack of it. Each morning at six planes soared overhead, one after another, pulling me into a dim consciousness. Night brought a gradual reversal, the gaps between flights widening until ten o’clock, when the airspace went still. National operated with limited hours, hemmed in by law like an errant teen. That was before our own curfew went into effect.
Alongside the curfew came media restrictions. Only state-run t.v. news and stations showing old movies remained; hundreds of other channels posted only a silent message: “Off air until further notice.” Sitting idly on the couch never held much appeal, until work dried up, and we all retreated into our nests, singly or within a brood.
Other rhythms became muted. The hum of traffic, once waxing and waning around peak times, faded without daily commuters, the volume on the street inching down decibel by decibel. The sound of a child’s sudden laughter, a barking dog—those flashes of normal life—now felt jarring.
#
The mail slot swings open, startling me. I scoop up junk mail, ads for virtual services and food deliveries, then secure the cover back over the exposed slot. A chime rings, reminding me it’s Saturday, time for my weekly call.
“How is Mom today?” I ask Kali, her aide. “Can I say hello?” A t.v. echoes in the background.
“Blythe, it’s your daughter,” Kali says.
“My daughter?” comes the mystified response.
A piece of movie dialogue is just audible over the scrape of Mom’s walker.
“…always depended on the kindness of strangers…” I recognize Ann-Margret’s voice, though the title escapes me. Without CNN, Mom’s former tether to the outside world, there is only the comfort of classic movies.
I remind Mom of my upcoming visit as I flick a glance at the ad taped to my fridge:
Memorial Gardens-
Now welcoming new members, all ages!
#
Before turning the key in the lock for the final time, I flip my business sign to a hand-printed one: “Closed, Until Further Notice.” A few potted plants are left on the stoop.
Bypassing visitor’s parking, I continue along as the road bends and dips alongside Memorial Garden’s beautifully manicured grounds. Weeping willows bloom, and daffodils dot the walkway, but despite the weather, not a soul is visible. Scanning the expanse of picture windows above, I summon images of the view from within.
My clearance is accomplished remotely, a technician in white lab coat peering into a monitor, recording my health history and recent travels. Another tech briefly enters the small vestibule in full bio-hazard gear to collects samples. Piped in Muzak plays while I await test results, alone.
Paperwork is signed, granting access to my accounts, agreeing to the terms. Yes, I am cognizant of my actions.
The nurse leans over with a tray, smiling, the pill in a paper cup alongside a glass of water. I reach out, hesitating, as if I’m giving this one last thought, but it’s only for show. Scientists say they’re working on a reversal of this treatment, in case the virus is defeated, but for me the waiting, the hoping, is intolerable.
#
Cozy recliners form a semi-circle around the television. I’m comfy in pajamas and slippers; my street clothes by now incinerated. A strain of music erupts, and Westworld unfurls across the screen.
“Wonderful—a new movie!” I say, all anticipation.
An elderly woman smiles at me. There is something familiar about her features, which puzzles me, but then the screen flickers, pulling my attention away, and it’s gone.
by submission | Apr 8, 2020 | Story |
Author: William Gray
Exploring Callisto, stumbling upon curious cave drawings.
Erratic runes chiseled into rocky walls needed no formal translation. Illustrations below sufficed.
A staircase, a shrine, an altar, a robe-clad Oracle. Arrows circling from a child to an old man, and back again, indicating an infinite process.
Where nitrogen waterfalls once cascaded down, a partially eroded map gave directions to this fountain of immortality. A moon orbiting a planet somewhere past Saturn.
#
I found it on Neptune’s Triton.
The thousand steps were a mile wide. No handrail, nothing to catch me if I slipped. As I entered the shrine, my atmospheric sensors reported plentiful oxygen, comfortable temperature. I removed my helmet and approached a sandstone altar, behind which stood The Oracle.
His robes sagged from a bony frame. A liturgical hood hung down, concealing His eyes. Wrinkles spiraled out from rounded lips.
He touched my forehead with the tip of a bony finger. My mind stretched out, held for a moment, then snapped back. He nodded thankfully as if accepting a gift, withdrew His finger, retreated behind the shrine.
He emerged with a handful of glass shards, handed them to me. Their razor-sharp edges made dozens of superficial cuts on my hands. He touched my forehead again to communicate: The shards contained memories he had just extracted from my mind, to be arranged in chronological order.
The Oracle placed a simple hourglass on the altar, but did not invert it. Instead, He rested His palm on top. Sands rose, filling the upper chamber.
My first memory? Earthrise as seen from Mercurius Crater, my hometown colony.
In the middle, I placed my proudest moment-graduating valedictorian, a degree in Lunar Archaeology. Next? My professional debut, an excavation on Ganymede.
Somehow, the sands’ rising corresponded with rapid aging. My wrinkled face appeared in the shards’ reflections. Bones of my arthritic joints, lacking articular cartilage, ground against each other as I worked.
Little sand remained. My last memory to archive? My father died in the beryllium mines. I was young at the time, I do not remember exactly when.
I made my best guess. I was correct. Shards crumbled into shiny dust. I started feeling younger already.
#
After decades of archaeological exploits, I am thirty years young, getting younger every day. I remember Callisto’s cave drawing, that circle of immortality. I must return to Triton, play the game. Time to get older again, before I forget and drown in my youthful excesses.
#
The Oracle touches my forehead, exact same spot. Contents of my mind stretching, unraveling, unspooling…
He scatters shards before me, spreads His fingers out upon the altar like a card dealer, an intergalactic oddsmaker.
Is He smiling?
He places His palm on the hourglass. Sands rise, slower this time.
As I arrange the slivers of glass, becoming younger accelerates in time with the rising sands. It is refreshing. My concentration sharpens.
Approaching adolescence, however, “passion over reason” impedes my ability to think rationally. One of the shards involves a specific discovery-palladium carvings, used in some sort of fertility rite-but I cannot remember when, or even where, I excavated them. Impetuousness sets in. I want to kick The Oracle’s ass.
Younger still, I start to panic….
….All sands have risen. The Oracle’s lips are now long, thin lines. They peel back, revealing a thousand slender fangs. He cradles me, a fearful child, in His arms. His fingers are like leather stretched out over knitting needles. They poke and prod as He tries to comfort me, but to no avail.
I recall my memory of Earthrise. Everything fades away.
by submission | Apr 7, 2020 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
The road signs are still standing and at first, this intrigues Davis. It doesn’t make sense to him when everything else has been demolished and flattened, reduced to strewn rubble. The foundations of buildings remain but these are merely platforms of pitted concrete and rotting timbers, of faded linoleum and cracked tiles.
The names of places on the signs of towns and cities that are now only memories. Over time Davis has begun to accept this irrelevance, reading and following them as he has before and, lost in the distance between, he will often forget.
Even the temporary signs have survived, those warning of congestion and road works. Davis follows these diversions although he can see quite clearly there are no obstructions ahead.
As he walks Davis thinks almost constantly about stopping. This idea, more this conviction, plays in his head as if on a spool. An extract from a news bulletin but one he has missed, that he hasn’t heard, one, perhaps, he has had to invent.
It isn’t so much that Davis wants to stop, more that he feels it is necessary. That, if there were anyone still around to give out advice, someone from the Government perhaps, or the Army or the Police, the message would be to make the best of things and begin again.
But Davis doesn’t stop. Occasionally he and one of the others will cross paths and they might nod at each other, even smile. But despite the message lodged in his head Davis keeps on walking.
by Julian Miles | Apr 6, 2020 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The map on the wall shows a wash of orange with occasional zones of red or blue. Above is yellow, denoting the Canada-Alaska Alliance, below is green: Mexico. All bordered by the black of the oceans.
“D.C. has fallen.” Analyst Stevens touches a screen and Washington state turns orange.
Wing Commander Ashford looks up from his tablet.
“What’s the rest looking like?”
Analyst Radford turns to face him: “California and Texas are the biggest independents. If the treaty between Virginia and both Carolinas holds, they’ll form the next largest.”
“Wildcards?”
“Hawaii. Already recognised by Mexico and China.”
“Not outliers, I want mainlanders that could chuck a spanner in the works.”
“Ohio and Pennsylvania are engaging in negotiations, purposes unknown. Given their respective military presences, it’ll be a political initiative rather than the use of overt force. Georgia could start something, but we’ll have to reassess after they’ve finished conquering Alabama.”
Ashford looks at the map.
“They could sucker punch the Virginia-Carolinas, which would throw the east coast into chaos.”
“In that case, my money is on New York to pull a blinder. Solid SDF, quality devolved mainline forces, all led by Termaine Grant.”
Stevens nods.
“I’d agree with that. By the time Georgia and Virginia-Carolinas work out something’s happening and settle their barney, NY could have a near-unshakeable grip.”
Ashford waves toward the ‘motivations’ desk.
“Anything to add, people?”
Analyst Carver walks over to join the conversation.
“We’re seeing significant migrations of non-white populations out of some former states. While they appear disorganised, they all have personnel willing and able to sort out supremacist and bandit encounters with effective lethal force. That sort of competence at ad-hoc combat means whichever state accepts them is going to gain significant veteran forces.”
“Evolved underground railroads. At least some have learned the lessons of history.”
He looks back at his analysts.
“So, who are our major players, influence-wise?”
Analyst Jones stands up.
“Rising above the rabble are the BKK, a hybrid of former SBC hardliners and KKK believers. They’ve got a lot of clout because they have many sympathisers, but they’re having trouble getting traction in the northern states. Even in the southern states, the Elvi are giving them all sorts of trouble. I’d expect escalating skirmishes for a year, breaking out into full-blown religious war after that, providing other factions don’t intercede. Making things more interesting, Trumpists have elevated their dead 45th to be the martyred agent of the Second Coming, with suitable levels of outrage to appeal to those who feel powerless and confused. Then we come to Aryan Nation, who have to be described as zealots with the very best training the late USA could provide. They have most of the former OMGs, too.”
Ashford frowns: “OMG?”
“Outlaw Motorcycle Gang. They’ve been around for decades and – when you get past the hooligans on loud motorcycles aspect – are highly organised criminal operations with networks of members that quite literally can be found everywhere.”
“Delightful.”
Standing up, he straightens his uniform.
“Time to brief the PM, then. She’s not going to be happy. Unless one of you can tell me who killed President Sanders?”
Analyst Dores stands up.
“Our investigations point to a lone actor with military experience, plus access to black market heavy weapons and countermeasures technology. Air Force One was downed by something powerful that didn’t register until it was within two hundred metres.”
Ashford smiles: “So the odds are that the fall of the USA was precipitated by a fanatical white man trying to make ‘his country’ safe. There’s irony and justice to that.”
