by submission | Oct 9, 2024 | Story |
Author: Susan Jensen Sweeting
Pelcretuche searched for his Xanax, grateful for all six of his tentacles, since he couldn’t for the life of him, remember in which pouch he had put it.
Finally, his twelfth suction cup latched on to the shaky little bottle in the pouch just below his left belly button. Thank God. He deftly popped the top and downed two of the little pills, just as a waiter passed with a tray of champagne.
He looked around for Walter, his realtor, who had promised to be there. His upper lip drenched in sweat as he scanned the sumptuous gathering: dozens of ladies in pink and yellow chenille with wide brimmed hats, men in tan leisure suits. Over the lawn, swans strutted about under a white ribboned archway, donned with bouquets of matching lilies. He searched past the woman in the flowing white gown dancing with the tuxedoed man, and there he spotted Walter, just down by the pond, smoking a cigarette, chatting up some pubescent debutant.
Pelcretuche slithered across the expanse of meadow, visually struggling to keep his nerves in check, willing the Xanax to kick in.
He glided up to Walter making a great showing of tentacles, suction cups, eyes on stalks. Horrified, the debutant made excuses, hurried away.
Walter turned to him angrily. “What are you doing?” he demanded, glancing at his watch and then around to see who might be observing them.
“You said you would be my date,” Pelcretuche groused.
“Well, not in the traditional date sense,” Walter said, through clenched teeth. “That would be ridiculous! I only meant that we would come together, you know, as two blokes. That’s how men do at weddings, mate. And thank you very much,” he gestured towards the retreating debutant. “I think I may have had a chance with that one.”
Devastated, demoralized, all twelve of Pelcretuche’s eyes cast down, stalks wilting. He fought back tears, his tentacles shaking, every single bulging pouch glistening with the slime of deceit. “I was really looking forward to this. I’m so humiliated.”
“You’re taking it all wrong, mate,” Walter soothed, rubbing what he thought might be Percretuche’s shoulder. “There’s bound to be a bird here for you.” Cigarette in hand he gestured out towards to lawn and did a double take, for there, at the top of the steps leading down to the swimming pool, stood Jessica Rabbit, flaming red hair, painted on sparkly gown and all.
Walter’s jaw dropped. “Would you look at the headlights on that one?” Pointing her out, he glanced around at Pelcretuche. But Pelcretuche had gone, tobaganing across the lawn, scattering swans and coasting under the lilified arch, nearly toppling the punch bowl table before skidding to a stop just as Ms. Rabbit’s stiletoed toe hit the bottom step.
Clasping his outstreched limb, she batted her perfectly drawn on green eyes at him and smiled alluringly.
“I see there are still some gentlemen with manners.” Her husky voice sent shivers through him.
The Xanax was finally kicking in.
by submission | Oct 8, 2024 | Story |
Author: Bill Cox
I know you came here to be entertained, to read a slice of sci-fi, but I’ve no choice. What you’re about to read is the horrifying truth. I’ve tried posting it elsewhere, on message boards and forums across the internet, but they get me every time. You might think that the internet is the wild west, but they actually control it absolutely. Anything they don’t want you to know about, anything published on any website anywhere, they can take down instantly and cripple that website with a virus. It’s the keywords they look out for.
But here, perhaps, there’s a chance that this will stay up for a while. The keywords appear here quite often. They’ll have this site marked down as fiction, so I can publish the truth here and maybe, just maybe, they won’t notice.
I joined them when I was 22, having just graduated from University. They gave me a job offer with a salary I couldn’t refuse. It’s the student debt, that’s the trap. I left Uni in debt to the tune of tens of thousands of pounds, so obviously I couldn’t turn down a job offer, even if it looked too good to be true.
They flew me out to the island. It’s somewhere out in the Pacific, one of those tropical paradises owned by billionaires that has the added benefit of being isolated from everywhere else.
Do you remember Dolly the Sheep and the media hoopla that accompanied her birth? She was the first cloned mammal, way back in 1996. You can still see her stuffed remains in the Royal Museum in Edinburgh.
Do you ever hear about cloning these days, almost thirty years after Dolly? There’s nothing in the media about it at all. Don’t you think that’s a little bit weird? They own the media, of course. You only watch or read what they want you to.
Would you be surprised to learn that human cloning was actually perfected just five years after Dolly’s hooves first set foot on this Earth? The harder part was consciousness transfer. That took another ten years. In 2012, Ernst Jaager, a Swiss billionaire dying from stage four pancreatic cancer, was the first human to have his consciousness downloaded into a cloned body. The first person to become functionally immortal.
That tropical island I worked on? It’s one of a dozen around the world where cloned bodies are grown and stored. Us workers are given five-year contracts, but it became obvious to me that it wasn’t just our contracts that were terminated after five years. They can’t risk the truth getting out!
So I escaped from the island and they’ve been hunting me ever since. I can’t go home, or visit family, because they have those places staked out. They have virtually infinite resources and all I have is the truth, which they try and squash at every opportunity.
So there it is. The rich don’t die anymore. They have no intention of sharing this technology with you. All these powerful people that you think died over the past decade – they haven’t! They’re still alive, in youthful versions of themselves, keeping out of sight, with full access to their wealth, pulling the strings from behind the scenes.
I know this is a fiction website, but maybe enough people will read this and believe. Perhaps word of what’s happening will spread and people will rise up. Rise up against our lords and masters, who, having reached Eternity, intend to pull the drawbridge up behind themselves, leaving the rest of us to suffer the agony of mortality.
by Julian Miles | Oct 7, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
George is waving his arms about again: never a good sign. Neela catches my eye and nods towards him, raising her eyebrows and frowning. Receiving the ‘sort it out’ message loud and clear, I take a last drag, then stub out my smoke.
His voice fades in as I approach.
“…then they got control of Area 51 and it all went sideways. The Belters wouldn’t tolerate a Saurian takeover, and the Ice Guardians are notorious for striking down any who threaten the Great Gates – Hiya, Mike – so Breakout Two instigated the genocide early to prevent further chaos.” He points at me. “Couldn’t wait to hear me finish my reveal of the Antarctic Deep Bastions, eh?” Waving to the half-dozen new arrivals gathered about him, he shakes his head, “You’ll have to wait until I’ve finished bringing the latest intake up to speed on our vital role in stopping the completion of the satanic agenda.”
I take a deep breath, consider my options, then speak.
“That’s enough, George.”
He looks at me.
“Enough what? We have to be ready for the call up. That means preparation, and our scavenging must change: it has to prioritise weapons and IED components. It’s too focussed on things to make us comfortable, and we all know how dangerous getting complacent can be: idle minds are grist for Satan’s mill.”
More than enough.
“Where’s Justin, George?”
He waves his hand towards the tents just visible under the trees.
“Volunteered for chores with Pilly. Doing his part, like I’m trying to. Gillian-”
No.
“What about Gillian?”
He catches my change of tone and pauses, momentarily nonplussed.
“She said I should-”
His face goes slack with surprise as Justin wanders up, arriving from the direction of the fish ponds – they’re on the opposite side to the tents. He’s hand-in-hand with Pilly.
“Mum said we’re trying to survive after an apocalypse, but instead of facing reality, you carry on with the fantasies that let you feel important. You told her she’d been perverted by Satan into trying to stop your holy mission. So mum left.”
I nod to him. Polite, but with an edge of anger. Entirely justified.
“Satan lured her away to serve the Saurians. Just you wait: she’ll be back with their lackeys soon, and you’ll all rue the day you ignored me.”
I look about until I spot Chas, our de facto leader. Catching his eye, I raise my eyebrows in query. We’ve talked about our resident conspiraloon often. I think we’ve finally hit decision time. Chas raises one finger, then hitches his thumb towards the entrance. Once chance or out. Got it.
“George, it’s time to choose. Either you shut up and start working with us, or you leave.”
He looks surprised.
“What? No, no. You’re wrong. You need me. I know about what’s really happening. All this,” he waves his hands about, “is a distraction from the satanic agenda. They’re-”
Gillian shouts.
“Coming to enslave us so their conquest of the Earth in Satan’s name will be complete? Or is it to kill us all to spite God? I could never work out which.”
She strolls up, trail pack and rifle cradled in her arms.
“I’m back, puddin’. Time for you to leave.”
George seems to shrink under her gaze.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me Satan’s whore. But we both have our crosses to bear, don’t we?”
He looks at those gathered about us, then turns to me.
“Walk me out?”
I nod. The least I can do is endure his final rant.
by submission | Oct 6, 2024 | Story |
Author: Joann Yu
A woman sat on a plane next to a man. He had blond hair tied in a tiny bud, wore a blue sweatshirt, and a black mask covered half of his face. She didn’t know if he had blue eyes. She didn’t dare to look at his face.
On the plane, she saw dusk coming from the other side of the cloud sea. They were flying into the night. The luminous violet oozed into the flight cabinet. Her skin looked peach caramel. The woman was not normally attracted to blonde men. They looked too light.
She fell asleep in her seat. Amid the border of dream and lucidity, she saw a black ring wrapped around the man’s ring finger on his left hand. Her head tilted, slowly landing on the blue sweater. It was a solid shoulder. The man did not shy away. She felt a furry ball gently lying on her head.
When the plane arrives, passengers stand up, line up, pace through the door and down the connection tunnel. Behind the blue sweater, She follows and drifts and they are walking side by side. It begins with a finger, two fingers, and then she feels a warm palm sliding into the hollow of her hand with the cool and stiff ring pressed against her bone.
When they stand on the curbside, the man waves for the taxi with his left hand, a black ring. He says, go to the nearest hotel. She sees the black mask move up and down.
When he lays her on the white sheets, he peels her clothes off. The fabric slides like silk. He peels himself too except for that black ring and black mask. The woman was afraid to check the color of his eyes.
When they become one entity, the woman sees, while eyes closed, that his face is as white as the bed sheets. His hair is white. His eyes are white. The blankness intruded on her. Oh no.
by submission | Oct 5, 2024 | Story |
Author: Liv
The need to write has become urgent. My thoughts, once manageable, are now turbulent, like the incessant ticking of a clock, warning of something terrible.
I haven’t slept in days, and I bite my nails to the flesh. The cause of my horror is real. My name is Carmélia, 26, and though there’s little about me that stands out, this isn’t about me.
At first, a slight haze darkened the earth—subtle, easily dismissed as city pollution. When I mentioned it to friends, they brushed it off. But the darkness grew thicker, a grayish, dirty fog that slowly turned black, like tar, even in daylight. Soon, it covered everything, bringing a putrid, musty stench that clung to the senses. Food crumbled in my hands, pages disintegrated at the touch.
And then the darkness took more. Black spots appeared on both sides of my vision, eating away at existence itself. It wasn’t just the loss of sight—it was a deeper annihilation, an abyss that filled me with emptiness. The streets vanished, and I was trapped in my house, staring at the nothingness.
I’m paralyzed by fear, afraid to move too much. Desperation drives me to drink perfume. The silence outside is maddening. Where is God? I’ve cried out to everything, divine or profane. But nothing listens.
The last streetlamp outside my house flickers—my only connection to sanity. And then, it too fades, leaving me completely alone.
I decide to end it. Knife in hand, I aim for my throat. But something stops me. It’s my shadow. It holds me, its grip soft and disgusting. I try to fight, but it’s too strong. It seeps into me, suffocating me, flattening me under an unbearable weight.
The darkness consumes everything—not just light, but form, sensation, and thought. It’s a total collapse, the end of differentiation. Everything is black.
I don’t exist anymore. The darkness has won. Humanity is doomed
by submission | Oct 4, 2024 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
Scott heard the girl’s scream and thought, ‘Oh crap, not again.’
He was taking out the boxes from the new gadgets he had bought for his recently acquired apartment, bringing them into the alley to be disposed of properly. Scott figured it was still too early in the night for the crazies to be out. He’d been wrong.
The woman was on her knees clutching her torn skirt to her groin, her cheeks exposed in the tiny panties. Her button-down shirt was ripped off one shoulder showing half her beige bra. There was blood leaking from her lip and a darkening bruise growing under one eye. Her makeup was mussed from tears and her hair resembled a rat’s nest. Her scream had momentarily postponed the inevitable.
There was a chain link fence separating his alleyway from the adjoining one on the back-to-back buildings. There, positioned in a square around the unfortunate girl, were four ruffians, bandanas covering their shorn heads and drooping jeans. They resembled a pack of hyenas ready to tear into a wounded gazelle. Scott puffed out a breath. He could turn and go back to his comfortable, air-conditioned, new apartment and watch some TV or he could intervene. Really though, there was no choice.
Scott stepped to the fence, placed his palms together at a ninety-degree opposition, spun his hands until the fingers aligned, pushed up from the tips into a steepled position, then let them slip into the gap of the fingers of the opposing hand and slowly pulled them apart to about shoulder length. The fence separated. More appropriately, the space between his hands had vanished into the fold. Scott stepped through the gap.
The gang had not seen the occurrence but as the slackened fence rattled as it unraveled, they took notice of him.
“Hey man, back the fuck away unless you want to get hurt real bad,” the one closest to him said, brandishing a knife of Rambo-sized proportion.
“Now boys, play time is over and it would be better if all of you just went home.”
“Oh, yeah!” The blade wielding thug moved to slash at Scott’s midsection.
Scott had already deftly manipulated his fingers, duplicating the complex procedure. As the swipe came at his stomach – Scott spread his hands to either side. The man who had been holding the weapon finished his swing and then stared at the stump of his arm, everything below the elbow was gone. There was no blood, no pain. It had not been amputated. His hand and forearm no longer existed on this plane. Had never existed here. It was if he had been born without the limb, only just now realizing it. The detached hand holding the knife was now in the fold.
They all stood there looking at the truncated arm. The three unharmed men took off like shots and were out of the alley in seconds. The depleted criminal spent a few extra moments to try and comprehend what happened, couldn’t, and then staggered off in a daze.
Scott helped the woman to her feet, tied the remnants of the skirt into a knot around her waist, pulled the shirt somewhat back into place and gave her his handkerchief to dab against her face.
“I think you’re OK.”
Her face was a blank mask of bewilderment. Scott put his hands on her shoulders which made her flinch. He said, “Go home, my dear.”
She took one last look into his eyes, blinked, and then limped out of the alleyway.
Scott sighed. People were going to talk about this. He’d have to move. Again.
