by submission | Jan 13, 2019 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Rotting mangoes proffer disgusting flavors like burning spittle rising into a renovator’s mouth when alien wraiths hiss, rising from charred ruins fallen untold millennia before humanity’s existence. Dearth Crenshaw stood his ground as a maniacal, mystical slaver, without concern for his acolyte, Emmaus Progo. His protégé previously accompanied haunted clearings of thirteen worlds in readiness for human colonization, but repeatedly lost his bowel control when ectoplasmic spirits of species, still haunting their abandoned civilization, swirled in fury about them, tearing at their interloper space suits and souls.
Dearth’s hands spun the vicious atmosphere about him with invisible lines of force, entwining his attackers. The whispish harpies slashed back in agony, confused and forlorn as their fates were sealed by superior skills of a dark arts master.
“Now, Dearth? Use the wand?” Emmaus extended a six-foot silvery metal rod toward the billowing murk surrounding them.
“No! I hate that technology crutch.” Dearth guillotined the discussion as strings of undetectable magnetic fields encircled his captives, binding them and finally compelling their migration into a shimmering rope of energy speeding into an irregular orange crystal suspended loosely from his neck, outside his suit. Soon, the troubled ambiance was clear of psychic turmoil. Dearth’s gemstone glowed, pulsing life force from captivated new souls waiting his processing.
“I did not mean to interfere, master. I was afraid they might overcome us. I do not have your powers, so I must use what I have.” Emmaus tried to justify his interruption during battle as the hunters later discarded their battered space suits in a change bay aboard their ship.
“You’ve soiled yourself again, Emmaus. I had hoped for more progress after two years of apprenticeship.” Dearth turned, glaring at his offensive understudy.
“Maybe this is not my rightful destiny,” replied Emmaus. “I might try a different profession. With the thousands of new Earth colonies, surely there would be a better fit. Free will cries for better.”
“Free will! Where did you hear that term?” Dearth was suddenly insistent.
“I read some historical material in our ship’s library. Isn’t happiness really what we all deserve?”
Dearth’s fingers twisted quickly into an arcane hand mudra. Remains of Emmaus fell to the metal floor; his body desiccated into small piles of debris as a puff of soul rose to be encapsulated within the orange, glistening stone about Dearth’s neck. Dearth walked deliberately to a communications panel mid-ship.
“Dearth Crenshaw. Operation successful. 29465 is completely cleared for restitution. Send mining clones. I have fresh souls to activate them. Astral memories from this unknown race will pioneer a useful human outpost. There are copious resources in this world worthy of immediate exploitation. Note…send me a new assistant to implant. I will transfer this last one’s soul into a settler once new bodies arrive. I suggest acquiring a new helper soul from an earth-bound spirit taken from shambles of New York or Chicago. Forget the suburbs. I need a servant that is pliant and barely curious. Capture something drifting about a nursing home destroyed after the last asteroid strikes. I will wait, as required, for the supply ship. Please transmit my next target planet coordinates. For my control files, record that I have sealed more sections of Earth’s ancient mythologies on my ship that are heretical.”
by submission | Jan 12, 2019 | Story |
Author: Suzanne Borchers
The back rows of mourners had risen to pay their respects and shuffled toward the old man lying in the casket. The front rows consisting of family and their close friends squirmed a bit waiting for the line to proceed past. Soft musical selections moved the line toward the exit. Averted eyes glanced to meet in condolence, while an occasional hug disrupted the line.
He lingered in the shadow along the back wall. He pushed himself forward to be the last in line before the first rows stood. Sooner than he expected, he faced the lifeless figure. Gazing on the wrinkled visage, his thoughts traveled backward in time.
The tape began when he first met the weeping boy. “I am your new stepfather. Would you like to work on an electronic project together?” The boy’s tears subsided as he placed his hand in the stepfather’s hand.
Days of instruction and mutual social learning with quiet laughter produced a machine to make feathered lures for their new adventure in fishing.
In the rough wooden rowboat, they threw their lines into murky waters that contained no fish but which brought intimate conversations and contentment to the stepfather and his stepson. Clouds passed overhead. The stepfather rowed, until years later when the stepson powered the oars.
Time passed.
His stepson left him behind and entered the academy to voyage beyond home and planet. The stepfather hugged him, and was surprised to not have the words to say goodbye—just a hug.
For years, during the short leaves, they sat together and the stepfather heard tales of romance and travel. The medical leave was the hardest one. Would his stepson be able to pursue his dream with only one arm? Would the implant work successfully? Each day, the stepfather nursed his stepson back from the brink of despair toward optimism. Finally, they shared a hug goodbye until the next leave.
Whispered conversations brought him back to the darkened room.
“How long do you think it will stand there?”
“Surely, now’s the time to junk it.”
“No longer useful.”
“Hasn’t been for years.”
“Why did they keep it around?”
“Who knows?”
“The old man insisted on it.”
“Well, great grandfather is dead and he doesn’t have anything to say about it anymore.”
“Can you believe it’s still standing there?”
“Almost like it could feel sadness.”
“That’s absolutely absurd.”
“Outdated.”
“We’ll stop by the recycling plant when we can finally get out of here.”
The stepfather focused his attention on his stepson. Was he truly an imposter? He was overwhelmed by emptiness. His electronics smoldered and burned. His shoulders shook as his memory saw the unlined face of the boy. He would never see his stepson again.
“Push it away from the coffin.”
“Turn it off first.”
“When it falls, kick it aside for discarding later.”
The stepfather heard. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He stepped away from his stepson and waited by the exit.
by submission | Jan 11, 2019 | Story |
Author: Christopher Lee Buckner
The End of All Things Good
Alice-8000, a fancy name that meant nothing beyond the fact it made the android seem more advanced than it really was led the Johnson’s into their new room.
Speaking in an upbeat voice, Alice stated to the husband and wife, “And this is your room. While it is simple, as you can see it is also quite cozy; certainly, a better standard of living than you must be used to.”
Mr. Johnson snorted his contempt for the machine’s presumption, but decided against voicing a correction. His life hadn’t been amazing by any stretch of the imagination, but he was happy and content with his little piece of the world that he shared with Mrs. Johnson for the past eight years.
The room was simple, no larger than a typical hotel room at a modest resort one might find in Florida this time of year. Two beds sat in the center of the room, an old fashion statement that a man and wife did not share the same blankets. The second the machine was out of the room, he figured he would push the beds together, if they weren’t bolted to the floor. There was a nightstand between the beds and on it was a bright red phone.
“The phone, of course, is for internal use only. No signal can be reached beyond these walls, for yours and the rest of residences safety,” Alice said, seemly reading Mr. Johnson’s mind as he glanced at the phone.
On the opposite side of the beds were two nightstands with two identical lamps, each with a newly printed Bible placed along the edge. A neat desk, two chairs, a lime-green wallpaper, and mid-century yellow nylon carpet was on the floor. The only other room was a bathroom a few feet from the left bed, but it did not have a shower, just a sink and toilet.
Mrs. Johnson nearly leaped into her husband’s arms as she jerked violently, tightening her grip around his arms until his skin turned white.
“Oh, don’t be worried, Mrs. Johnson. I assure you, nothing outside can hurt you in here. We are well protected from any intruder that might attempt to gain entry,” Alice said.
“Are you certain? People are getting pretty desperate,” Mr. Johnson asked.
“Oh, I assure you, our illustrious benefactors made certain this domicile will keep you and your wife quite safe for the foreseeable future. Now, I will leave you two to your new home. I’m most certain you are overcome with joy and wish to get some rest. Dinner will be served at 5’oclock on the dot. Do try to not be late—the kitchen is serving apple pie tonight for dessert,” Alice said.
“What about our things?” Mr. Johnson asked.
“Oh. You will not be needing those anymore. Everything you could ever want will be provided for you,” Alice answered.
“We had family photos in our bags!” Mr. Johnson said.
Alice seemed to freeze for a moment, taken aback by his sudden outburst before finally returning to her typical cheery behavior.
“I’m sorry. If there was something of importance among your things, you should bring the subject to the attention of your unit liaison. Now if there aren’t other questions, I do have other guests that must be acquainted with their rooms.”
“What about –” Mr. Johnson tried to speak, but Alice ignored him as she left the room.
Another loud boom echoed in the distance, far, far above Mr. and Mrs. Johnson’s head, causing a flickering of dust to drift down from the ceiling.
Mrs. Johnson collapsed on the edge of the left bed, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Please dear. We don’t have the time for more crying,” Mr. Johnson said. He wanted to be more sympathetic, but just couldn’t bring himself to care right now, even for his wife.
“We should have stayed up there with our children and our family!” she shouted.
“You know we couldn’t. We were selected. Neither of us had any choice. If we hadn’t been… saved, we would be ash right now,” he said.
“The better for it, too!” she said.
Mr. Johnson didn’t know what to say that hadn’t already been said. So he threw his arms around his wife and allowed her sorrow to pour out, as tears rolled down the brown and yellowed stripped jumpsuit that had been given to him and his wife to wear.
In a low and loving voice, Mr. Johnson spoke to his wife, saying, “We’ll be all right. I don’t know how, but everything will be fine. I promise you, I can make this work for us, no matter how long it takes.”
by submission | Jan 10, 2019 | Story |
Author: David Henson
The God Locator, no bigger than a TV remote, projected a hologram of the world with veins of light indicating the presence of God. The projection could be small as a grapefruit or big enough to fill a room. In certain areas, the light sparkled more brightly. These “halos” blinked on and off in different locations around the virtual planet to indicate where God’s invisible presence was especially strong in the real world at any given moment.
The effects of the God Locator rippled through the population.
Followers traveled in flocks, leaving shrines in their wake, as they pilgrimed to locations where halos appeared in the simulation.
Illegal gambling syndicates took bets on where the halos would materialize next.
One woman claimed she regained her sight, when, after a lifetime of blindness, she spent three days and nights inside her GL’s hologram. Her book, “I Can See Clearly Now,” became a runaway best seller.
A group called the Agnostic Collective offered a million dollar reward to anyone who provided convincing evidence of a real-world halo.
William Chaugeaux, the creator of the technology, sometimes felt guilty about the folly his invention wrought. But he usually dealt with the pang — and accompanying migraine — by buying another car. He charged very little for the device itself, and his factories could barely keep up with demand.
One day, lounging on his private beach in back of his palatial home, a holographic globe shimmering on the small table beside him, Chaugeaux called his chief engineer, Ms. Wence, to discuss his vision for the God Locator 2.0. “I want zoom-in capability. Imagine going to street view where there’s a halo,” he said, massaging his temples.
“Got it. Any change to the fractal randomizer?”
“We’ll use the same halo positioning algorithms,” Chaugeaux said, rubbing the sides of his head more vigorously.
“Fine. As long as we’re altering the design, we could easily incorporate regular AAAs. People are spending a fortune on our special batteries, and their life will be even shorter with the 2.0.”
Chaugeaux pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Exactly …” he muttered, but was in too much pain to continue and disconnected the call.
Stretching his neck side to side, Chaugeaux noticed that a halo in the God Locator hologram beside him seemed to be near his location. He glanced reflexively into the sky, but of course, there was nothing. Just the blazing sun.
He began to sweat and kneaded the back of his head with his thumbs. The sun seemed even hotter. He felt his skin burn and thought he could burst into flames. He ran for the house, but the sand scorched his feet. Overcome, he collapsed and squirmed like one of the worms he focused the sun’s rays on with a magnifying glass when he was a child. Shrieking and laughing deliriously, he wondered if whoever found his ashes would claim the million dollars.
A short time later, a couple trespassing on Chaugeaux’s beach came across him. In the emergency room, doctors gave Chaugeaux a mild sedative, a numbing spray for his slight sunburn, and strong painkillers for his hysteria-inducing migraine.
Fearing addiction, Chaugeaux flushed the pills and instead bought a ‘57 Chevy in pristine condition.
The GL 2.0 was a huge success even though the price of batteries doubled and their life was 30 percent shorter. Numerous people tried to claim the million dollar reward, but the Agnostic Collective remained steadfastly unconvinced.
by submission | Jan 9, 2019 | Story |
Author: Janet Shell Anderson
“There ought to be bleatsmackers,” Giovanna Tatiana Romanova Baldwin says.
She’s come back from nowhere, or maybe Gliese 246, a near perfect copy of Earth that circles a dim red star where she vanished in a rented Black Hole with her personal trainer, Jordan Somebody. Still married, however, to my cuz, Perry Austrian Baldwin, the ninth richest man on Earth, and current Vice President, Giovanna’s the most beautiful woman on this planet. Or any other.
Jordan Somebody’s beautiful too, all lats, pecs, abs, gluts, whatevers, quivering, tensing and relaxing. His blue eyes serene as the Delray/Gulfstream Floridian skies, innocent as manatees rolling in deep, hot springs, he’s never had a thought.
Being a divorce attorney with not exactly a lot of money lately, I’ve a lot of thoughts. I need to find bleatsmackers. Giovanna will pay me.
I blame it on the oligarchs. No one else has any money. Perry’s very interested in oligarchs these days. Ones from The Ukraine. He keeps saying, “It’s like THE Bronx.” (Where he was born but no one knows it.) “THE Ukraine.” What he doesn’t know about the Ukraine or oligarchs could fill a book, but he’s mostly worried these days it will fill an FBI file. That’s another story.
Here at Delray/ Gulfstream, Florida, on Perry’s estate, minus the occasional oligarch, it’s serene as heaven. The pygmy mammoths race around the infinity pool; the Secret Service hunts the alligator Lazarus that has lived on the property for centuries and might have eaten an agent.
“There must be bleatsmackers.” Giovanna smears ointment on her flawless skin at the pool.
Now I don’t know about you, but I’ve never heard of bleatsmackers. For some reason, Giovanna’s confident not only that I can figure out what they are but can also bring her some. As soon as possible. She’s made a bet with an oligarch. I think she has to win it.
The talking marmosets, who’re really shockingly political, run through the palm trees, throw vegetables at Artemis, Perry’s possible niece. He won’t help Giovanna with the oligarch, and she’s annoyed about Artemis, so I’m hunting bleatsmackers. Does not make much sense, but, these days, what does?
So Tuesday I’ve finished Court on the Cape, representing one of a divorcing triad battling for custody of fourteen multi-toed, “Hemingway” cats, all descended from Snowball, Hemingway’s actual cat. I got Snowshoe, Snowdrift, Snowfall, Snowflake, Snowboots, Snow Machine, Snow man a female, Snowman a male, Snowdome, Snowridge, Snowy, Black Snow, Snowmelt, but not S’NOW. Success. Pretty much. One of the cats has twenty-eight toes. My rattletrap, self-driving car shakes its way along the coast; the surf flaps on deserted beaches rank with dead Portuguese-men-of-war. In Titusville, stopped to charge the car, a miracle, I spot them, four villainous looking individuals, unwashed, unkempt, unspeakable, a Retro Neo Sado Pseudo Steampunk Punk Band, camped starving on the asphalt. Sad. Worst band in human history. I pull up, get out, briefcase in hand, contract ready.
“You’re the Bleatsmackers,” I tell them.
Like Billy the Kid in Young Guns II–the template for every possible interpretation of modern life–I say, “I’ll make ya famous.”
by Hari Navarro | Jan 8, 2019 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
The senator peels from her lover and she thinks of her impending speech and she thinks of her wife and her husband. Her bid to prevent the ISTC’s proposal to travel back in time and kill an infant Hitler will fail. She laments that she is weak, a paragon of righteousness who has foregone her loving partners and, instead, bedded this sublime young man at her side.
“You look sad”, he says.
“It’s nothing. Tomorrow, it’s weighing on me. It’s not just the Martian colonies I’m representing, it’s all of us”, she says and she again feels the tidal weight of her own importance.
Reaching from beneath the sheets, she pours herself another scotch. Her offer of the bottle neck to the young man is declined, and he smiles.
“Tell me again what you’re going to say”, he asks propping his head upon his hand, nestling into his pillow.
“All these centuries after his death and the mere mention of the man’s name turns tongues to black. Our science fact continues to be rifled from the hackneyed science fictions of old. This mission would save millions but it’ll offer, in their place, a conundrum. Of those he killed just how many potentially would have inspired and produced even greater evils? We cannot see past this little man and, for this, his name has outgrown even the grotesque nature of his actions. Killing him will kill his ghost, though many ghouls will step into its place. It is not the past we should be concerned with. You can’t correct it. It can be but altered. I haven’t even opened the financial resource file for this project, I image it too will be a grotesque read. I come from a place where cancers still eat at those who mine ore that is shipped to earth and used to fire the reactors that will power this folly into the past. I have lost before I have started”
“Tomorrow your speech will be powerful and impassioned. They will fold. The time travel program will be dismantled and its technologies refocused. You will win”
“I appreciate your faith”
“It is not faith. It is fact. I’m not from this time. I represent an Earth that just couldn’t go on with this man’s stain forever upon it. His echo gets louder with the years and it has been decided that you must be stopped”
She grabs for the tumbler beside the bed and it slips, shattering to the floor.
“I’d never be so uncouth as to taint such a mesmerizing malt. No, a far more direct infusion of the toxin this time was required”
She slumps from the bed, her limbs already shutting down as they contract into a fevered ball.
“Moments now, and he and you will be gone. Oh, and if you’re wondering why, we simply didn’t go back to Salzburger Vorstadt 15 and kill the monster child ourselves. Blame your grandson. He… well, he does a very bad thing. Two for the price of one, Senator. These journeys are far from cheap”
A man sits on a throne of granite and looks down across the heads that ripple the Appian amphitheatre, right arms raised and stabbing into fists of iron. He rubs at his beard and he rubs at the fat of his breast and he inhales a gust of the purest colourless air. Banners ripple and he smiles as he knows that only the purest of the pure are now left to gulp down the words that he makes.
“… and adulterated blood alone will sooth the churn of history”.
