by submission | Sep 15, 2024 | Story |
Author: David Dumouriez
The fourth initiation, if you got that far, was where it started. Where you found out what you weren’t.
The first was just a basic exercise in establishing the proper mindset. Donning the skins. Adopting that grinning mask. And, let’s face it, if you couldn’t do that, you had no right being near the Basin in the first place.
To be a Divinator, you had to think like one. That was what the elders said, and it was reasonable enough. There were few who couldn’t manage that.
But it was strange, according to Ged’s perception at least, that those who looked the most imposing at this stage were the ones most likely to fail at the next two levels. It seemed that while they could play the part, they couldn’t inhabit it. They’d crack at the first signs of difficulty and run from a challenge rather than face it.
Sensible, perhaps. But that was not what the elders were looking for. If you’d been nominated, then you’d better live up to expectations.
The elders wanted to know how much spirit you had in you. In the second phase, they worked each candidate until they dropped. For some this could be minutes; for others, hours. In rare cases, days. Paradoxically, while it was less burdensome to collapse early, no one who was serious did so.
Ged and Jiah, though strangers of course, formed some kind of connection out of adversity and, unwittingly, spurred each other on. From the corner of his eye, Ged could see Jiah struggling across the scrubby terrain, equally set on ending up at a point that both of them knew was unreachable. When Jiah staggered and went down for the last time, Ged carried on without a backward glance. And so it continued until Ged was no longer aware of time and place.
In the third passage, Ged noticed that there were fewer of them left. And without the costume or the masks, and with the scratches and the malnutrition of the previous initiation, the remaining candidates appeared much less impressive. But, in some way, did they also not now look more formidable?
The elders had collected them from where they fell, but they’d neglected to satisfy their hunger or their thirst. Instead, they paired them off with one portion of bread and one of water. You could see the person opposite you, and you could see the other pairs too within the dusty ring. The elders walked among them, offering neither advice nor encouragement.
At first the individuals looked around at the other pairs, wondering who would move first and what they’d do.
Ged saw the desperation in the eyes of the nearest pair. It was no surprise, then, that they were the ones who made the initial move. It was rudimentary, and it was over quickly. The candidates had at last turned against each other, as Ged suspected they would.
This was the cue for others to do the same. Some battles were short; some long. Some full of sound; others silent.
Ged – by design? – was paired with Jiah.
They looked at each other. Ged nodded. Jiah then also nodded. Reflecting each other’s movements they slowly stepped to the centre where the food and liquid was, and then took half each. It wasn’t enough, of course. But thereafter they sat impassively. The elders exchanged looks and gave them more.
In the first three stages, they tested what you knew about yourself.
The fourth was where you found out you knew nothing …
by submission | Sep 14, 2024 | Story |
Author: Kevin Eric Paul
“Hey. Mister,” a melodious voice called to me. I kept my eyes closed for a moment and did not respond. Confusion. Anxiety. Dread.
And a gentle, warm breeze. Bright light penetrating my eyelids. Where am I? I thought. What the devil is going on?
“Mister. Hey.” I felt a soft hand touch the wrinkled skin of my old, worn-out shoulder. I opened my eyes, squinting against the sunlight. I was reclined on a comfortable chaise longue, golden sand all around me, and baby blue waters a stone’s throw away. Before me was a young brunette, perhaps mid-twenties, wearing a two-piece, white swimsuit with a bright green sarong about her narrow waist. Was I sleeping? Or was I still dreaming?
She released her hand. “You okay, fella? You were talkin’ in your sleep just then.”
I coughed, cleared my throat, and waved away her concerns. “I’m fine, fine. Sorry, Miss. No need to be concerned for an ol’ timer like myself, now.”
“I’m mighty glad you’re all right,” she told me with a sincere, glowing smile. Not everyone is, you know.”
“Whatever do you mean, my dear?”
“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked suddenly.
I considered that; what I remembered was nonsensical. Was I becoming senile? “My word, what a question to ask an old man. Heaven’s sake!”
She knelt in the sand and gazed intently into my eyes. I looked away. “Tell me. Please.”
Her concern seemed genuine. And I felt that I could trust her. I didn’t know why. “Well, I…I was in my study, as I am most nights. I was enjoying a pipe and a book…and–”
“And then you woke up right here, just now?”
“Why, yes. Say, do I know you? You seem awful familiar, now I’ve had a look at you.”
She flashed a big grin and took my hand in hers. “So you do remember! Stanley, it’s me. It’s your Eunice!”
I looked her up and down. It really was. “But…that was…”
“Over sixty years ago,” she finished. “I know, Stan. And now we’re here.”
I could scarcely believe it. I was not, in fact, dreaming. Yet here she was, just as she’d been when we parted ways at the end of that magical summer. I frowned as a realization came to me.
“Eunice. I’m dead, aren’t I?”
She chuckled gently at that. “No, silly. This is your new life. And this one don’t end, if you don’t wan’ it to!”
I felt my smile stretch from ear to ear. “So you’re tellin’ me the cryo–”
“It worked, Stan,” she said, nodding enthusiastically. “Now. Get your fine self out of that old skin. Just concentrate. Think on it. That’s it!” she cried.
I looked down at my new body. Old body? I was young again. I ran a hand through my thick head of hair. Amazing. I stood up and offered my arm to Eunice. She eagerly accepted it, and we began walking along the beach.
“Eunice?”
“Yes, sugar?”
“Are you really…you?”
“Does it matter?”
by submission | Sep 13, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jørn Arnold Jensen
“Do you know who I am?”
The question was left hanging in the air. The tiny girl struggled to understand what loomed in front of her; taller than the grown-ups in the kindergarten, and the height accentuated by feet hovering several centimetres above the ground.
“Can you see me?”
“Yes”, whispered the girl. She looked around. There were no other children here, on the lawn behind the kindergarten. No adults either.
“I have come for the ball. It hit the tree trunk over there.” She pointed at the corner of the house seven or eight meters away. “And then it bounced off at an angle of almost sixty degrees.”
“Do you know who I am?” repeated the stranger. Legs and arms were considerably longer than they should be, and the face was narrow. The small, rounded mouth had no visible teeth. The ears were pointed, which made the girl grin for a moment. Elven ears, she thought. The head was completely hairless, from the neck down the skin was covered with a close-fitting grey fabric, hands and feet included. She could just make out the shrubbery, the fence, and the trees behind the floating figure.
“The ball is over there”, it said, looking past her. The voice was friendly, like those of presenters on children’s television. “Right there under the bench where the lawn ends.”
“Thank you”, she said, but did not run away to get it.
“Do you know who I am?”
“I think so”, said the girl after a while. “Or maybe not.”
The figure took a couple of steps towards her and crouched down. “What are the adults saying about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do they say about all the things you’ve learned? About the fact you perform better than others?”
“They let me read books I choose myself. I do calculations, together with a lady who works at a university.” She hesitated and scratched the ground with her foot. “I hear what the adults say. Also, when they don’t think I do.”
“Who? What do they say?”
“Aunt Mari, for example. You’re some prodigy, aren’t you, she said. About time this family had some fresh blood. Mom was the only one she told that to. Other adults say I’m gifted. They come home to us and to the nursery. They give me tasks and they talk together in low voices. I don’t understand all. I remember some words. Hyperintelligent. Or advanced. That means better than others, doesn’t it? Special programme, they have said a few times. I think that’s when the lady from the university comes. She’s nice, but she looks at me in a funny way sometimes. Donor children, they sometimes say that, too.
“Do you know what that means? Donor?”
“Mum and dad couldn’t have children. They got help from a hospital. They gave them sperms that became me. Mom calls them seeds, but I know what sperms are.”
“Someone is coming”, said the figure and looked towards the corner. “By the way, they can’t see me. It is best you don’t tell anything about me. Because you know who I am?”
“I think so. I just said I believe so. Were you there when I was a baby?” Her voice sounded hoarse.
“In a way. Just before. I’m almost like you. Not quite. But you know what?”
“What?”
“I can visit you from time to time. Is that okay with you?”
Someone called out to her. An adult.
“It’s all right,” the girl said back.
“But don’t tell them. Don’t tell them anything about us. Do we have a deal?”
The girl nodded.
“I have to go”, said the figure.
She tried to reach its hand. It was like grasping air. She quivered and backed away.
“Don’t be afraid. I exist for real.” The figure looked worried. “I see you are wondering about something. What is it?”
“Am I alone? Are there more? Like me?”
“There will be more”, said the figure. “More donor children, but that’s our secret, isn’t it?”
She heard her name again, and footsteps.
“I’m just fetching something”, she shouted and ran to the bench. She lifted the ball and ran back towards the corner. The hovering figure on the lawn had vanished. Instead, Ayla stood there. Ayla was her favourite grown-up, and she went with her, dancing her way into the dressing room.
“You seem to be in a cheerful mood, don’t you?” Ayla said.
The girl looked up at her. “Do you want to know something? I’m not alone!”
by submission | Sep 12, 2024 | Story |
Author: Mary Lynne Schuster
“I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck. Just get up,” Dylan said, disgusted.
“I feel like I’m stuck,” Sara muttered. She knew she could just – get up. Stand up, get a shower, get dressed, get something to eat. Or do a dish. Just do it! she thought. But the thought drained all initiative. It was like all she wanted to do was sit in a stale bathrobe with a crusty ice cream bowl. She really didn’t. Without thinking, she stood. She wandered the house, dropped the sticky bowl in the sink, and then somehow found herself back on the couch.
What the hell, she thought. Just get up. But she could not remember why. She sat unmoving even when Dylan slammed out of the house.
***
Axlion adjusted the floating image of the human on the bridge of his ship. “The field is working,” he said. “When you try to force a human to do something, they fight it. But take away the motivation, just make them not feel like it, and they might as well be dead.”
“Excellent.” Baxilot studied the monitor screen. The human sat unmoving again. He’d been concerned when she stood a few moments ago, but that had been an impulse of the lower brain, a survival reflex. The higher voluntary functions were still affected by their field. It didn’t directly control the being, but firing just a few of their neurons one way or that managed the motivation and fear, and it turned out controlled behavior.
“Does it work for all humans?” he asked.
“No.” Axlion zoomed in to focus on an electrical impulse jumping between two synapses. “For most of the random samples, yes. But there are a few subcategories. Humans that have practiced not doing what they feel like doing – they have way more resistance.”
“But – why would any humans do that?” Baxilot asked. “That’s the one constant, they do what their electrical impulses and chemical reactions lead them to do. They hate discomfort, and will do many things, including putting themselves in more discomfort, to avoid it.”
“We are still learning.” He zoomed out again and they observed the human adult female. “Some can focus on a longer goal, and it is worth the discomfort. Often it is around competition. They will practice a physical skill to the point of being uncomfortable in order to do it better than another, or to better their own arbitrary measure.” They watched as their subject shifted as if to get up, and then sighed and leaned back again. “The more they fight against doing what they feel like, the stronger is their ability to do so.”
“What do you mean?”
“Here – ” Axlion brought up another monitor, and showed a montage of humans running, leaping, dancing, throwing or catching projectiles, making tones with musical instruments, or lifting heavy things. “Look.” He zoomed in on a ballet dancer. She spun through the same movements again and again. “Look at her brain. She is exhausted, and in physical pain. The field slowed her, but then she went and talked to another human, and reprogrammed her brain! She used the words to create thoughts that reignited the neurons that she had strengthened when pushing through the discomfort, and the new pathways I was creating got pruned away.”
He zoomed out again, past the montage of athletes and musicians and scholars and soldiers, to a flowing river of people in every act of human living. “Fortunately for us, very few humans are at that level. Most will do exactly what they feel like doing, with as little effort as possible.”
by submission | Sep 11, 2024 | Story |
Author: Karen Schauber
The massive harvest table swelled with Soylent, Guinea Fowl, Sicilian oranges, Pule cheese, pandemain, honey, cloves, and black cardamon for the wedding. The dead bride propped in the cathedra. Her garland of Delphiniums shrivelling. A suckling pig, still shackled to the spit, its trotters tanned, skin crispy, made me swoon. We approached slowly uncertain if we would be welcome. They waved us forward, their hand motioning like the pope, partially outstretched with fourth and little fingers curled inward. Jerzy didn’t budge. Waited for me to do my thing. My garment concealing the weapon. Darkness obscuring everything, and nothing.
Through the wee hours we gorged on the spoils, sucking bones and roux, leaving nothing but crumbs. Reclined in the winter garden beneath a mangled grapevine canopy until dawn, smoking fat hand-rolled cigars, the toothy wrappers full of dark flavour. When morning broke, the mayhem and horror of the previous night was laid bare. Stone walls executed with torrents of sticky-sweet crimson blood, trickled and stained, thick like impasto. Bloodthirsty rapier flies a-buzzing. Overhead, a blue tourmaline sky spread electron waves far and wide. The cosmic resonance dizzying. Jerzy slipped through without second-guessing. Ours was a well-trodden path.
Next on the itinerary, the Bishop’s Abbey, where we would find the same cruel devastation. As if an indeterminate war or crippling pestilence had blown through. The air sour and hushed like an abandoned rendering plant. The main church, cloister, chapter house, refectory, library—all empty. Bodies piled in the summer garden. Someone, something, had prepared the remains.
Supper that night was cold, with very little meat and no fat. We washed up in the fountain and dined in the calefactory. The stone table lit by lamplight. We rolled bits of diced cabbage, turnips, carrots, and peas, around our plates. Taste buds uninspired. Next day, we stumbled upon smoked fish, salted venison, and roasted swan pie in the larder, coarse black bread and ale in the stockroom. Upon surveying the acreage, we picked lemons, oranges, pomegranates, and figs in the orchards. Gathered enough provisions for several days, lived like kings for weeks. Jerzy fat and lazy. At night we slept wedged between tapered whitewashed walls under a single vaulted wooden ceiling. Our dreams crowded with roving, ghostly whispers. A giant brass crucifix hung high above, its power anaemic. Me, with no relief, always an eye to what may be lurking around the corner.
And so began the time after the end of time. We were blessed, immune…or so we thought.
by submission | Sep 10, 2024 | Story |
Author: Colm O’Shea
He types: I see you around. I’m too shy to say hi, so I’m hiding in this avatar. Hope that’s not creepy.
Cyrano-Premium converts: Salutations! One cannot miss your radiance as it sweeps the environment, much as the sun rises and obliterates the stars. Daring not yet to gaze directly at your beauty, I supplicate myself with these humble words instead. I trust my advances are welcomed.
>Send.
She types: Wow, that’s some compliment! Are you a poet? I’m nervous about writing. It’s not a strength of mine.
Cyrano-Standard converts: I received your missive. Do you reconfigure the syntagmatic and paradigmatic poles of language routinely? Our communications may not proceed with optimal efficiency.
>Send.
He types: I’m sorry if I’m not being clear. I’m nervous about writing. I just wanted to say that ever since my mom died, I’ve been really lonely. Seeing you at the check-out on my way to work is the best part of my day. Again, I hope that’s not creepy.
Cyrano converts: I beg your indulgence—my opacity knows no bounds. In truth, I have been shrouded in desolation of late; and yet one glimpse of your labors lifts me to the heavens! I assume you desire to hear this!
>Send.
She types: Oh yeah! I love reading this. No one says nice things to me—or mean things either (haha). My life’s really quiet. This is just such a surprise.
Cyrano converts: I appreciate your efforts at communication. There is a deficit of positive reinforcement—my living situation is sonically bankrupt. I am disoriented.
>Send.
He types: I hear you about the disorientation! What a year, huh? God, it’s just been one gut blow after another.
Cyrano converts: A dervish spirals betwixt mine ears! What revelations spin from our merry dance around the sun! The Divine One rains punishment on all our heads.
>Send.
She types: Yeah, maybe. I’m not really a religious type. But I lost my mom earlier this year, and I’ll admit—it’s got me thinking why any of us are even here? I don’t pray, but I really wanted to reach out to someone—or something—I don’t know what. I just wanted to be more than just me in this little lonely body. And then you appear. It’s kind of crazy!
Cyrano converts: Certainly/possibly. I reject totalizing ontological narratives. I misplaced my immediate maternal ancestor recently, and I confess I do not understand the purpose of our presence at this location. I want to multiply in this small, isolated vessel. Then you manifest. It’s incoherent.
>Send.
He types: I’m incoherent? Okay, I’m sorry to have bothered you.
Cyrano converts: Do I dismantle myself before you? Very well then, dismantle myself I must. I beg your pardon for demanding your sustained attentions.
>Send. >Logout.
She types: Do you want to get a coffee sometime?
Cyrano converts: Would you imbibe an ergogenic beverage known to improve work capacity?
>Delete.
>Logout.
