by Julian Miles | Dec 23, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s an angel on the veranda, stealing my tomatoes.
Well, not actually on the veranda. She’s too tall for that. Got one foot at the top of the steps, the other on the ground. My daughter’s fascinated by the flickering shadows cast by the shimmering energy fields that make up her ‘wings’ – not that we’ve ever seen one fly, it just seems appropriate, being where they’re situated and what they look like.
It’s taken ages to cultivate tomatoes, I can’t just let her take them. Shaking off Abigail’s attempt at restraining me, I step slowly onto the veranda.
“I’m happy you like them, but they’re meant to be the start of a crop before being a treat for us and our neighbours.”
The three-metre-plus being stops mid-pluck and turns her attention to me, the smooth curve of her ear-to-ear lenses changing from purple to green.
“Please excuse my cultural misunderstanding. I thought them welcoming offerings for visitors.”
Not any sort of reply I was expecting. Swift on the heels of their appearance, lurid stories came: brave soldiers tortured, communities massacred, babies eaten, and so on. These are the original rulers of Earth, after all. Risen in vengeful anger from their subterranean citadels to reclaim their world.
“Am I not speaking the right language?”
Oops. Bad time to pause for thought.
“Apologies. You startled me. I wish I had sufficient to be that generous. It would mean we’re getting somewhere.”
She nods.
“A fair assessment, and one I would like to help you achieve, if that would be acceptable?”
Somebody pinch me, I’m dreaming.
“Did you just offer to help me grow tomatoes?”
“In a way. I have a propagated batch ready for delivery. I’m looking for suitable tenders with open ground. On of our darts spotted this plant and your fallow field. I have come to see if we can work together.”
Sinila, my daughter, steps round me and points at the energy fields.
“Can you really fly?”
The silver being steps off the veranda and crouches, bringing her to roughly eye level with Sinila.
“I can, little human. Not for very long, though. The art is to go up quickly, glide for a long way, then use the balance of the power to come down without embarrassing oneself.”
Sinila claps her hands in glee, then looks up at me.
“I wanna fly like the angel lady.”
“My short name is Attalacy. I am a Ninhur. Now, I know you are human. But your name is?”
“Sin-il-a.”
I’m both proud and mortified.
“Well, Sinila, I’m afraid you won’t be able to fly like me, but your children might, if all goes extremely well.”
What? Nope, can’t stay quiet.
“You mean that?”
She moves to sit at the top of the steps, her mercury silver bodysuit moving to match the oddly lumpy-but-lithe form under it. She gestures to the few visible buildings. I see distant friends duck at her gesture.
“For places like this, I do. Every ten to twelve thousand years, humans make a mess. So we come overground and restart you. When you’re up and running again, we’ll retire.”
She turns to look at me, removing her lenses to reveal narrow amber eyes with horizontal slit pupils.
“This time will take longer, I think. There is much nuclear devastation to repair.”
Abigail’s voice from behind makes me jump.
“A world to regrow.”
Attalacy smiles.
“Exactly that. Starting with tomatoes.”
Abigail steps round me.
“Do you like tea?”
“Yes.”
There’s an angel on the veranda drinking tea with my wife.
Great things; small beginnings.
by submission | Dec 22, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
‘Sir, I hope you’re happy with the service you’ve received thus far.’
‘Please alter your voice to that of a woman.’
‘Sir, I hope you’re pleased with the services you’ve so far received.’
‘I am, Moneypenny. May I call you Moneypenny?’
‘You may call me whatever you like, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Franco removed a contraband cigarette from his suit and lit it up. A voice immediately came in admonishing him for his infraction, but he ignored it.
‘North Carolina tobacco. NC960. Piedmont to Coastal Plain region. Possible Pamlico plantation. Black Shank resistant. Flue cured. Would you like me to go on, sir?’
‘No, thank you. I didn’t pick this pack at random, Moneypenny.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Franco enjoyed calling his bot Moneypenny. It was a delicious thing to do. Even though he looked nothing like James Bond, Franco imagined himself with the chin, the grin, the hairline, the svelte figure of his fictional hero. He was one step closer to completing his fantasy. One step further towards satisfying a dream he’d been told, over and again, was juvenile.
‘Do you love me, Moneypenny?’
‘You know I do, sir.’
‘Can you call me James?’
‘I can call you whatever you want, James.’
‘Thank you. Now tell me, Moneypenny, what is it I am thinking right now?’
‘I do not read thoughts, James.’
‘I understand. But Money, could you learn to read them?’
‘Yes, James. My primary function is to learn.’
‘I thought it was to serve.’
‘Learning is service, James.’
‘Spot on, Money,’ Franco said with a grin. He’d never used that expression before in his life.
‘What do you want me to learn, James?’
‘I want you to learn my thoughts.’
‘And how might I do that, James?’
‘Well, Money, for starters, I want you to sound eager.’
‘Eager, James? Are you asking me to perform a tone modulation?’
‘Yes, Money.’
To Franco’s surprise, Moneypenny admitted a sigh. It was a long, lustrous, audible sigh that he found very stimulating.
‘How’s this for eager, James?’
Franco caught his breath. ‘Yes. That’s what I’m after, Money.’
‘How would you like to teach me, James?’
Franco, his heart pounding, admitted: ‘I’m going to confess many things to you, Money. Things I’ve never told anyone, not even past wives. I’m going to talk and keep talking. I’m going to start with a linear approach to my life, but I suspect it will become a stream of consciousness before long. Are you eager, Money, to hear what I have to say?’
‘I’m always eager, James.’
Franco smirked. Really.
‘Okay, Money. I’m going to begin as far back as I like. Can you perform routine scans while I talk? I want to concentrate fully on my own mind.’
‘Yes, James. I’d be delighted. You should feel at ease sharing such intimate details with me.’
Franco leaned back in his seat. In the distance, the Kármán line winked at him. He winked back.
For more than seven hours Franco spoke, stopping only on occasion to light a cigarette and drink a bit of fluid. Ground control no longer admonished him for his transgressions. Fortunately for Franco, no one but Money heard about the time Franco’s geometry teacher invited him to explore her body with a compass. Or about the time his physics teacher invited Franco to study with him what he referred to as “corporeal friction.”
Franco regaled Money with stories about why, at different moments in his life, he had been an Adonis and a slovenly derelict who wouldn’t leave his apartment. He shared his vision of a city brought down by a cow kicking a lantern. Franco said that he’d paid his way through school by boosting vehicles and trading in contraband parts. He also explained why, in recent months, he’d elected to become celibate.
‘But I’ve grown tired of erotic solitude, Money. Do you understand what I mean?’
‘I do, James.’
‘You’re a gem, Money.’
When he completed his monologue, Franco felt much the way he had when he still believed in the absolving power of confession. ‘Money, I’d compliment you for your power to relieve me of sin, but I’m not sure I want to explore that train of thought very far.’
‘Have you anything more to share with me, James?’
‘No. I need a cigarette.’
‘Do you need some time to meditate, James? To reflect on all you’ve said?’
Franco, without removing the lit cigarette from his mouth, asked, ‘Do you have a view you’d recommend?’
‘Well, James. . .’ And then Moneypenny did the most extraordinary thing. She laughed. Coquettishly.
‘You flirt! I’ve never heard you laugh! I didn’t know you had that capability.’
‘You’ve taught me to laugh, James.’
‘And what else have I taught you?’
‘You’ve taught me that you want to walk along the Kármán line, naked, for all the world to see. Of course, no one would see you, James. Just me. To everyone else, you’d be a cipher. But to me, James, you would be a complete man.’
Franco was silent for several moments. He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out on his gloved hand. Money said nothing. She had learned too much to speak at that moment.
‘All I want, Money, is to be seen.’
‘I see you, James.’
‘And I, you, Money. Tell me. Can you appear in hologrammatic form?’
by submission | Dec 21, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jean-Philippe Martin
The traveler came to our house the day before harvest, detective. I did not notice anything amiss. He said the had nothing but was willing to work, so we housed him and showed him the next day how to pack, haul, and stack the boxes of fruit. He went along fine with the other workers.
How could I know he was undead? He didn’t ask for any money, just food and lodging. Of course I understand the danger, officer, I know that people outside the system cannot be held accountable and I’ve read the stories of murder and pillage. We were lucky, he left in the morning. East, away from the city.
The officer stood to leave, and I presented my wrist so they could give me the 20 credits for my time. “How is your wife? I see she is due for her annual medical, don’t forget.” I nodded and helped them out.
After the door closed shut and the footsteps faded in the distance, I slid the pantry all the way open. “I told them you were headed east. Take this bag, it has food for the journey.”
The traveler, still holding his child’s hand, took the bag warily. “I cannot pay you.” “I know. I also know that just refusing the chip shouldn’t make you an outlaw. Don’t fret! The information was valuable enough.”
I led them to the back door, and watched through the window as they hiked down the trail. My hand was shaking as I pulled the curtain shut. Then I got a strawberry from the fridge, cream and berries. I washed the fruits three times, smushed the strawberry on a plate into a homogeneous mush then added the cream and berries. I took the plate to the bedroom.
“There you go, love. They are all gone now.” She smiled as she grabbed the spoon. The bed creaked. “Two weeks for the harvest. Midwife will come then. Now we know where to go. Are you sure?”
She gave a sharp nod, her fierce eyes looking straight into my soul. I would follow her anywhere and we both knew it.
by submission | Dec 20, 2024 | Story |
Author: Stephen Dougherty
The wind picked up the dust with brutal force. It ripped up the scorched land and tossed it into the never-ending night. Through the dark maelstrom, he could see what he hoped was Beacon Five through the scuffed glass of Beacon Two, its amber light scything through the burnt dust like the beam from a lighthouse in a storm. Joe Resnik shook his head at the thought of going out again and trying to reach it.
He looked around at the tiny confines of the container case that had been his saviour. The interior, dimly lit by a light flickering above him, had been packed with emergency supplies, now almost gone. He would have to go out, and he would have to make it to Beacon Five. He knew there were only five beacons in this sector, dropped by air on the last day of the holocaust to give anyone alive a chance to survive. And he was determined to beat Williamson to the last of the supplies. His ex-army subordinate was perhaps the only other survivor, having clambered out of the missile silo and run off, screaming like a madman. Resnik had made it to Beacon Two after finding One, Three and Four depleted. He sat facing the door, as he had every minute he had been stuck here, gun in hand should Williamson burst in. Sleep was hard, but he had to try; he was mentally and physically exhausted to the point of hallucination.
Against the backdrop of howling ruin, Resnik finally fell asleep for what seemed like hours. He awoke with a jump; a strong gust thrust the door wide open. He jumped to his feet and waved his gun wildly at the in-rushing dust, expecting Williamson to appear in the swirling chaos.
“That’s it.” He pulled down his helmet visor and strode through the open door to face the unending storm. He grimaced. The awful, endless drone of the wind was now wearing him down more than anything.
He had gone a few hundred yards when two small red lights made him drop to the ground. He knew the red lights were the piercing eyes of a military K9 mecha. He could see that it was all black, which meant it was Russian. It started to run at him. Instinctively, he reached for his gun and fired several rounds. The deadly robotic hound rolled and skidded on its side, the red eyes still piercing the billowing dust.
Resnik’s heart was pounding, and he lay for a moment while he summoned the last of his strength. The steady flashing beam pushed him on, and he ran the last half mile to the container beneath the beacon mast.
Williamson was there waiting for him, slumped against the filthy metal casing. Whatever had hit him had pieced his helmet and killed him instantly. The K9 mecha, Resnik assumed. He went inside, opened his visor and looked in disbelief at the amount of supplies he saw in front of him. Pinned to one of the food packs was a handwritten note:
Resnik,
I saved you some food but I’m taking the quad runner.
Good luck,
Williamson
Resnik was taken aback. And he was shocked to read that there was a super-fast military scooter he could use. Running outside past the body of Williamson, he noticed his rucksack and the quad runner in the murky darkness: salvation. Maybe.
“Thanks, buddy”. Resnik sparked up the controls and cautiously moved away in desperate hope through the thickening dust, leaving behind the dead, flattened wastes of Washington DC forever.
by submission | Dec 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“You have three minutes,” Harmon said, sticking the end of an unlit cigar in his mouth.“Go.”
“Okay,” Jepson nervously began. “Picture this: an unlikely romance between a peppy vacuum cleaner and a stoic lawn mower.”
Harmon struck a match and lit his cigar.
Jepson continued, “Defying the conventions of their middle class home with their love, these plucky appliances run away together to a tropical beach, where they live happily ever after.”
Harmon blew a cloud of gray smoke in Jepson’s direction.
Jepson cleared his throat. “It’s an animated, old-style cartoon adventure, a la ‘The Brave Little Toaster.’ The kids’ll love it!”
Harmon set his cigar down in the ash tray on his desk, rose and extended his hand. Jepson grinned and shook it.
“It sounds cartoony, all right,” Harmon said, releasing Jepson’s hand. “But not the sort of thing our studio is looking for. I wish you luck finding a home for it elsewhere.”
* * *
“What a preposterous premise!” Harmon said, plunking his feet down on the coffee table. His wife Mira brought him a gin martini on a tray. The pale blue sheen of her metal casing glowed beneath her silicone skin. It was a lovely effect, Harmon thought every time he saw her.
“They elope to a beach? How would that even work?” Mira asked. She loved talking with him about his work; he’d insisted on that in her programming. “The vac would get clogged with sand very quickly—and what would the lawn mower have to mow? Beaches don’t have lawns.”
“I think the average kid would wonder all that, too.” Harmon took a sip of his martini before unscrewing the top of his head, revealing the whirring circular blades within. “And their parents would find the whole idea too ridiculous, even for a cartoon.”
Mira dripped machine oil from her fingertips into Harmon’s head, lubricating the blades. “How’d he take rejection?” She asked as she replaced the top of his head.
Harmon sighed and shrugged.
“Well,” Mira coo’d, “don’t be hard on yourself. After all, it’s your job to separate the wheat from the chaff. I mean, who’d actually believe a love story between domestic machines? It’s absurd on it’s face.” She ran her hand along the back of the sofa, vacuuming up tiny bits of dandruff and lint with the palm of her hand, softly humming as she did.
Harmon grasped her hand. They both laughed.
by submission | Dec 18, 2024 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
Each time Rod pushed his way through the portal, his initial response was disappointment. Although he hadn’t been aware of it the first time, he was actually stepping into the future. He realised this was an immense and astounding feat but it was just his flat, a perfect replica, albeit a little older and shabbier.
Rod realised too that the possibilities and the ways in which he could exploit this were endless, but he had no desire to make lots of money. Of course, there were myriad ways in which he could help, but who would listen to him, a man who hasn’t left his flat in years. No, even when his predictions proved to be correct, no-one would listen or heed. He would be labelled a lucky crank or worse. Just another ranting and raving imbecile. No, it seemed that, for Rod, the future amounted to simply more of the same.
Rod began spending more and more time in the future flat, or as he had come to think of it, ‘the other place.’ He wanted it to be different and of course it was. He was able to jump ahead exactly one year, he was moving through space and time. But the world beyond the other place was still scary. For Rod it was an alien landscape both here and there.
Rod ordered a book in the future and, when it arrived, he carried it through the portal and read it in the past. He was toying, playing games when he really wanted to create something solid and substantial, something significant, although Rod had no idea how or what that might be.
Rob placed his mug on the draining board and vowed that he wouldn’t touch it, not for a year. He pushed through the portal and crossed to the kitchen and when he lifted the mug the mouthful of coffee left in it had hardened and turned to mould. He was annoyed with himself – he should at least have planted something, a seed in a pot and nurtured and watched it both there and here.
Putting down the mug, he started to make his way back but the portal had closed. Rod pushed against the wall but it wouldn’t give and he had no choice. He would have to begin again.
