by Stephen R. Smith | Jan 25, 2019 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
I stand in the doorway, an invisible force for the moment stopping me from going any further.
Arthur, ever the watchful companion, lifts his head and looks right at me, ears perked up, tail wagging, gently thump-thump-thumping against the bedspread.
She sleeps.
With feet like lead, I manage the distance from the door to the edge of the bed, where I stop again, rooted.
This is as close I will get.
I thought I’d forgotten the gentle curve of her cheekbones, her hair absently tucked behind her ear even when she sleeps. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, the way she tucks the duvet in between her knees.
I can almost smell her hair.
How long can this last?
Arthur lays on his back now, looking at me upside down, his jowls giving in to gravity and his teeth exposed in a funny inverted smile.
He huffs, and she stirs, eyes opening sleepily.
I’m lost in a sea of amber-flecked green.
Please, let this last.
The expression on her face changes. I’m not supposed to be here, I’m a million miles away. I recognize the look of sleepy confusion, and I know, tomorrow, if we could sit on the balcony drinking coffee together, she’d describe that space between waking and sleeping where she tries to hold onto the dream, to write it down on some non-volatile part of her brain to deconstruct later.
But I won’t be here in the morning.
This is as close as I’ll get.
“I love you”, I say.
She can’t possibly hear me, but still, her mouth moves in reply and I can almost hear her voice as she says, “elephant shoes too.”
It’s a private joke.
I feel my heart breaking first, then a tug at the base of my spine and I’m yanked backward through the doorway, then the wall in the hall into the living room. Arthur rounds the corner at a gallop, he can sense the terror I’m feeling as I leave him at the patio doors, out and up, the grass receding, the giant sycamore tree in the yard.
Then the clouds.
The edge of the atmosphere.
The sucking void of space.
The rest is a blur, the distance we covered as a crew so carefully, so patiently to end up here, gone by now in an instant.
I wonder as I’m pulled through the cockpit windshield and snapped back unceremoniously into my body if the rest of the crew shared the same experience.
I’d ask them if I could.
But I can’t.
I close my eyes, the blinding fireball of the star that’s caught us in its inescapable grip searing into my brain.
My last thoughts are of a sea of amber-flecked green, of elephant shoes.
by submission | Jan 24, 2019 | Story |
Author: Stephen C. Curro
It’s curious to look into the eyes of a dinosaur.
There’s life there, but not the cold reptilian shade you’d expect. You can see the theropod is assessing you with genuine curiosity.
Then it moves and its head bobs slightly like a bird, its foot drumming the ground with each step. The feathers of green and blue reflect the sunlight, making the body almost but not quite shimmer. It draws close and soon you’re almost nose-to-nose. The giganotosaur’s head is longer than your whole body, the teeth well past banana length. It sucks air into its massive lungs, and when it exhales you’re overwhelmed by the rot of the thousand carcasses it has fed upon.
You desperately want to run but you fight to keep still. Of course, it can see you, but the slightest twitch might trigger a predator response you can’t hope to defend against. Even so, you’re calculating the distance to the ship against the size and strength of a ten-ton theropod. No, better to keep still as a stone.
It’s unnerving when the beast growls as if thinking about you out loud. Your life doesn’t flash before your eyes; no, you see it reflected in the dinosaur’s eyes. You see all the things you’ve done, what you should have done differently. Words unsaid, risks avoided. You’re pale as clay, on the verge of hyperventilating. All of it comes down to this moment…
But then the giganotosaurus turns and lumbers off into the forest, probably in search of something larger to consume. You force yourself to gasp for air, processing how close you came to being an hors d’oeuvre. Apparently, a human just isn’t worth the trouble.
Just once, it’s a relief to be thought of as insignificant.
by submission | Jan 23, 2019 | Story |
Author: Jamie Fouty
Everything dies in this house but me. I don’t know if I’m immortal or if this is punishment. Three births happened here, perhaps equilibrium was wanting.
The second death was the hardest; the third took two at once. After the fourth, I abandoned the balance theory.
Retreating from society was minimally effective. Then the fifth occurred: crows pulling apart a snake in midair as you see in a NatGeo special. I couldn’t protect the wildlife from these demises either.
I sought the wisdom of medicine, consulted witches and clergy, but death kept appearing on my land. A decapitated rabbit one day, a slumped over salesperson at my door the next – I stopped counting.
I was the only constant that remained, physically unscathed despite my best efforts. I refused resignation to this merciless existence. Unwelcome memories abound; the worn grey couch where we made love, the lamp that dimly lit late-night conversations, the dingy mosaic rug where children took their first steps, and their last. Pictures long since stowed in a tower of brown boxes lining the garage, hiding triggers. The sun-soaked deck once the site of neighborhood BBQ’s, then where our pets laid for eternal slumber. Offers to purchase came frequently, but I couldn’t risk that burden.
Leaving with only the sweet smell of gasoline and retribution filling my nostrils, I effortlessly flicked the match. The delicate ivy, attached to this home as I used to be, singeing with loud snaps. Cedar shingles erupted with a belch of black smoke enveloping the night sky. The fierce orange glow radiated warmth I hadn’t felt in years. My eyes glistened with a mixture of relief and sorrow, not mutually exclusive. Windows shattered and the grass withered as fire unapologetically devoured it. Three-story tall flames ravaged the very last of everything, and nothing.
Denying assistance from the fire department, they kept the blaze contained to my property line. When charred dust was all that remained and everyone had stopped gawking, I said goodbye and turned to leave, nearly tripping over a fresh carcass sprawled beneath my feet.
by Hari Navarro | Jan 22, 2019 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
A single bullet was all that was needed to start the last ever war on earth. A bullet and the head of a small child to put it in.
Innocent, in as much as she surely had in her possession a life less used. But then so did many of the lifeless things that now lay beneath this land of wasted ruin.
Things. Numbers. But she was different. The daughter of a man who held sway. Her blood more precious than most.
Aio stands drawing circles in the sand with her bare toes as oily smoke twists beyond the glinting razor-wire border. There’s a snap and her eyes twitch as her ears reach out and draw down the crack of its echo.
She feels warmth as the thumbnail-sized nib punctures the soft puff beneath her eye, but not the expanding hand as it scoops out the maw fruit of her mind and punches it through the back of her skull. She drops, her tiny toes curling in grotesque contraction into the ancient red soil at their tips.
Vast volumes of resolution, treaties that had for years rolled the bitterness of belligerent peace behind radium stained teeth, evaporate as if never written. Such fury as the man’s words tear away at the shroud, the battered nation-less flag cast long ago and pegged down at its corners with bones. It that snapped to a blur, smudging for the world tales of the righteous and those who would throw stones at bullets.
He’d flattened his daughter’s warm hair as the desert wind held and picked and played at its wisp. Now he’ll rip all of their faces to rags and they will catch on the ruins and flutter like banners, and he will melt the red sand at their feet.
And so the code does fall from his lips and long maligned missiles finally they breath and the wolf tempest pouches and bites.
This is it, the last ever war. And it will last for ever more.
by Julian Miles | Jan 21, 2019 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The walls are sweating as I labour up the stairs. Intravenous packs are heavy and I have to buy in bulk, otherwise I couldn’t afford enough of them. The door opens to my retina print and I barge in, pushing the door closed with my arse.
Colin’s left me a fresh sterile pack with needles – he must have got his overtime. Shame he doesn’t care enough to stay realside and celebrate. Virtual sex may be athletic, but it’s just not squishy enough.
Drink a half-litre of sugar water and strip. Into the recliner, sort the wires and tubes, sliding the needles into my arms. New steel feels strange, for all that I know there’s no real difference. At least he hung full bags for me. I don the headset but leave the gloves. Reaching into the left one, I press the ‘engage’ toggle. As the wires slide into my brain, my hands clench and arms shake. Medsites say that’s a symptom of nerve damage, but it’s irrelevant. Not like I can afford to have it treated, let alone fixed.
With jitters out of the way, I lie back, slip the interface gloves on, and press the ‘dive’ toggle. The darkness goes grey, then I’m standing on a moonlit balcony, overlooking a beach. The sun is setting and Colin is leaning on the rail next to me.
“Got out early?” He grins. Perfect features move smoothly, no trace of psoriasis. He is an Adonis of his own making. I look at my zebra-striped short fur and smile. Who am I to pick at someone’s affectations?
“Yes. There was a bomb scare, so they sent us all home. Starting an hour early on Monday.”
“Nothing’s free these days.”
I suspect that’s always been true. The cost has simply increased to a point where that truth is unavoidable. Extended childish logic: if I don’t realise it, it’s not happening.
I shrug: “What scenario are we doing?”
“Falmeddar. A noble quest against the Ravening Keep. Going in with Solange, Andre, Tierney, and Klimdt.”
Colin’s happy. He idolises Andre and has a virtual thing with Solange: hours spent in a two-person private domain. I would mind, but occasionally those ‘late shifts’ give Tierney time to visit and get squishy with me, when he’s in town.
“Let’s go.”
He nods and vanishes. I remember when he’d hold out his hand so we’d get the buzz from the signal bleed as we switched domains.
There’s a grey flash and I’m standing in an autumnal clearing with the five of them. Colin’s next to Solange. Andre and Klimdt are checking their gear. Tierney’s watching Colin with a little smile. As I go from 2D to 3D, he turns to me and winks. At that moment, a patrol from the Ravening Keep burst into the clearing.
“Ambush!”
Why not state the bloody obvious, Colin?
Before I can raise an energy barrier, a spearhead emerges from my chest and things go grey.
I’m still on the recliner when a message from Colin arrives: “Bad luck, Layla. See you tomorrow eve. I’ll tell you all about it.”
He’s going straight from scenario to a ‘late shift’? Tosser.
Another message, this one from Tierney: “Took ages to set up that ambush. I got a transfer. Come live with me, if you want to.”
I so want-
The door opens. Glad I aliased him onto the access list. I shed needles and gloves, am in his arms before the door finishes closing.
“Good to go.”
“Wearing nothing but a headset. The taxi driver will stare.”
“Don’t care.”
by submission | Jan 20, 2019 | Story |
Author: Suzanne Borchers
CHARLIE had found itself leaning against a trash bin in a nearby alley—alone, jobless, and needing shelter. Its owner had abandoned the retail store to run away with his clerk to parts unknown. It had rained for a week and its once pristine joints now scraped together. CHARLIE needed oil! It needed help!
CHARLIE noticed a collection of humans loitering on the corner. It eyed each individual with its glassy orbs: One man about 50 years old, dark-skinned, powerful shoulders, taller than CHARLIE by almost three feet (CHARLIE stretched up to his full four foot height at this observation.); another man about 70 years old, pale, stooped, with his mouth drawn down; a pinched-lipped woman, wearing a business suit with hair neatly in place; one boy, pale, short, poking the younger boy standing next to him, making him hop up and down, squealing; and a small girl holding onto a wriggling giant puppy which threatened to spill out of her arms.
CHARLIE had been programmed for character-analysis years before its occupation as a bookkeeper at the socks & shoes store. It creaked closer to study the eyes of the humans. The young girl’s eyes softened each time she adjusted the position of the puppy in her arms; the younger boy’s eyes were large and moist; the older boy’s hard eyes shifted to and fro; the woman’s eyes narrowed toward the boys, the old man’s eyes were closed, and the younger man’s brown eyes gazed down the street. No one would help.
The puppy leaped from the girl, knocking her backward and down onto the concrete. Tears welled up in her eyes and she sobbed, “Daddy!”
The dark-skinned man scooped up the dog. “I told you he was too big for you to handle, Joanie. Put your hands down. I’ll hold him.” The dog kicked and wriggled in his arms.
The woman murmured to the old man and then grabbed the older boy’s hand. The younger boy snickered. The young girl held the woman’s skirt.
The public transit vehicle arrived and the six humans climbed inside. It transported them away. The corner was empty. CHARLIE was alone.
Except—
The giant puppy whined, lifted his leg on a straggly tree, and afterward sagged down onto his bottom. He whimpered. He drooped.
CHARLIE felt a pain in its motherboard. How could it leave the puppy there? It was a logically hopeless situation. CHARLIE had no credits, no shelter, no food or water for the puppy and little to no chance to get them. But it had to comfort the puppy and try to help. It limped to the puppy and patted the silky head. It leaned over, careful not to overbalance, and picked the puppy up into its arms.
The puppy relaxed and licked its hand.
“CHARLIE will take care of you.” It looked down at the puppy and up into the eyes of the dark-skinned man.
“Thanks, fella,” the man said. “I got him now.” He gathered the puppy into his solid arms.
CHARLIE floundered for appropriate words and then settled on, “CHARLIE could babysit him for shelter and some oil?”
“Nah.” The man turned and walked away.
CHARLIE stood alone.
