by Otto Maton | Nov 11, 2017 | Story |
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
:Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae
by submission | Nov 10, 2017 | Story |
Author: Janet Shell Anderson
The reason I haven’t heard from my brother Jonathan is he’s dead.
I made a mistake.
It’s foggy, one of those autumn fogs that grow out of the Potomac and everything seems strange; our empty streets feel like someone’s there, but you can’t see them. I went downtown, wondering if maybe, over by Lafayette Square, I could get food from a crazy woman who says things she shouldn’t. She has apples, and I began to crave them, so I walked in the fog, smelling the river again after so long, feeling half safe, down from Rock Creek Park, thinking about how Jonathan and David, my brothers, have been gone too long. A lot of people are gone, except for military and some assassins on K Street. People disappear. But I felt half safe down near the river again and the Mall, like the old days. Kidding myself.
Now I’m back in the forest, north of the Zoo, and the fog’s deeper, no shadows anywhere, freezing. It’s like a wall. I’m in a place among fallen trees, invisible among big tulip tree trunks, holly bushes twenty feet high, kind of a nest, maybe a deer nest, if they make nests. A sanctuary. I have a nine millimeter, I’d starve if I didn’t, but even in this dense forest, the thousand beech trees, the sweetbriar, the holly, the blur of fog, I’m afraid.
I can’t stop shaking.
I went to Sixteen Hundred, and the crazy lady was there all right. Her head was on a spike on the black wrought iron fence around the WH. One of the old crazies who’s always out there shouting stuff about the Constitution was just screaming, looking at her. Her head looked shrunken, dark. And three spikes down, there was Jonathan. Even with his face black and his tongue out, I knew it was him.
I hear a fox yip down by the creek, but I can’t see it in this fog. Hunting maybe, something hidden.
by submission | Nov 9, 2017 | Story |
Author: David Henson
“I’m going to lay down and take a nap,” I tell my wife.
“You mean ‘lie down.’ ‘Lay’ is a transitive verb requiring an object.”
“OK, OK. You’ve been popping smart pills again obviously.”
“The etymology of ‘pill-popping’ is interesting, Walt. It goes back to…”
I quickly reach into my pocket and take out a bottle of Mozart I carry in case of emergency. I choke down a capsule and immediately one of my favorite sonatas is drowning out the sound of Martha’s voice. I love her dearly, but when she’s on smart pills, she’s a bit much.
A half-hour later, I wake up feeling refreshed. The Mozart has worn off, and I head into the kitchen to get a bottle of cold water.
Martha greets me with open arms and begins singing with a heavy vibrato: “I heard you humming in your sleep. It put me in the mood for music, so I took a couple of Andrew-Lloyds.” She reaches notes so high I fear my eyeglasses might shatter.
Two Andrew-Lloyds? I’ll bet she took at least four. Sounds pretty though. I wonder what that super soprano voice is called? I go to the medicine cabinet and find some Snooty syrup. I take a teaspoon and listen to Martha’s voice climbing the musical scale like a cat scampering up a tree trunk. Ah, yes, that’s it. She’s singing like a coloratura soprano. Wonder what coloratura means in English? Unfortunately, we’re out of Translator tabs. I’ll have to remember to pick up some more the next time I’m at the pharmacy.
“Honey, it’s my turn to cook,” Martha says, her voice returning to normal. “Why don’t you go relax for a while.” She takes an Epicure pill. I’m in for something special.
I go into the study and take a cheap cigar out of the box. Fortunately, I have some Pure Havana spray. I spritz it in my mouth and light up. Knowing it’s going to take Martha a while to cook this gourmet meal, I decide to read for awhile. I get my copy of Finnegan’s Wake, swallow a Lit Crit and have at it. I fill 10 sheets in my notebook after reading the first paragraph. Then Martha calls me to dinner.
“Honey, our taste buds are about to be ravished. We’re going to have …” Martha goes on for several minutes and concludes with “crispy passionfruit mousse made with mango and coconut extract.” Then she takes a deep breath. “But first.” She pours us an aperitif.
“I’ve been saving this,” I say, putting a few drops of Sommelier in each of our glasses, “for our drinking pleasure.”
After four bottles of wine and three hours of gorging ourselves, I can barely stand up from the table. “Martha,” I say, “you truly outdid yourself this time.”
And she did. My only complaint is that we ate and drank so much we didn’t feel like taking any True Porn when we went to bed.
by submission | Nov 8, 2017 | Story |
Author : Rick Tobin
Dear Humans:
By now, you will be fully aware we are living among you. In some ways, in the last four hundred years, we have become you. No, there was no strident message or headline. This change was inevitable, just as Cro-Magnon’s gradual but surprising arrival. There were many forms of hominids before the great nuclear war some twelve-thousand years past. You are just now discovering the remains of many lost genetic lines and remainders of those evolutionary experiments that remained hidden in your deepest forests, swamps, caves, mountains and even oceans. Many forms were destroyed, as their DNA could not withstand chaos. You have thrived, but perhaps to your own detriment.
You fear changes, for you have been bred by your human masters to tremble when anything new or unusual occurs in your environment. History has proven your aggressiveness to destroy anything that does not fit into your limited understanding. So, it is with that context in mind, that I reveal our intentions. Abductees and governments wonder, speculate and guess blindly. Those protective shields block sound judgment. The facts are simply this: your genetic code is wearing out, producing higher numbers of faulty units that have physical, mental and even spiritual defects. If your species’ variation were left alone for another thousand years, without an upgrade, your overall capacity to reproduce would be reduced to extinction. Even now, you wonder at declining reproductive capacities in many ‘advanced’ countries. If you were allowed to produce a nuclear holocaust now, as described in the Mahabharata, we could recover nothing of your kind. You would disappear just as a dozen other hominid lines did when the Great Floods decimated the Earth as climates became unstable. We will not allow such an atomic culling to ever occur again.
In the near future, between now and the end of 2025, you will face incredible Earth changes. Specific warnings have existed for millennia based on a more robust understanding of sun changes and their impacts. The Maya did not predict the end of the planet in 2012, but rather, the end of their cycle of history. There will be a new history upon your race after these coming changes. No, we are not going to land and save you. There is no rapture. Also, those great underground havens produced by your governments for their rich and elite will not survive. What has been done on your behalf is our introduction into your gene pool. We will live with human survivors and improve their current genetic code so that a new civilization with higher understanding and capacity will thrive in a more balanced state with nature. The truth is that we, the alien hybrids, are the single stabilizing element to ensure your continuance beyond the tribulation you have anticipated. We have not come to destroy…but to preserve what we can, beyond the tests ahead to reach a brighter future.
Accept us so we can bring you this hope. Fear not for your New Jerusalem is on the horizon. As your own holy books state, “Behold, I am making all things new.”
End of Transmission
by Julian Miles | Nov 7, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Funny how the roar of wind fades into the background after a while.
I loved the wind roar in my rag-top coupe. Drove that antique everywhere, pretty much spent my late teens in it, met the love of my life while driving it, and waved her goodbye from it, too. Which was fitting, as its weak brakes scared her. As trivial irritations do, the fright led to arguments that revealed bigger things; things the passion we shared couldn’t overcome.
A rogue booster rocket cuts a jagged turquoise line across the violet sky.
Ah, war wounds. The scars that proved you had been at the sharp end, and on the receiving end of it, too. NanoHeal sorted that out. Bonded to your DNA profile, it restored you to how you should be. Which was great, except for the first time. While sorting your wounds, it dealt with all the other stuff: tattoos, piercings, and every other blemish, inside or out. I can’t even get a tan. We asked if it could be programmed to exclude trophy marks like they programmed it to ignore cyberware. They replied: “That wouldn’t be cost effective.”
In eerie silence, a burning chunk about the size of a small mansion tumbles past, shedding random bits along with burnt stick figures.
Something I’m glad I missed; being on the impact side of the station when we all discovered the Euripides was a ghost ship, her crew slain by supratrans shock. Usually, that happens on entry to supralight and the ship never re-emerges. Occurrence on exit is rare and can be problematical. Supralight craft are at least the size of old Earth cruise ships. If nobody realises the problem in time and gets an emergency crew aboard, there’s going to be a big mess. In this case, the Euripides emerged closer than expected on a heading that bisected the heart of Plusidra Station. The impact hurled me through the environment field on a loading bay and here I am, imparted sufficient momentum to make orbit impossible, now freefalling from as high as you can get. Yet, I’m still glad I wasn’t on the impact side. I’m sure that was a moment of pain and fear no-one should have to endure, however briefly.
By sheer luck, my selection of cyberware means I’m not blind, liable to suffocate or pass out. I get to enjoy this ride all the way to the multicoloured desert below, where I expect to die and be buried in a spectacular spray of rainbow-hued crystals.
I can think of worse ways to go. The views are superb and the contrasts of debris against sky are quite awesome, their terrible import only enhancing the beauty.
Just in case browsing disaster investigators haven’t already guessed: this is my final diary post.
My name is Jedry Strong.
Her name was Kelly Frea-something. I hope she’s happy, out there, somewhere. For the first time ever, I’m with her on wishing for better brakes.
by Duncan Shields | Nov 6, 2017 | Story |
Author: Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
“It’s not that I hate being rich. I love it. It’s just that I feel undeserving. I wish my situation wasn’t so unique.” said Carl Whittaker 4 to his therapist.
“You mean being the first and likely only billionaire clone to exist?” asked the cellular-propagate therapist.
“Exactly. I’m in an unusual situation. I was given a law education as the indentured servant of the late Carl Whittaker Prime. I was made the executor of his will.” CW4 said.
“Yes, we’ve been over that. Business as usual. Plenty of cloned lawyers execute their owner’s last wills before mandatory destruction. But in your case…..” the therapist trailed, hoping to lead Carl 4 to his present problems.
“Well, I found a loophole. I had never been properly registered as a clone. Perhaps because Carl had a sentimental attachment to me as he had no children of his own. He had me proclaimed as a ward. In legal terms, it’s very much like adoption. There was no law against it because no one had thought to do it before. I never left the grounds of the estate. All of my education was online. I was like a pet.” rambled Carl.
“You didn’t have the standard organ harvest clause.” prompted the therapist.
“No. There were several cloned brainstem truncates in the basement chambers for any organs that were needed.” Carl said.
“So you were in many ways a quasi-person.”
“Indeed. And Carl Prime left his entire estate to me. Including the workforce of copyrighted gene imprints of himself.” finished Carl. Nervously, he took a sip of water.
“I remember the case. The people vs Carl Whittaker 4. It was a sad watershed moment for clone rights. You ended up being allowed to retain ownership of his estate, including the DNA replicates. But the loophole was closed thereafter in order stop the wealthy from passing their money down a line of clones instead of family.” said the therapist.
“Right. So I’m the only….one.” said CW4. He looked around the room nervously and took another sip of water.
“Correct. Which leads us to today. What seems to be the problem?” asked the therapist, slightly impatiently.
“Well, doctor. That’s just it. I’m not the only one. All of the workforce that I own and rent out to companies around the world are dying under the awful conditions that all clones work under. And they’re me. They’re all me. CWs. Numbering up to nearly two million. My eyes, my body type. My face. I can’t take it anymore.” Carl Whittaker 4 sobbed.
“I see. The guilt of a Prime and you have no fellow clones to talk to.” The therapist stroked his chin.
“Yes. That’s exactly it. I feel like a slave owner except all of my slaves are me.” said Carl, sniffling. He was managing to get himself under control.
“Well, Carl. You’re in a unique position so I’ll have to give you some unique advice,” said the therapist. “A lot of humans in your position turn to drugs, alcohol, or other means of shoring up their denial to blind themselves to the moral turpitude they’re mired in. If you won’t consider liquidating your entire workforce…..”
Carl Whittaker 4 blanched at the suggestion.
“….then I suggest you learn to be more human. Distract yourself from the clone plight and take up a hobby. Maybe an addiction as well. Do some research on what would suit you best. And you’ll need some sleeping pills. I’ll prescribe some. Good luck.” concluded the therapist.
Grimly, Carl Whittaker 4 nodded. He steeled himself for the future.
“Our time is up.” said the therapist.
