by submission | Sep 26, 2018 | Story |
Author: Ian Hill
The fat man sits in his high place. His presence is revealed by the twitch and wiggle of an oversized quill over the rim of his lectern. When not penning away, he’s spotted by the crunch of a nut in the jaws of his bearded cracking doll, by the discarded hulls and husks of foreign seeds as they go clattering across the marble. The fat man loves to sit atop his lofted throne, lounging into himself, idly popping kernels into the wild-eyed muncher and actuating its red lever. But, life for the wallowsome fatling is not all tranquil repose; no, he has a job, and it’s a foul one.
The dim chamber’s double doors part at the middle, letting in a dramatic shaft of orange firelight that widens and attenuates before reaching the plinth of his chair. In comes shuffling a tiny worm of a weakling. Here is a querulous man—that’s evident from mere posture alone, since he’s too far below to really see—and he has the nerve to wring his hands.
The fat man peers down the plump hills of his cheeks. “What have we here? Oh me, oh my! A petty little fool doth I descry?”
The timorous supplicant smiles. “A fine rhyme, my Lord.”
“Speak up!”
The namby-pamby milksop pulls a pained expression and clears his throat. “I said your rhyme was fine, my Lord.”
“Fine, eh?” The fat man licks his gums, sucks his teeth. “Fine doesn’t account for a half of it. A third of it, I say!” He blinks rapidly but soon stops; the weight of his lids fatigues. “I’ll have you know it was not premeditated,” he murmurs half to himself. His piggish hands flutter indecisively on his paunch. One goes for the feather of his quill, the other for a slumping sack of nuts.
“I came to request a thing of you, my Lord,” the cringing doormat declares.
The fat man’s eyes bulge, but his expression quickly shifts to one of delight. “A thing, hm?” He strokes his prolific pillow of a chin. “What sort of a thing? Out with it, knave!”
The cowardly milquetoast gathers enough nerve to raise his chicken’s neck and cast a single wary eye’s gaze up the looming height to the grinning cherub in his kingdom of vaults and cobwebs. “I would have a bountiful harvest for my family.”
The fat man’s guffaw is broken only by the resounding crunch of a thick-shelled kernel. Dust and hard chips rain down and scatter at the mendicant’s feet. “A bounty? For you? And your—” his left hand flips through the pages of a book, “—and your family of nine starving, ill-begotten field mice?”
The weepy beggar somehow manages a stiff jaw. “Aye.”
The fat man giggles and kicks his vestigial feet, loosening one of his fluffy socks. He wipes a tear from his deep-set eyes. “Oh my. No, no, no. Ha!” He clutches his gut. “Ha-ha, I say! You,” he motions down with his nutcracker, making its jaw rattle, “you are too far behind, my agrarian munchkin. Just today I blessed three spacefaring frigates, a research station full of engineered posies, and—listen to this—a computer bigger than a moon!”
“Impressive, my Lord,” the shrinking wretch mumbles, not sure what any of the words mean.
“Impressive! Ha! Yes, you’re right; it is impressive.” The fat man pauses as if lost in thought. After a second, he waves his hand. “Have your harvest. But! If you don’t pick up the pace and develop lasers or reactors soon, I’ll send a blight to drive you into better days. Understand?”
The bewildered rascal nods, loving eyes full of tears. “Of course, Lord.”
“Very good.” The fat man scribbles a note as he chews. “Begone!”
by Hari Navarro | Sep 25, 2018 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
There is life out there in the radium sea. A solitary orb of blue and green. A place where oceans are poisoned and bombs they are cast and beauty is carved out of words. So alien, so different. Though so much is the same and children they get lost in the woods.
She had been warned not to walk alone in this place. But alone on this seldom driven road that sucks thinning to a seldom tread trail she feels something that might be called peace.
Here she can breathe, here she is tolerated and opinions are neither asked nor condemned. She feels an easing of the torque that winds in her shoulders and it mirrors in the gentle creak of the timber as even now the slender shadows they wrap and warp and gather her in.
She’s come here to get lost. She’s come here to find herself, but then she’s always looking for something.
A scent goads as she peels a strip of bark from the trunk that now rests at her shoulder. Rubbing it between thumb and finger she inhales its peaty perfume. But she can’t hide, she knows the smell of the dead.
Charlie. That fluffy puff who crawled deep inside the hedgerow that flanked the backyard of her childhood home. He who choked on a bone and then lied in her dreams about being off on an adventure from which he would surely return.
His was a stink that would tease for days as it tickled her nostrils and licked at the back of her throat. Then, on that sunny day, as she’d paced like a little soldier next to her father, she’d learnt all she knows about death.
Her father had loved the power that shook through his hands as he had run over things that splintered and smashed. Pushing with one hand he’d probed under that hedge and swore as chunks of wood and stone and runaway dolls shattered and flew at his feet.
Festered skin tore from its carcass and wound around the cutter blade with a thump. An explosion that added clumped ginger fur, teeth and shard bone to the assault on his ankles and a ricocheted splatter of rot that spat up and into her mouth.
Her eyes they want to turn away. But also they want to reach down and touch the pallid hand that clutches from the leaves as if pushing its way through a fog at her feet. She wants to help it to stand and dust off the dirt and tell it that home it is close.
The young man’s head lolls as if he is lounging in a bath with arms floating just below the surge of the forests composting decay and her skin it quivers and the wet runs away from her tongue.
She crouches and looks into eyes that are open. The globe of one has been savaged and leaks a congealed paste that runs his cheek to his chin. The other a winter gaze, a cornea frosted and white.
She wants to know more about this boy, this husk, this thing.
“What was your name?”, she mutters.
“Do you not have a family? Poor boy, this is not the face they want found. I have a family, I hide from them too and I’m so sorry for this state you are in. You were my first. Next time will be different. Next time I promise I’ll bury their bodies down deep”, said the alien that looks like that girl on the bus.
by Julian Miles | Sep 24, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“If any can show just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let them now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold their peace.”
The traditional silence falls. Then a grating voice sounds in everyone’s minds.
“I speak for the dead. Conrad Conal Mulligan, your debt is due. Before whichever god is invoked and these witnesses, they call blood toll upon thee.”
Heads turn as the groom spins on his heel, away from the bride. The best man lunges to catch her as she collapses.
Three white-masked figures stand at the end of the aisle. Candlelight flickers on demonic faces and reflects from the polished surfaces of weapons. The robed giant on the left and the suited midget on the right cradle blasters. The kilted figure between them clutches a long knife in a white-knuckle grip. It lowers the blade and steps forward with left arm extended, clenched fist dripping slow drops of crimson rebuke onto the worn flagstones.
Francesca looks up from where she crouches in Wren’s arms, tears ruining her makeup and voice punctuated by sobs.
“For pity’s sake, Conal. Tell these idiot kitsune they have the wrong wedding.”
He looks down at her and smiles.
“They don’t. Conrad was my name.”
The smile vanishes. He squares his shoulders and turns his attention back to the interlopers.
“Today was to be a new start. While it’s become an end, I dispute any finality.”
The giant moves to one side. Into the space vacated steps a slight figure. Black-tipped ears poke through hair the same shade as Francesca’s. Except this hair moves of its own accord, surrounding a vulpine face dominated by enormous violet eyes.
There’s a shocked murmuring: another kitsune from some Aranoshi Reaches clan, but this one stands bare-faced!
Conal’s skin turns ash-pale.
A reedy voice chimes in the minds of all present.
“You slew my clan to steal my sister, convinced of her affections. When you continued to ignore the truth, my twin chose the void. Still you did not regret. The deaths started as a sad misunderstanding. They became murders when you took Leshtari from our home and drove her to leap into the sunless dark to escape your obsession. Murders capped by an unforgivable act of selfishness. Yet, ‘just another failed romance’ is how you term it. Never revealing it as the reason why you dare not fare off this planet.
When sympathisers sent me the marriage notice containing your picture, I quit the mountains of my home, bought a ronin ship – as they will defy laws to serve honour – and came here to end your charade. My sister’s memory shall not be sullied further. Blithe liar, I contest your dispute with my blood. Blood that stands alone, last in line, by your hand.”
Conal staggers as if struck, turning back to look at Francesca.
His tone is resigned: “The past I told you skipped a few things. Besides, with you, I found the love that damned fox denied me. Couldn’t pass up on that.”
Francesca blinks, tears drying. She looks at Wren, finds him looking at her. They both turn to look at Conal.
Who steps further away, gesturing for the vicar to step toward them, then looks at Wren and smiles.
“Look after her, old son. I know you’d be together if not for my arrival.”
There’s a flash of blinding white light with a noise like leaves rustling. By the time anyone can see again, the kitsune are gone and there’s nothing but a scattering of bloodied dust to mark where he stood.
by submission | Sep 23, 2018 | Story |
Author: John McLaughlin
“Christ, this place is a dump.”
Paul Braun glanced around the offices of Organic Transport, Columbus branch. Dust-streaked fliers pepper the walls:
Fifty-Thousand Credit Reward for Water Smugglers…
“Food Rioters To Be Shot On Sight,” says UN Commissioner…
A single clerk stood behind the counter, fidgeting nervously. “Good morning, sir,” the man greeted. He reached automatically for a brochure, the OT logo casting red flickers across his face. “How about an overview?”
“Yes, I think I’ll need one,” Paul said, fingering his sandy beard.
The man unfurled one leaflet for review, a list of transport options three feet in length. For the discerning refugee, a Platinum Organics plan was hard to beat: sentry guarded full-body transport through fifty years of spaceflight; thawing and reanimation at destination; and nano-repairs for any damaged goods. Paul didn’t even waste a glance at those.
Unfazed, he jumped ahead to the skimpiest Basic option: one and a half kilos of biomass, whatever you could fit in the canister. Just enough room for a brain and some spinal fluid to keep it happy. For an additional fee, the brain would be transplanted into a cloned body at destination.
Perfect. Paul had just enough to cover three Basics.
He opened his wallet to pluck out a credit chip, his last one, and shoved it into the clerk’s waiting hand.
A moment passed. The man frowned, knitting caterpillar eyebrows. “Mr. Braun, I’m afraid we can accept only one cephalon.”
“Excuse me?”
“One brain, sir.”
“How’s that possible?” Paul demanded.
“It appears that BC Ranger will be the last Basic cargo haul out of North America,” the clerk said, “and totally filled to capacity. In fact, I’ll be onboard as well.”
He smiled, punched another key. “You’re quite lucky. This spot opened up just yesterday. Passenger accident–antifreeze failure during the cooldown phase.”
“What good does one spot do me?” Paul grated. “There’s myself and my two daughters.”
“Ah-h-h.” The man dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry but there’s a strict first come, first serve policy. Only a limited amount of tissue can be supported by the coolant system, you see.”
“There must be a way,” Paul mumbled to himself, voice trailing into silence. “Emma and Janice…”
Something came to him just then, a flicker of memory from a high school lecture–the classic case of split personalities. He could hear Mr. Sorrano pontificating: It is a curious fact of human psychology, that an entirely distinct persona can inhabit each hemisphere of the brain…
—
Paul stands in the immense shadow of the cargo liner, squints up at its frame. The few blackbirds left in the sky are drawing slow circles.
When the Ranger’s fusion jet finally kicks in, he turns and winds a path back through the empty lot.
He imagines the human diaspora hurtling towards interstellar space–an expanding sphere of fireflies fleeing a broken homeworld. There would be chaos; war and privation were almost ensured. Whatever fate brought next, the girls would need each other to survive.
He smiled. The bio-canister had been small indeed; small, but with room enough for its precious cargo. Two lifetimes woven through fourteen hundred grams.
Paul steals a last glance at the ship as it burns an arc over the horizon. One thought gave him solace: At least I know you’ll stick together.
by submission | Sep 22, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mark Joseph Kevlock
The metaphysical archive didn’t have as many visitors as it used to. Satch understood that. Still, he treated each one with all the kindness he could muster. The past was important to keep alive.
Round about six-thirty on Saturday night, a young couple came in. Nervous and fumbling in their attitudes toward one another, they must’ve been on only their third or fourth date, Satch could tell.
“A pleasant good evenin’ ta’ you,” he ushered them into the lobby and took their coats. “Welcome to the North American substation J2, of the metaphysical archive of planet Earth and its inhabitants. My name is Satchel Johnson. What can I show ya’?”
“This is Ellen. I’m Tom,” the young man said. “We’d like to start off with a personal tour.”
“Sure thing,” Satch said. “We’ll get you to the screening room right away. Just need your full names, dates of birth, and DNA profiles.”
Satch scanned their I.D. cards into the system and went up to the control booth. Ellen and Tom sat down holding hands in the darkened personal theatre and shared a kiss.
“Ready?” Tom asked his date.
“Sure,” Ellen replied.
“Okay, let’s start with the moment I decided to be conceived…”
Up in the booth, Satch located the appropriate recording and ran it for the youngsters.
Tom lent narration to the footage.
“There I am without form in the void. You can tell that my soul-self had grown restless with the lack of physicality.”
“You had such a cute soul,” Ellen commented.
“Watch now, here it comes,” Tom said. “There! There I go into Earthly reality, right into that egg inside my mother.”
“That was adorable,” Ellen said.
Tom shouted additional directions to Satch in the booth: “Okay, could you fast forward nine months, please?” Then to his date: “I want to show you the moment I decided to be born.”
Ellen squeezed Tom’s hand. “Lucky for me you did,” she said, playfully.
Satch grew a smile on his old face. Forty years and nothing changed. Young men still courted potential brides with revelations of vulnerability shared.
Tom toured Ellen through his birth footage and several key moments from his life afterward.
“What shall we view next?” he asked.
“How about the dawn of Man?” Ellen chose. “I haven’t seen that since I was six years old.”
“Comin’ right up,” Satch told them. He didn’t have to search for this footage; it was among the most popular in the archive. Satch marveled again at Humanity’s good fortune, that the Lagonians happened to be traveling past our planet at just the right moment to capture such monumental events as part of their galactic research.
“Look at that primordial soup,” Ellen said. “I’ve never seen a color like that!”
“Wait, there’s the spark!” Tom pointed across the interactive landscape. “The first thought created by what would someday become a human being — just a flash of electricity, that’s it.”
“And everything after has led to us,” Ellen gave herself over to a long, passionate kiss.
Satch grinned, over the wonderful self-centeredness of youth. He closed up the archive after ten, sensing that no other customers would visit tonight. He remembered when the concept was new: Man’s fascination with the notion that each of us created our own reality. Now it had become merely accepted fact. But for those who still felt the wonder of it all, Satch would be there, tonight and every night.
by Stephen R. Smith | Sep 21, 2018 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Rebecca stood in the middle of her little gallery and surveyed her work. She’d hoped her recent direction was going to be different, maybe spark some kind of reaction from this sleepy little town, but the series hadn’t gotten anything more than polite smiles.
Not one piece had sold. She should never have left Chicago.
Her mournful reverie was broken with a crash, as her boyfriend barreled through the front door struggling with the apparent weight of a large plastic bucket.
“Becc, you’ve gotta see this stuff,” he deposited the pail heavily at her feet, causing thick liquid to splash over the sides, “it’s from that meteorite we saw hit the woods.”
Rebecca surveyed the bucket of viscous, deep coloured liquid, and the splatters across the barnboard floor and her sandal-clad feet, a mix of anger and distaste brewing at the back of her throat.
“Lewis,” she started slowly, “what have…,” she paused, the sudden urge to touch the liquid replacing her annoyance, and she plunged one hand into the pail, pulling it back and studying the near luminescent swirling glove of colour that enveloped her to the wrist.
“It’s beautiful,” she turned and wiped a large stripe across one of the closest finished canvases on the wall. Using both hands, she began smearing the material, pushing out to the edges until the surface was covered completely. She was enthralled as she worked the material, at different thicknesses and stroke directions, it became many different colours, like gasoline on water.
“Get it all,” she turned, fixing Lewis with a stare, “I need all of it.”
Lewis simply nodded as he exited the same clumsy way he’d come in.
Rebecca dragged the bucket around the gallery, covering every canvas she could find with scenes that seemed to her to be almost alive; landscapes with people who seemed to sway of their own accord as the material shimmered in the light and shadow. She made portraits of figures with deep shadows where their eyes and mouths should be, featureless creatures whose gaze nevertheless seemed to follow her around the room as she worked.
Over the next few days, Lewis brought several more buckets into the gallery before he stopped coming at all.
Rebecca didn’t notice.
Someone came in and left with a painting, Rebecca too preoccupied to bother about taking money for it, and before long others came and left, each with a piece of her new found art. Word spread, and as quickly as she could finish the paintings, they were carried off to people’s homes, the surfaces not even dry.
When she ran out of her own canvases, she cannibalized other artwork she owned, and when they were gone she tore covers off the hardback books she’d collected and painted those.
Once she’d run completely out of the liquid, and lacking anything on which to paint anyways, she left the gallery for the first time in weeks.
Walking past her large front windows, she caught her own reflection in the glass. Branches had grown from her back and shoulders, pushing through the fabric of her shirt to reach skyward, gnarly and grotesque. Her face a spiderweb of bruised lines, undulating in waves beneath the surface. She paused to straighten her shirt collar before turning back to the sidewalk.
Across the street, she watched as one of the townsfolk sublimated while walking past the coffee shop. He turned to step off the curb into the street and, just as a sudden gust of wind blew past, he simply became smoke.
She made it perhaps twenty more steps towards the downtown before stopping, a desire stronger than any gale force wind forcing her back.
She turned and headed instead, unimpeded, towards the edge of town.
As the ‘Welcome to our community’ sign faded behind her, and the sound of the interstate was carried to her ears on the evening breeze, she knew it wouldn’t be long.
A city was calling.
