by submission | Sep 8, 2017 | Story |
Author : Jules Jensen
Dancing white light fills the citadel through the many holes in the ceiling. Mournful wind howls through the massive chamber, rustling the ragged clothes on the corpses of men and women that cover the whole floor.
One remains alive. He sits on the floor at the end of the huge room. His black leather armour and the silver blade at his side have seen better days. He looks to be thirty or so, yet aged beyond his years to the point of frailty.
The large doors at the end are already open, and do nothing to stop the casual entry of four men. Each of them wore silvery armour, their backs adorned by strange cylinders and engines that look to weigh forty pounds.
“King Evander.” The man in the lead says, lacing the title with scorn.
“Betrayers of the light.” The man on the floor says, not even looking up.
His machine-packing enemy snorts at this outdated notion that accepting technology means he’d betrayed the light that granted humans magic.
“The Emperor of Steel and Thunder has asked for your execution.”
“That is a grand mistake.” King Evander gets up off the floor. Despite his withered appearance he manages to look regal.
The man leading the other three holds up a hand, signalling to his allies that he will do this alone. Then he starts to run, stepping on the floor between the many limbs of the dead followers of King Evander.
The cylinders on his back roar to life, and he launches up into the air, sailing towards the King. He raises a long thin sword that has some wires connecting the hilt to his back.
Evander is ready for it, though. He holds perfectly still, closes his eyes, and then there’s suddenly a sphere of red light that encircles him. The flying man’s sword smashes into the barrier, and electricity crackles sickeningly from the blade across the magical shield.
The King smoothly motions with his arm, as if he were pushing an invisible person aside. The shield explodes outwards, sending the other man flying back. He flips over in the air, the pack struggling to balance him, and he lands hard on his feet. The King wastes no time in rushing forward, sword raised, deadly calm on his face.
The man with the flying machine draws a strange thing from his side that’s no more than a handle and short cylindrical barrel. He points it at the charging King.
A thunderous boom echoes in the citadel. The King falls to his knees amongst his dead followers. He gasps and holds his chest.
“The Emperor was right. This was an easy mission.” The man in the glimmering metallic armour says with a grin. “Only fools like you and the ignorant peasants that serve the Emperor think that magic is a necessity of the world. The time of technology is on the rise. Your death proves that…”
The man trailed off as he noticed the King slowly start to stand up, despite the fatal wound.
“What is this? What’s going on?” The man asks, angry and confused. He points his weapon at the King, and there’s another echo of deafening thunder. The King jerks a little, but does not go down.
Movement all around them make the men with the flying packs exclaim in terror. The people on the floor were getting up, even though they were dead.
As was the King. Who was smiling.
“Killing me has only made my magic, and my army, stronger.” The King’s voice was cold, full of quiet rage and strength. “It is time for magic to rise, and technology to fall.”
The Emperor’s men don’t stand a chance. After falling at the hands of the King, they too rise, mindlessly ready to obey their new leader.
King Evander sets out immediately, intent on taking back his lands and his people by any means necessary, even in death.
by submission | Sep 7, 2017 | Story |
Author : Kraig Conkin
“The dogs are barking,” Hannah whispers. We scurry to the cabin window.
“What are they barking at?” I ask.
“Something’s coming up the path.”
***
We’d been playing “Life.” We always play stupid board games when we come to the cabin. Hannah was winning. Hannah always wins, usually by cheating. That’s why, when she pointed out the picture window, I thought it was one of her tricks to get me to look away from the board.
“What the heck is that?” Dad said, getting up from his chair.
Knowing Dad wouldn’t help Hannah trick me, I turned and saw it too- a bright, blue light hovering above the tree tops. We all stood at the window and watched the light pulse a few times then change to pure white.
I heard Dad get his camera. Dad was always taking pictures. That’s what he did for his job- working for magazines and newspapers.
The light changed color, this time to orange, and pulsed so bright it looked like the sun had come up.
When the light went dark, the ship, now just a dark circle, slid through the sky, paused and descended into the treetops.
“It’s landing,” Dad said between camera clicks.
“What is it?”
“Spacemen, dummy,” Hannah explained.
Dad moved to the hall closet, checking the batteries in the flashlight. “Now, Hannah,” he warned, “what have I told you about jumping to conclusions?”
Hannah looked at him like he was crazy. “It’s totally spacemen, Dad.”
Dad whistled for Nanook and Honey, who rose from where they were sleeping in the mud room. “I’m going to get a better look… at whatever it might be. You girls stay put. I’ll lock the door behind me.”
He slid the silver keys from the hook next to the door.
“Keep the lights off while I’m gone,” he said, giving us his serious look.
We heard the key in the lock and the deadbolt slide home, then we watched from the window as Dad and the dogs walked toward the woods.
But when Dad passed the kennel, he called the dogs back. He patted their heads before putting them inside, then turned on the flashlight and followed the beam into the trees.
***
The dogs are barking worse, jumping against the fence.
“I see something,” Hannah whispers.
A figure emerges into the moonlight.
“It’s Dad,” Hannah says.
“It can’t be,” I shake my head. “The dogs wouldn’t bark at Dad.”
But I’m wrong. It is Dad. I feel a rush of relief.
“Why isn’t he using the flashlight?” Hannah asks.
When Dad passes the kennel, he stops and looks at Nanook and Honey, who are still snarling and growling, going crazy.
Dad has a strange look. It’s like he doesn’t recognize the dogs- almost like he hasn’t ever seen a dog before at all.
Then he looks away from the kennel and at the cabin. His eyes find Hannah and I in the window.
The relief I felt when I saw him step from the woods evaporates completely as I watch Dad, or whatever it is, fish the key to the cabin from his pocket and walk toward the porch.
by submission | Sep 6, 2017 | Story |
Author : Henry Gribbin
I am a searcher. In the past I have searched for god, little green men and the spirits of my ancestors. I have come up short all three times. However, I always felt that there was something out there, something different from what I have experienced in my life, and if I kept looking I would find it. Truth be told it found me.
I am a self proclaimed gentleman farmer. I grow corn on twelve acres of ground in central Pennsylvania. If I wanted to plow my land under and make a baseball field I could afford to do so. My neighbors (one is a dairy farmer and the other is a goat rancher) and I have been having some issues lately. It concerns drinking water, or the lack of it. You see, there are mountains to the east of us. Recently, an energy company bought the rights to the coal underneath said mountain. To get to that coal they basically cut the top of the mountain off and pushed the debris down it’s side. Also, a gas company bought property in our area and erected drills. Now we have fire in the sky at night. My neighbors and I believe that these actions polluted our ground water. There is a meeting scheduled for this evening to discuss these problems with agents from both companies at our local grange hall. Many other farmers were going to show up. It promises to be a testy affair.
It was dusk and I was getting ready to leave for the meeting. As a recently acquired habit I took a walk around my house and barn. Since our dear energy companies made their appearance, bears, mountain lions and other wild creatures have made their appearance known in our neck of the woods. I always go armed now which was lucky for me because I saw something which sent shivers up my spine. Along the outer perimeter of the corn field I saw a large red eye looking at me. I started to move back to the house, and the thing followed me. It looked to be on four legs, but I couldn’t get a good look at it. All I could see was the red eye. I unholstered my sidearm and kept moving. Then it sprang. I shot and whatever it was plopped to the ground. I slowly walked over to whatever it was. It was one hell of a shot. I got it right under its jaw, and the bullet went through its heart. Its hide was the fairest shade of grey I had ever seen. It appeared to be a mountain lion, but I have never seen a one-eyed cat like that. I went to the house and came back with some tarp. I covered the cat and put it in the back of my truck and went to the meeting.
The meeting itself was under way when I got there. The company reps were denying any knowledge of contaminated water, livestock being mutilated and any other thing they could think of to deny. I walked to their table and dropped my bundle. There was an uproar. I explained what had just happened a short time earlier. Other neighbors said they thought they had seen something like the thing lying on the table but were afraid to speak out because people would think they were making it up. The company reps made a hasty retreat, and the rest of us came up with a plan to combat our one-eyed friends.
Sometimes things should be left alone. Mountains are one such thing. They were formed eons ago by natural forces. But sometimes they were formed to bury things which were not meant to see the light of day again. One-eyed cats are a good example.
by Stephen R. Smith | Sep 5, 2017 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
When I came to your world, when I stumbled into your city on the edge of the desert, you paid me no mind.
Your guards bullied me like any other vagabond in the streets, laughing as they tripped me, pounded their chests in fits of bravado.
Your peasants took pity on me, a weary traveler, fed me, gave me water. They knew what it was like to have nothing, and they happily shared what little they had.
When I showed them how to pull water from the ground, when I showed the artisans how to make steel that would never dull, how to fashion glass from the sand, you took notice.
When I talked to them about equality, and rights, and justice, they took turns hiding me while your soldiers searched their homes. They took the beatings without giving up my name, without giving up my whereabouts.
Without giving up.
When I turned the coal from their kilns and forges into the rarest of diamonds, they fell to their knees and prayed to me.
When I refused to do the same for you, you broke my bones, lashed me to a horse and sent us off into the blowing sand in search of the horizon, and certain death.
That would have been the end of any mortal man.
But only a fool would have mistaken me for a mortal man.
I don’t know how long the beast dragged my unconscious body into the desert before it collapsed. I don’t know how much longer before I awoke.
But I do know that I found your puny little planet in an endless void, do you not think I will find you again in this tiny patch of sand?
Do you believe that one who can summon water from the earth itself, and squeeze dust into diamonds, would struggle with mending this broken suit of flesh and bone?
You will know me when I come for you, astride the noble beast you sacrificed so cruelly. We’ll rise, out of the very sand you thought would protect you from me, to ride through to the heart of your city. You’ll feel the fury rise from the fire I’ve lit in the hearts and minds of your people with my ideas, flames that you’ve been fanning with your abuses and self indulgent lust for power. That inferno will consume you in the ivory towers in which you cower.
I’m going to raze your palaces to the ground and let your peasants pick your carcass clean.
I’ve met you on every world, and in every city, and I’ve never once let you remain.
What makes you think you’re any different?
by Julian Miles | Sep 4, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The dim glow of combat lighting is broken by a single white spotlight, which goes out as our new officer scrambles through the side hatch, barely slowing from a flat sprint. I don’t blame him. There’s several varieties of lethal flying about outside.
“Good morning. I will be your tank today. As we are now ready to depart, please ensure all genitals and other munitions are stowed safely.”
The officer rolls over and – her! – eyes are a breathtaking shade of sky blue.
“Good morning, tank. My chesticles are secure, thank you for the reminder. Do I just call you ‘tank’ or do you have a callsign you use when a superior officer is bollocking you?”
There’s a strained silence, broken by the ‘thud’ of the side hatch closing.
“Callsign ‘Gentry’, ma’am.”
She smiles and, just like that, I’m in love.
“Thank you for not mentioning anything involving upright positions, Gentry.”
The piercing eyes look about: “Sound off!”
The crew don’t miss a beat.
“Private Blachent. Loader, ma’am. Callsign ‘Greaser’.”
“Gunnery Sergeant Jones, ma’am. Callsign ‘Jupiter’.”
“Communications Officer Williams, ma’am. Callsign ‘Cleric’.”
“Private Raddle. Driver, ma’am. Callsign ‘Whiz’.”
“Corporal Neun. Driver, ma’am. Callsign ‘Dodge’.”
My turn: “Lieutenant Hallam, ma’am. Callsign ‘Comet’.
The new ruler of our chariot – and love of my life – keeps talking as she swings herself under, round, and up into the command saddle, without a trace of effort showing in her voice: “Captain Lallie Bann. Callsign ‘Spooky’.”
She wiggles herself comfortable: “You call me Spooky at all times, except in the presence of brass. Now, everything says you’re a top tank. So, if you would be kind enough to tell me the truth about Captain O’Donnell, we can get back to being a neighbourhood threat.”
I look about. Everyone’s looking at me. So, I gaze into those awesome eyes and lay it on like a smooth bastard.
“Mitch O’Donnell chose his own callsign. ‘Captain Kong’ is what we had to call him. Failure to do so was punished with a day spent scouring Gentry’s drainage channels. During combat, the Captain was usually involved in something important elsewhere – not that the roster showed that. When he did ride with us, we became a ‘hyena’: picking off damaged units from the outskirts of the engagement.
The last time he rode with us, a drone mine took out one of Gentry’s drives. With the front withdrawing, we were left on hostile ground to fix a massive piece of tank which would then need all of us to hold while Gentry realigned it. We were vigorously discussing Captain O’Donnell’s reluctance to get his kit dirty during realignment when some opposition wandered by and started using us for target practice. To our surprise, Captain O’Donnell volunteered to hold them off while we jury-rigged the alignment. Unfortunately, he sustained fatal wounds during the brave intervention that saved us all.”
She looks at me, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth: “I see. So, the accounts of a beleaguered crew fighting both enemy patrols and their own hysterical captain, repelling the former and subduing the latter, all whilst performing an ingenious ad-hoc fix to their tank, are erroneous?”
“Totally, ma’am.” Her eyes narrow. “Totally, Spooky. If we’d subdued him, he wouldn’t have ended up under our wheels, now would he?”
She smiles: “I’d bet that sharply creased uniform gave Gentry the extra traction it needed.”
Gentry interjects: “Captain Kong would have been honoured to know his remains served a purpose.”
Spooky bursts out laughing: “I doubt it, but, it’s more than he deserved. Enough. Move out!”
by submission | Sep 3, 2017 | Story |
Author : Janet Shell Anderson
I’m just a kid on my own. The question I have is, should I try to save the man who killed my Dad?
It’s just after dawn; the river’s still, silver, silken, the banks, shadowy. A heron yaps. I’m sitting across from the Three Sisters rocks. Ivan claimed three nuns died out there a long time ago. Now Ivan’s gone, probably buried in the walls near Meridian Park, with the other Disappeared, where 16th Street drops down to the Potomac.
I haven’t seen my brothers, David and Jonathan, in weeks. It’s midsummer, hot; the river smells like mud and fish. I‘m hungry. I stole some jerky, but I’ve eaten it all. My Dad worked down at 1600 Pennsylvania. I stay strictly out of there. My father should have too. He was killed. He knew too much.
People disappear in Rockville, Gaithersburg, Damascus, into camps. Half the city’s empty; there’s no traffic. Sometimes I hear artillery across the river.
A few days ago I was in upper Rock Creek, hunting, working my way into a dense thicket of small spruce, holly, mountain laurel, sweetbriar, when I smelled cigarette smoke and heard voices. I hunched down. Near the creek, two men appeared, hard looking, in camo, bio-armored, weaponed up, scary. Though I could see them, I made sure they could not see me.
“We’re taking out the Old Man,” one said.
“What the hell?” He was young, dark, looked startled, tossed a cigarette into the dirt road.
“Thursday at three hundred hours,” the first continued, a man with flat eyes, expressionless. “You’re in the detail. Word is, he’s gone too far. Meet at the Three Sisters on the river at two hundred hours. You know the drill. We’ll be at 1600 in fifteen minutes. On the roof. Then in the Residence.”
“They say the Old Man never sleeps.”
“What difference does that make?” I saw his eyes narrow, heard a drone overhead.
“Right.”
“Max doesn’t trust you, said you’d go down there to the Secret Service and warn them.”
“Who gave the order?” the younger man asked.
I knew the way you do somehow he shouldn’t have asked that. The first man turned casually, weapon in his hand, it hissed in the way they do, fired. The young one fell; the older spoke into his wristband as the drone approached. “You were right,” he said. “Couldn’t trust him.”
Afterwards, the woods were silent for a long time, even the grasshoppers in the meadow near the creek went still. Finally, I came out of the brush, and in the massive summer heat, the thick, humid air, bent over the dead man, looked. His eyes were open. He was young. A red and black ant climbed over his ear.
The forest behind me was a green silence.
Now it’s dawn. I stare at the small granite rocks in the river, The Three Sisters. I’ve heard it’s deep there, eighty feet. People drown.
My grandfather used to go see a poet housed in the insane asylum, Saint Elizabeth’s, not far from here. The poet wasn’t insane. He was a traitor. My Dad met him too, quoted some of his work.
“An ant’s a centaur in his dragon world. Pull down thy vanity, I say. Pull down thy vanity.” I’m not sure if that’s right, but that’s what I remember.
I watch the silver water slide past the rocks, the Three Sisters, see the white glitter of the rising sun, the line of it all the way to Virginia.
What should I do?
