by submission | May 4, 2017 | Story |
Author : Suzanne Borchers
Wind ground sand into her eyes, nose, and lips. Her unprotected ears caught crystals of silica within their folds. Her eyes burned. She wanted to pick at the stubborn particles with her fingers but forced herself to wait. It would be pointless. She opened her mouth to call for him. Choking and spitting, no words came out.
She should have kept her mouth shut inside the bunker. She cringed remembering her shouted words. “How many times can you read that book? Why did you bring me to this forsaken hell hole? I hate this howling wind and noise! And do I have to do everything? When was the last time you checked the plants? Are you afraid to go outside? Say something!” Helpless, she had watched herself shouting louder and louder. So he had hesitated to check on the vegetation dome during a sandstorm–a hell storm of sand, dirt and stones. The dome could have waited until a less windy day. But she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. She had to open her mouth and drive him outside. And now she couldn’t open her mouth without breathing in sand.
She should have worn protective gear before she stepped out into the raging storm. Her suit hung beside his in the entryway. He had stormed out the door in anger and left behind his gear. Her words had shoved him outside.
Immediately sorry, she had swept out into the storm—unprotected, vulnerable. She squinted hard against the flying debris but he was gone. She bent over double into the wind forcing her feet down in the general direction of the dome. She was blown back against the bunker, the air knocked out of her. She gasped, sucking in a fistful of sand. Choking and sputtering, she emptied her lungs.
Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?
Maybe he was already in the dome. Maybe she would be able to hold him and feel his warmth. He would forgive her. He always forgave her outbursts. They would lie together and wait out the storm. There was enough water, and they would laugh about her quick-trigger tongue.
She turned again into the wind and clawed her way with one hand through the stinging hail of sand as she covered her mouth and nose with the other. She judged the length of each gust and set her feet squarely down between them toward the dome. The few feet to the building seemed to take a lifetime.
She fell on her face, coughing and spitting out sand. Her saliva was mud. What had she tripped over?
It was him—motionless and still. Tears coursed down her cheeks.
No! She needed him. She gripped his body and with all of her strength she moved him an inch. She squeezed her eyes to slits and saw a few more inches would get them to the door of the dome. She gritted her teeth, tasting the hard particles lodged in them, and pulled him to safety.
Once inside the dome, she rolled him over onto his back and felt for a pulse. “Don’t leave me!” she cried. She breathed air into his mouth and pushed his chest at intervals as she had been taught. When her breath was gone and sweat coated her face, arms, and legs, she stopped. He was gone. A sharp pain stabbed her heart.
She held him in silence except for the roaring wind and pelting sand.
How long would it be until her distress signals were answered—weeks, months, years? Never? How could she live? Who would listen to her stories? Who would laugh at her jokes?
Who would hold her and close her mouth with kisses?
by submission | May 3, 2017 | Story |
Author : Matthieu C. R. Cartron
The planetary nation of Ozda was illiterate—in English and in many other far away languages that is. It was practical to learn the languages of nearby planets, but beyond that it made little sense. A waste of time, actually.
Without a translator, it would have been difficult for them to communicate with Earth, a planetary nation thousands of light-years away they had never heard of—not until the neighboring planets had mentioned its cutting-edge technology. Apparently, Earth had the only solution to it, the devastating disease that jumped from planet to planet, wiping out populations as it went.
Scared out of their minds and desperate to evade the disease, planetary nations began to contact Earth. The terrestrials were pressured by these nations to share their medical technology, but the complexity of the vaccine, according to Earth, was far too difficult to explain in a reasonable amount of time. Planets were dying of course, and there was little time to spare.
But there was no need for concern. Earth had promised it could send out doctors to vaccinate the populations of the other planets, a feat that could be managed in less time than the cumbersome alternative.
Ozda’s request for a doctor was addressed promptly, and Dr. Ashford of Earth arrived in less than twenty-four hours, bringing with him hundreds of large crates, all filled with the coveted vaccine.
To speed up the vaccination process, Dr. Ashford demonstrated to the Ozdaen doctors the correct procedure for the administration of the vaccine. It was quite simple really, just a slight insertion at the shoulder and brief, downward application of pressure onto the plunger.
With the help of the Ozdaen doctors, Dr. Ashford had every citizen vaccinated in less than six hours. When Dr. Ashford was finished and ready to return home, he congratulated the governing body of Ozda and said that Earth would send a representative to check on the planet in a few weeks.
After Dr. Ashford’s departure, Ozda discovered that the neighboring planets, Jugtha, Regyte, and Iolat, had all been vaccinated at around the same time by other terrestrial doctors. The four planets all felt confident now that the threat of the mysterious disease was all but vanquished.
The people of Ozda returned to their daily lives, thankful for the service Earth had so selflessly rendered them. Perhaps they would now consider learning English, some of the citizens had even joked.
But three days later everything changed for the Ozdaens. It had begun with a cough and a mild headache.
When the representative from Earth arrived at Ozda several weeks later with several terrestrial families, he was hardly surprised by the scene in front of him.
After all, it wasn’t the first planet he had helped colonize.
by submission | May 2, 2017 | Story |
Author : Morrow Brady
I grew a heart on my intestine to prove my wife wrong.
”You’re wasting money Eric. You’ll only get cancer” Kara frowned, as I tossed the stem cell unit into the shopping trolley. I knew the risks of growing your own organs, but my mid-life aches and pains suggested now was the time.
At home, I started configuring biometrics and soon had a virtual beating heart. I set it to bake and minutes later removed the cooked stem seed from its bio-silica womb. After I swallowed it, the stem cells began stimulating new heart muscle growth on my intestine. In a fortnight, a beating bulge would appear.
I showed Kara the veiled network of blue veins under my stretched skin. She screwed up her face in disgust.
“Why a heart Eric?” She asked.
“It’s a spare. I might need it one day” I answered.
Months later, Box Medical harvested my fully grown heart and froze it.
“Are you done?” Kara blurted.
“No. I want to do the rest. Just in case.” I mumbled.
Five years later, I literally had a spare me on ice, ready to go.
Over time, my body began to fail and the backup transplantations began. By seventy, I owned the body of a twenty year old.
“You look ridiculous.” Kara said.
“It’s like I’m married to my grandson”
It was unnatural. Kara the ageing and me the ageless were growing apart. At seventy five, my new eyes saw precision once again. With the cataract years of fading colours and blurred vision past, I saw beauty all around. I also saw Kara’s wrinkles, liver spots and greying complexion. Old eyes, were beer goggles for the aged.
At 86, Box Medical transplanted my brain. I awoke dazed in the discharge suite. A lifetime of memories ordering themselves. Kara carefully helped me from the surgical pod. Her sunken eyes watching my rebirth. My naked, muscular physique, towering over her haunched figure, yet so reliant upon it for support. Kara lovingly held my arm tight with impossible strength. A wife’s helping hand for her feeble husband. As I emerged from my post-operative stupor, I slowly took over as the helping hand and guided Kara home. She knew I was back, as she let a brief smile touch her face. I saw then how frightened she was of being left behind. I pulled her tight. A hug sometimes is not enough.
“You’re home.” Kara’s voice crackled.
“I’m sorry darling. I wanted to live longer but I was only thinking of myself. I need you with me for more than one lifetime.” I trembled and held her frail body in my arms.
“It’s ok. Just make sure you take care of me” Her words stumbled short from saying until the end. It wasn’t right for her to talk of death, when her husband for sixty years, was so far from it.
Daffodils shot gold into green landscape as trees captured spring shadows once again. My children and I carried Kara to her grave. Hidden eyes burned into me for cheating death. For cheating Kara. But I was the one who had watched Kara’s mind fade. Watched her body dry up like an autumn leaf. In the end, her life was too long.
As we lowered her into darkness, the earth pile alongside the grave reminded me where it always ends. One day, earth would be piled on her grave when they buried me alongside. I then smiled as the thought, that in the end, when we are both buried deep below, everything would return to how it should have been.
by Julian Miles | May 1, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
He stands near three metres tall and his smell precedes him. It envelops all who dare approach the being renowned for murderous piracy on a scale never before seen. The wiry lad he towers over is, nigh-impossibly, even filthier. Both are in sharp contrast to the gleaming vessel they amble through.
“I be Flint. This be me tub, the ‘Black Harrier’.”
“What’s a ‘arrier?”
“A bloody great ‘awk known for ‘avin’ a mean streak. Likes what I get when swabs get nosey.”
The watery eyes in the grime-caked face blink. The mouth beneath snaps shut.
Flint nods: “Fast learner, ay? Good.”
The master strides forth on his gleaming trio of cyberlimbs. The rookie hurries to keep up, stumbling a little as his innate understanding of pace struggles to allow for a drunken gait complicated by three weaving legs.
“We use ta do our piratin’ in the ol’ overwhelm, ‘eave-to, an’ board way. Cost me four ships an’ so many crew it got to botherin’ me. Not that I gives a damn ‘bout you swabs, but replacin’ ya takes time an’ money, an’ I begrudge anythin’ what takes either offa me.”
He points up at the clusters of gleaming tubes high above: “Nowadays, I uses narrow beams to punch clean through me prey. Got me a wizkid who pulls up skee-ma-ticks so I knows how many bulkheads any tub ‘as, then I punches so many ‘oles they can’t stop the decompressin’. Then we just moves in an’ tows the hulk to one of me strippin’ stations to get cleaned out. What’s left is sold for scrap. Even got me contacts what buy body parts. O’ course, if we gets a high-value catch like a governmint boat or elite barge, we strips it on the spot an’ sends it into a nearby star. Thems the only scows likely to get a big fuss made over their disappearin’.”
Flint stops and looks down at the rookie: “Seems to me I sees a question in yer eyes. You be wondrin’ – if I be doin’ blast piratin’ – why I needs more men. This game be notorious for makin’ crews smaller. Space is fillin’ with bands o’ starvin’ brigands, every man-jack o’ ‘em bein’ dross dumped by their former Captains.”
The rookie nods.
Flint grins: “I like you. Got a fast grip o’ the essentials. Well, chew on this. I got shot o’ the dead weights on me crew right sharpish. All what remained was good, ‘ard, pirat-ee-cul scum. Trouble is, blast piratin’ got no fightin’. It’s all pree-zish-un. Thems what joined coz their souls havta fight hit dry times. An’ we all knows that a man who needs a fight can surely make one ‘appen, ‘specially in the comp’ny we keeps.”
The stinking Captain crouches down, extending a tentacle to pull the rookie up from where a cyberleg has knocked him.
“I seen ya, Krilla. Yer fast and ye pays yer dues. Steely when ya hazta go ‘ard, but got no need ta fight burnin’ under yer ‘ide. You’ll be replacin’ Dokfun: a lean, mean, sharp bein’ with a devil inside ‘e couldn’t shake and wouldn’t bring t’heel. ‘E started that fight to ease ‘is bloodlustin’ nature. You ended ‘im instead. Puttin’ that wit’ all else, I feels yer a man I can use and I’m offerin’ riches for yer time. You with me?”
Krilla smiles.
“That I am, Cap’n.”
The new shipmates stroll off toward the messdeck, followed by a discreet cloud of cleaning nanobots.
by submission | Apr 30, 2017 | Story |
Author : Irene Montaner
“And have a nice day,” said the cashier, as he handed me the brown paper bag with my purchases inside.
“You too.” I smiled back at the young boy in front of me. Probably no older than twenty and enjoying the thrills of his first job.
“No, I won’t.”
“I can imagine,” I said sympathetically. I turned around and saw an endless queue of people, mostly women, grabbing onto baskets loaded with trashy clothes, cheap shoes and myriads of creams and make-up. Poor boy, tormented by his first job.
“No, you can’t.”
Whenever I looked, chaos seemed to reign in this gigantic shop. A whirlwind of people busied themselves on this Sunday afternoon unfolding every item of clothing that had been neatly folded before the shop opened, untidying every rack of shoes, and opening every cream that was sealed with a ‘do not open’ seal. Heaps of clothes lay outside the many changing rooms, waiting for some shop assistant to fold them again and bring them back to their place. It was a most apocalyptical image; the worst nightmare of a communist, socialist, or whatever they called themselves these days.
Sundays are the new Saturdays, or so they say. Every Sunday hordes of people took over every shopping centre in town and wasted their time eyeing and touching everything on display before queueing forever to spend every hard-earned cent in crap they didn’t need. Some people, especially young girls, still went shopping in groups, but most consumers were lonely creatures who wandered around distractedly, their eyes fixed on those tablets that tailored their shopping to their needs and suggested everything they didn’t even know they wanted. It was also their preferred method to request a different colour or size; no need to interact with the army of assistants that raced from one corner to another, folding as much clothes as they could and refilling the shelves depleted of stock. It wouldn’t be long before those exhausted employees would be replaced by cyborgs who would not complain about low salaries, ungrateful customers or nightmarish Sunday afternoons.
“Next,” said the young cashier, anger showing in his voice.
Who knows how long I’ve been blocking his queue. I stopped daydreaming and realised that this was more an epiphany than a dream. “Son, do you know who I am?”
“No, and I don’t care.”
“Well, no need for you to know or care anymore ‘cos you’re fired.”
“Say what?” he said, angrier than before.
“You’re fired but don’t take it personally. I just think that some multitasking robots could handle this Sunday mess more efficiently. And they wouldn’t cost me as much as you.”
THE END
by submission | Apr 29, 2017 | Story |
Author : Russell Bert Waters
Kyle staggered a bit, the bank line in front of him morphed into a field, then a grassy patch of hill, then back to the line.
The man ahead of him shot him a suspicious glance, then looked back ahead as though no one existed.
Kyle’s transaction went well, and he was on his way across the wood, then marble, then bare dirt, floor of the bank.
He held the door for a lady who became an angry black man then the lady again.
Next would be the hardest part, as the sun became moon, then sun, then white-out blizzard, then sun again.
He had teleported so many times, once he had perfected the ability, his mind would never quite be the same.
You can only mess with your surroundings so much, it seems.
He hailed a cab, bus, weird little radio-controlled train, cab, and got into the leather, vinyl, crushed velvet seat in the back.
The driver asked him where to, and he just said “home”.
This wasn’t the answer the driver wanted, but he started driving down the road, wooden bridge, patch of desert, anyway.
In his line of work he knew his passenger would eventually come to his or her senses and be more specific; if not, well, the fare would just keep on creeping up.
Kyle did come to, as he sat in the VIP lounge couch, bar stool, park bench, back seat, and looked out the window at all of the ever-shifting scenery.
“Four four five Park street, driver. I’m sorry. Not myself today.”
The Armenian man turned into a mid-thirties white midget and said “not a problem, we’ve all been there” and then he turned into a bearded Amish-looking fellow as he navigated the roads before him effortlessly.
It didn’t start out like this, but it sure hadn’t taken long to progress to this point.
The worst aspect was probably the random nosebleeds, those could be embarrassing and hard to explain to the random stranger, whose shoes you’ve just dripped on, in an elevator.
When he made it home he thanked the driver, who now appeared to be an elderly Jewish man with eyeglasses.
The doorman at his apartment building was always glad to see him, as the door behind him shifted, and he changed repeatedly, he mentioned that Kyle had a visitor while he was out.
Kyle didn’t bother to ask for a description, because if he saw the person, they would likely not appear the same for more than a second or two anyway.
He collapsed onto his couch, pile of discarded tires, abandoned piece of plywood, and began to channel surf on his TV.
He wasn’t really paying attention, because, as with every other aspect of his life, Mr. Clean just became Jamie Lee Curtis, and it was just all getting so very disquieting.
There was a specialist in Minnesota he could see, who could maybe help him somehow, but he was increasingly afraid to teleport anywhere again.
“Maybe I’ll go tomorrow” he said to himself, as he stared at the wall, mountains, sparkling field of snow, behind the TV screen.
He lay his head down and decided he’d take a nap and dream of things that become other things, while longing for the day something inside his head would finally pop and end all of this. “I will go tomorrow” he mumbled, as his world went black.
