by Julian Miles | Nov 7, 2016 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Doctor Jessup is terribly polite. We’re stirring our coffees before he asks his first question.
“What started it?”
I smile: “Why do they all add up to six?”
“Pardon?”
“You asked what started it. That question is the answer. I can’t remember when it became an actual question, though. I knew about fifty-one and forty-two, then Rory got shot while trying to climb into some facility north of Vegas. Said the Humvee they dragged him into had an ‘Area 24’ plaque on the dashboard. I asked my sources a lot of questions, got answers that ranged from outright ridicule to scrotum-shrivelling religious fanaticism. I let it go. There’s only so much time you can waste.”
He nods, then gestures for me to continue.
“Two years later, I’m on a helicopter bound for Yellowknife.”
His expression conveys the unasked question.
“Oil rig maintenance.”
Another nod.
“Storm came out of nowhere. Pilot saved us, but we all thought our chances were slim, lost in a snowstorm in the wilds of Alaska. Until a camouflaged, balloon-tyred Humvee turned up. It had a plaque on the dash, too: ‘Area 33’. When I asked, they said nothing. Just drove us south for ages, in silence, to a waystation. Then unloaded us, turned round, and drove off.
As soon as I got back to civilisation, I started making a fuss on alternative media. A few people contacted me. Areas 1 thru 30, they’re mainly Nuclear Test Sites. Six is one of the most irradiated areas on the planet.
It took me a long while to work through the rest of the chaff. But, last month, I got down to one area: 60. Not the Philly AA, but some vague location referenced in conspiracies featuring disappearing people, lost villages and flying battleships.”
He puts his mug down: “So what happened?”
I smile: “You did. The timing is too neat.”
Jessup laughs: “You think I’ve been sent by some secretive government organisation?”
Our gazes lock: “Would I be wrong?”
“I’m here at Serena’s request.”
“Just a moment. My girlfriend asked you to pretend to be a doctor?”
“I’m a psychiatrist. Serena asked me to check on your sanity.”
My world lurches. Jessup rises. While I gasp for breath, Serena takes the seat he vacated.
“Carlos, please stop this.”
I do a double-take, then stare at her: “I thought you, of all people, understood. I also thought you were at your sisters.”
She smiles sadly: “Doctor Jessup called, said he’d finally arranged to meet you.”
I feel hot and queasy. As I lurch to my feet, the worried look that flashes across her face decides me.
“Let me take a leak, then we’ll go.” It’s time to stop this, for her – no, our – sakes.
Shakily, I head for the toilets. Jessup has a hand against my shoulder, concern clear on his face. I’m through the door, looking for the sign to the gents, when it hits me: my shoes are ringing on steel deck plates.
His voice has a lazy southern drawl it didn’t possess just now: “Area 60 hasn’t been entirely in-phase since 1943. Getting attention drawn to it makes it more difficult to shift; a limitation loosely related to influencing quantum states by observation, I’m told.”
He stabs me in the back.
Selena catches me as I fall. Over her shoulder, I see the bulkhead door closing on a view of the restaurant – in a reality I’ve just left.
As the lights start to dim, I hear her whisper: “You’re too righteous to recruit, so it’s burial at quantum sea. Goodbye, dear fool.”
by submission | Nov 6, 2016 | Story |
Author : Robin Husen
She stood on a cliff above the city and watched it burn. Buildings flared, flamed and disappeared into smoke, silent in the seconds before the sound reached her. She remembered plucking dandelion clocks, and blasting them apart with a puff of air. You were supposed to make a wish, but she could not remember anything she’d wished for.
Pressed into her palm was the tiny time device. She had one trip back, to unwind the flames and reconstruct the city from its rocks and dirt. The hanging had started it all, and she had stood in the front row. _My father was a despot, but he would have stopped all this_. No more dandelions after that, no more royal gardens.
She hit the button and the world dissolved. She found her father in the throne room with his robes undone.
“You must run.” She showed him the device. His family heirloom, lost with her in exile. When the mob came, the throne room was empty. Some sensed a trap and tried to bolt before the doors slammed. This was no time to show mercy. These men had hung her father once, and made her watch.
And yet it hadn’t happened. The raw, fresh bite of what had been undone. The king became a shadow of a man, scared to speak in case his every word should unleash civil war. She ruled in his name, and stamped out the flames of insurgence, or even when she smelled smoke.
When the rebels came again, they came for her. Her father took her place in the front row. The crowd parted to guide her to the gallows. She breathed her last air and heard them cheer as the noose dropped. Her consciousness scattered like dandelion seeds. She wished they would burn.
by submission | Nov 5, 2016 | Story |
Author : Sheryl Normandeau
“See these skyscrapers here?” he says, jabbing a finger at the pile of photographs splayed out on the tabletop. “I made ‘em all.”
I stare up into the red-rimmed eyes of Phillipe L’Oiseau, and frown. The man is staggeringly drunk, and the worn, yellow-edged photos in front of me are of the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Building, the Burj Kalifa. And the Egyptian pyramids.
“Mr. L’Oiseau,” I say, “I didn’t come all this way to interview you and have you feed me bullshit. I told you, I work for The National Tribune. My publisher and I aren’t interested in printing fantasy stories. We’re about real news. I’m here to talk to you about your upcoming urban farming project in Singapore.”
Phillipe leans back in his chair and runs his hands through his thick dark hair. I had done my homework, of course, before I embarked on this difficult journey from Toronto to this hole-in-the-wall bar in Bratislava, but I had been unable to find many photographs of Monsieur L’Oiseau, the lead architect on the Aeroharvest contract. The ones I had managed to uncover online were from the late ‘Eighties. Forty years of living – and drinking, if tonight was any indication – had not burned a single line in the man’s face, nor painted slashes of white along his temples.
“No,” he says, and he suddenly looks very sober to me. “You’re not here about vertical greenhouses. You’re here because of your mother.”
I’ve been a journalist for nearly two decades and I’ve schooled myself not to react when someone springs a whammy on me. But his words make my heart skid against my breastbone, and it takes me too long to reply. “How did you know?” I finally whisper. Because the man is right – despite what I told Jackie, my publisher, I didn’t come to Slovakia to discuss concrete and glass and steel with Phillipe L’Oiseau. I came to tell him about my mother’s death, and her revelation about the father I never knew.
I stare at the photographs on the pocked, stained table. The steely reporter can no longer bring herself to face the man she is interviewing. “How many of us are there?”
Look up at the skyscrapers, then beyond them, at the stars. You’ll see.
by submission | Nov 4, 2016 | Story |
Author : Russell Bert Waters
My name is Alex.
Today is Saturday, September 24, 2016.
It’s a bit overcast outside.
There’s a nice breeze.
The trees are beginning to drop their leaves, and Autumn is right around the corner.
I hope this letter finds you well.
There are some things I feel I must tell you about; even warn you about.
A year ago, I invented a device to make events in time travel to me.
You read that right.
Not a device for me to travel in time, but quite the opposite.
Everyone who’s been working on this, to right wrongs, to make themselves wealthy, whatever their motivation, has been looking at it backwards.
I can’t go deeper into the technicalities.
I don’t have much time, I fear.
There are notebooks full of my findings, some of which are filled with information I eventually deemed irrelevant.
Yesterday, I killed a man using a discarded chunk of concrete at a construction site for a new Walmart.
I’m in hiding now, of course, as it’s very hard to do anything unseen these days.
Any time of the day or night, there are always people around.
The man I killed somehow had some of my notebooks.
They were not the irrelevant ones, unfortunately.
I’m not sure how long he had them.
Hopefully he didn’t show them to anyone, or make copies, but considering recent events, I feel that’s unlikely.
Someone’s coming, I need to stop writing now, I’ll tell you the whole story when I can come back here.
If I can come back here.
My name is Alex.
It is Saturday, September 24, 2016.
It’s about ten degrees below zero, actual temperature, and the howling wind outside makes it feel like it’s closer to twenty below.
About a year ago, the United States government’s researchers developed a device to bring various events in time to the user of the machine.
Evidently making matter, such as a human being, travel through time, is far less easy to achieve than it is to bring points in the timeline to the human in question.
The reason I’m writing this journal entry of sorts is because I’m scared.
I’m being hunted by serious men who seem to have unlimited resources.
I’m having strange dreams that I don’t understand.
I just want this all to end; I just want to be safe again.
Yesterday, I had to kill one of these men, at a construction site for one of the government-run mega stores.
I’m hiding in an abandoned out-building on some farm property outside of town.
I’m thankful to have found a bin containing one of the worker’s dirty coveralls.
Thermal-lined for extreme weather, super lightweight, and somehow it doesn’t make me sweat or feel hot.
I’m actually comfortable right now.
I’m not sure why I’m being hunted, but that’s the only word I can come up with for what’s been happening.
I know it’s only a matter of time before they get to me, and I need to tell you some things.
I need to warn you about some things.
I’m hearing some noises outside, I need to hide, I’ll write more later if I’m able to.
My name is Alex.
Today is Saturday, September 24, 2016.
The rain has slowed down some, but even when it’s raining it still feels tropical; the humidity doesn’t lessen one little bit.
It’s about 97 degrees right now.
Feels more like 115 in my opinion.
Last year, the Emperor’s valued research team developed a time travel machine.
I’m writing this letter because I’m scared.
Very, very, scared.
by submission | Nov 3, 2016 | Story |
Author : Leanne A. Styles
I woke, squinting through the harsh dawn light; the girl’s bloodied face emblazoned on my brain. It was always the same girl, from the Whirlpool galaxy. I couldn’t remember which planet. They all blurred into one.
Like the battles. The explosions.
The walls of my cube apartment seemed to be pulsing in and out, the glass wall at the back rattling violently, threatening to shatter at any moment.
Nothing was moving really. It was just the withdrawal ‒ all in my head.
I heaved myself from bed and staggered over to the coffee table, snatching up the bottle of Blue Titan Rum and unscrewing the cap before swigging a few large gulps.
The room stilled and the girl’s face began to fade, her ruined features becoming less defined, as the alcohol assaulted my senses.
I headed over to the glass wall and looked out over the city. Opposite, in the soaring apartment block which mirrored mine, the residents were rousing. Most, like me, were ex-military; forgotten heroes of the famous Galaxies war. To the left of the blocks, the holographic billboard, spanning the faces of several buildings, had a new campaign.
It was a Galaxies war recruitment drive. A young man wearing full body armour and a shiny new helmet stood proudly in the middle. His mirrored visor was pulled down, covering most of his face.
He could have been anybody. Just another number.
Running down the right side in big letters read the slogan:
The Galaxies War
For The Justice
For The Liberty
For The Glory
The girl’s face, buried in the rubble, crept back into focus. I lifted the bottle to my lips and repeated my own slogan in my head.
The Galaxies War
For The Lies
For The Horror
For The Nightmares
I stretched up onto my tiptoes, peering over the edge of my balcony. The suicide nets had been down for two weeks. An all-time record.
Shame it wouldn’t last.
It was zero six hundred hours. Betting time. I logged in, and the left half of the glass flickered into life, displaying the betting site. I sat down on the coffee table and placed my first bet on a robot I fancied in a boxing match, and another on a sandhog battle. But the big money bets were happening on a private chat between a dozen or so army buddies in my block.
It was the same bets every day.
Will anyone jump today?
Who will jump?
What time?
And so on.
Just one win would have been enough to get me out of the hole I was in. But my soul was screwed enough as it was.
I took another gulp of rum, and watched my robot get obliterated to scrap by his rival.
Movement from across the void caught my eye. A young man had emerged into his balcony and was staring over the side.
The betting started going wild on the chat.
The sandhog battle kicked off. My hog came out strong and bloodthirsty, mercilessly setting upon his smaller opponent.
The young man climbed onto his railings.
My hog grew cocky, made a mistake, started to tire. The inferior hog seized his chance. Blood gushed from my hog’s throat, staining the dirt where he’d fallen…
The girl’s face came racing back.
The young man jumped.
I raised my bottle and said, “For the glory,” before necking the last of the rum.
To a soundtrack of screaming and sirens, I placed a bet on the next jumper.
Soul? What soul?
by Stephen R. Smith | Nov 2, 2016 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
The elevator descended to the hospital basement, and she followed the orderly through the open doors and down a pale green hallway. He was speaking, but she listened instead to the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights, and her heels striking a staccato rhythm against the linoleum floor with exquisite clarity. Distracted, she missed most of what he said.
“…not uncommon for the initial emotional response to be overwhelming. You’ll find the dampeners will help balance it out if it gets too much. You’ll find a comfortable level once you learn to control it…”
A set of double doors swung open as they approached, and closed behind them once they’d passed.
He stopped near the end of the hall at a single solid door, and turned to face her.
“Are you ready? I’ll be right here if you need me.”
“Yes,” she spoke, the sound of her voice unfamiliar in her ears, “I’m ready.”
He opened the door and stepped into the room beyond, then held it for her until she’d followed him inside.
In the middle of the room was a gurney, lit by a single overhead fixture that bathed its length in cool white light. On the gurney itself was the body of a man, draped in a clean blue sheet, turned down at the shoulders. The rest of the room was obscured in shadow, but this is why she was here. To see him.
She moved around the body, studying his face from all angles. His skin now grey and lifeless, his hair, once deep auburn now streaked with grey and white at the edges. His eyes were closed, but she could picture in her mind the crystal blue that they were when he was alive.
“Can I…”, she hesitated, reaching without realizing towards him.
“Touch him?” the orderly replied, “of course, yes, he won’t mind.”
She smiled despite herself at the awkward remark, this must be new to him as well.
She cradled the man’s face in her hands, then ran her fingers through his hair, as she’d done a thousand times before. The sensation was so much different now, the texture of each strand against her skin captured with such fidelity.
A sudden flush of heat started in her chest and rose through her neck into her cheeks. She could feel her heart racing, and a sudden feeling of panic crashed over her like a tidal wave.
“It’s alright,” the orderly was speaking again, “It’s alright, give it a moment and the dampeners will kick in.”
She gripped the side of the gurney with both hands until the feeling passed, and a calmness crept in. A soothing cool pushing the overwhelming emotions aside.
“It will take some time with the new suit while it adjusts to your personal emotional stimuli.” He was facing her across the body now, watching her. “There are safeties, obviously, that will catch things before they can get out of control. Once the initial calibration period is behind you, you’ll be able to access and control specific tolerances to sensation, light and sound, and establish your own comfortable emotional boundaries.”
She looked back at the lifeless body on the gurney before her.
“I imagine it’s quite a shock,” the orderly continued, “to see yourself like this.” From his tone she could tell he was original equipment himself.
“Not really,” she replied, “he hadn’t been me for years.”
