by submission | Dec 11, 2016 | Story |
Author : Robert Lafosse
She was on her way to the Kyiv National University of Construction. It was a glorious May morning, the sun beating down from a crystal blue sky. A light breeze ruffled her skirt a bit as she walked.
Olga hummed along to a tune on her iPod. Something by U2.
In the field off the path she noticed a group of squirrels milling about under a hornbeam tree. It was a fairly large pack, about 10 or 12, and they were hopping around and chasing each other.
They were red squirrels, of the genus Sciurus. Cute because of their tufted ears.
As Olga came closer, they stopped as a group and turned towards her. People didn’t bother them. They didn’t flee or poise themselves for flight. They just watched her.
She noticed that one of the squirrels was larger than the rest. Not much, maybe a few centimeters, but enough to make it stand out. As she watched, the larger squirrel started coming towards her, in that half hopping, half running way that squirrels have. This is odd, Olga thought, and slowed down to watch. The squirrel was coming directly towards her, seemingly immune to fear.
When it was about 5 meters away, it stopped and sat on its haunches. When it was closer Olga noticed that its eyes were abnormally large for a squirrel. They looked like lemurs eyes, big, round like marbles. And they were staring at her.
This made her feel uncomfortable. The pack of squirrels that the big one had abandoned had edged closer to the path as Olga was watching the larger one.
Turning on her heel, she started walking again towards the University. Only after a few dozen steps did she glance over her shoulder and notice that the larger squirrel was following her down the path. When she stopped to look at it, the squirrel stopped as well.
She started walking again, this time faster. A few quick peeks confirmed that the large red squirrel was following, and the pack of ‘normal’ squirrels were a few meters behind it.
Something akin to panic set in. The path was deserted, the park was dead quiet and she was being tailed by a scurry of squirrels.
Awash in fear, she bounded up the tree. The branches and leaves scratching at her face as she scampered up as fast as she could. The notion that squirrels were designed for climbing trees seemed to have escaped her.
The dray of squirrels rummaged about at the bottom of the tree. The big one was climbing.
It slowly pulled itself up, all the while staring at Olga as she was perched dangerously on the uppermost branch she could reach. But her path was not blocked. She could not go any higher, she could not descend without passing the big squirrel.
Unlike the scampering that squirrels usually do when climbing, its movements were slow and deliberate. All the while its large eyes fixed on Olga.
About 1 meter from Olga, it sat down. Her breath came in great gasps and she could hear her heart thundering in her chest.
After a few minutes, with the squirrel sitting still, Olga started to calm down.
“Have you calmed down young lady”, the voice was high pitched and had a slight Moscow accent. “My friends and I”, and it gestured down to the group at the bottom of the tree, “could not help but notice you have some peanut butter sandwiches. Would it be an imposition for you to share them with us?”
She could have sworn it smiled.
by submission | Dec 10, 2016 | Story |
Author : Janet Shell Anderson
The WORLSNEWS says she’s got the best body on the planet. So where’s Giovanna Tatiana Romanova Baldwin? Not in Gulf Stream/Delray.
The Secret Service’s going crazy at my cousin’s huge estate. He’s been elected Vice Pres. He thought they’d never win, didn’t bother to campaign. Now his wife Giovanna has disappeared for the third time. The Pres Elect is coming, and my cuz, Perry Austrian Baldwin, can’t find out from anyone why they’re supposed to have a victory tour in Delray. There’s nothing here anymore around Gulf Stream/Delray but old, big money, drunk in vast houses, secreted in deep shrubbery, while the rest of us riff-raff’re stuck with heaps of rusting motor cycles, vans, ancient SUVs; neon palm reader signs; huge oil rigs; tidal flooding. We’re awash in talking manatees, miniature Pleistocene mammals, rainbow marmosets that are very political, creatures not fashionable anymore. They can smell who you voted for and react accordingly. Now posh people collect teacup-sized, pot-bellied pigs that grunt salutes, quote Heidegger, Nietzsche.
There are Chinese gunboats in the waterway. I saw one as I crossed the bridge to the A1A. I’m Eudora Pennifer, divorce attorney. Giovanna’s friend. Half the country hates the new Pres Elect and Perry too, half loves them. The line’s at the Mississippi, except for Minneapolis, which hates everybody.
So I’m on the road to my cuz’s estate, but my self-driving car turns into a parking lot for a nude beach on the Atlantic side near Pelican Avenue, and, sure enough, I spot six Secret Service agents assigned to Perry, who decided to charge them all ninety-five thousand a week rent. Now they’re living on the beach. Their shoulder holsters look stark on guys not even wearing Speedos.
Is Giovanna here? What does this car know? The plan was she’d be long gone. I’d file. I squint in the glare. Could she be the one with the high, metallic mane, fourteen carat, glittering, flashing out some private code? Unlikely.
A big sign warns “Children of the Sun Only. No Trespassing.” A loose marmoset climbs on it, defecates. Is this political? The agents look to be following the glittering lady closely as she strolls among broken shells, seaweed, Styrofoam, pink condoms, blue poisonous Portuguese-men-of-war. Aphrodite in the waves. Beach cleaners on strike. The gunmen like the look of her.
This island’s narrow here. Through palms, across the two-lane highway, I can see the Gulf Stream Waterway and Chinese gunboats. They’re watching, like pirates, with old-fashioned spyglasses. Hunting treasure?
My car, on its own, departs the beach, hurtles up my cousin’s private drive that says, “Private Drive, Keep Out,” toward the waterway, where the Chinese gunboats glide in beside Perry’s infinity pool. A pygmy mammoth pops out of the jacaranda, his fur trimmed like a poodle, and cries, “Alas, alas. Babylon is fallen.” He looks awfully hot.
“I don’t wanna be Second Lady,” a young creature says. Second Lady? She looks twelve, though loaded with enough gold jewelry to weigh down Helen of Troy. She’s certainly not Giovanna.
“Don’t worry,” Perry says, assisting her aboard the gunboat. He waves to me. Smiles.
Good thing I always get paid up front. Wonder where he’ll go? I whistle to the mammoth. “Get in, Buddy. Let’s go home.”
by submission | Dec 9, 2016 | Story |
Author : Pratyush Mishra
There are moments of desperation and…
There are times when I have a glimpse of who I truly am and then suddenly…
There are those moments when I can hear the White Lady walk in with the notes. She brandishes the hypodermic syringe and pats my arm… a shot and a searing Pain… I feel I won’t collapse but…
There is a little girl with bright brown eyes and head full of curls. She calls me M… but even though she is familiar I don’t recognise her.
I haven’t been able to remember the past few days. My head hurts as if huge volumes of vodka are coursing through my veins. It is that kind of headache.
I don’t remember who I am anymore.
“The drug NRo2 has been doing wonders on him. Soon you can take him home.” The man in the lab coat smiles at a group of people. He ruffles my head and walks away.
It feels like a new sensation altogether.
I look at myself in the mirror as I dress up.
They shove me gently into a car and we drive through the rustic lanes of the town. I’m sure I have seen this place before, but it somehow feels different.
The girl sits by me holding my arm softly.
I am yet to ascertain what story her gaze hides.
The house is a sprawling one.
An old man greets me at the garden and affably pats my back.
He mumbles something I can’t quite hear.
As I walk into the house, portraits of an old couple greet me. Those eyes of the old woman look strangely familiar and yet I can’t seem to know for sure if I’ve ever known her.
“This is your room”, the old man signals, smiling toothlessly.
I look around at the neatly arranged papers and desk.
There is a tall mirror in front of me.
I walk towards it and remove the curtains.
Inside the mirror I see a lanky adolescent looking confusedly back at me.
And then I remember.
NRo2.
The Aging Enrouter gene. NRo2, the drug, my brain child.
Now I know who the girl is. Well, I can merely grin devilishly at my reflection.
Bah! Not too old am I to spend a bit more years fooling around.
by submission | Dec 8, 2016 | Story |
Author : Leanne A. Styles
“You’re insane, Estella,” my sister said, peering out the window to catch a glimpse of my new pet.
“Stop being so dramatic, Maia,” I said. “The breeder said if you care for them correctly they’re the perfect pet. Besides, I wanted something rare, and nobody else we know has one.”
“There’s a good reason for that. Anyway, that’s not true. Leda’s friend had one, remember? It escaped and nearly killed her. It’s still on the loose now.”
“Well, then, she must have been careless. She probably didn’t take the time to bond with hers. Trust me, they’re harmless. Come and see for yourself ‒ if you’re brave enough,” I added with a smirk.
She glowered at me. “Let’s do this.”
Outside, in my compound, Maia cowered behind me as we watched my pet pacing in its enclosure.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” I said, admiring her golden blonde mane and the lines of her slender body.
“Weird looking, more like. It doesn’t look very happy.”
My pet had come to a stand and was staring at us through the bars. Looking into her deep brown eyes ‒ so hard, so much raw animal simmering under the surface ‒ made my stomach fizz with an addictive blend of fear and excitement.
She hissed something at us in a language we didn’t understand, then, faster than I’d imaged her capable of, she lunged at the bars. Stretching her limbs through the gaps, she clawed wildly for us. She screeched and growled and spat, slamming her body against the titanium.
Maia staggered back, and I couldn’t help laughing.
“Harmless?” she said.
“She’ll be fine once I’ve tamed her.”
“Where did you get it, anyway?”
“Her.”
She rolled her eyes. “Where did you get her?”
“The galactic market on Quiari.”
“That hellhole?! It’s a wonder you made it out alive. Didn’t they have something less terrifying for you to bring home? Even one of those giant acid-spitting centipedes would have been safer than this.”
“It’s not the same.”
My pet grew tired and dropped to the floor. She scratched at the dirt, and a strange sound started to emanate from her throat ‒ an awful wailing. Water was trickling from her eyes. I’d never seen anything like it.
“What’s wrong with her?” Maia asked.
I shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“Maybe she’s… sad.”
I shot her a mocking look. “Don’t be silly. They don’t have feelings ‒ not like we do, anyway. She’s probably just hungry.”
I mixed a bowl of oats and water (a good staple for my pet, apparently), walked around to the wall at the side of the enclosure, and placed it in the serving hatch before shoving it through to the other side. I made my way back to the front. My pet used the bars to pull herself to her feet and shuffled over to the bowl. I grinned as she picked it up.
With frightening force, she hurled the bowl at the bars, lumps of oats flying across the compound.
“Not hungry, then,” I said, wiping the sludge from my face.
My pet retreated to the back of her enclosure and crouched down in the corner, fixing her gaze on me.
Maia came to stand beside me again.
“I’m keeping her,” I said, smiling warmly at my new possession.
Maia sighed. “Obviously. You’ve wanted your own pet for as long as I can remember, and I’m happy for you ‒ I really am. But of all the pets you could have chosen, did it really have to be a human?”
by Julian Miles | Dec 7, 2016 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s a beautiful morning reflecting in the waters of the Donaukanal. On the opposite side to Franz-Josephs-Kai, a young man sits behind an easel and smokes a cigarette between sips of wasserwine: a diluted fermentation that ensures taste and refreshment rather than intoxication. His watercolours will never be hailed as high art, but they make him a modest living when combined with his government stipend.
A woman emerges from the narrow strasse behind the artist, moving toward him with a strangely fixed gaze. That fixation is what allows me to accost her and slip a stiletto into her heart. Only a deep sigh marks her passing.
The artists turns to see me struggling to hold the body up.
“Need a hand there, friend?”
I shake my head: “We’re fine, thank you. Famke just had a little much last night – and this morning, in truth.”
He laughs and turns back to finish his smoke and contemplate the morning. I stagger off with my ‘drunken’ burden until I can find a quiet back alley in which to search the body for anomalous items. Which will also allow me dishevel her beyond anything bar cursory investigation. The police will draw obvious, but erroneous, conclusions. She will be buried in a pauper’s plot. At worst, the artist may be questioned. He’s getting used to that.
Just like I’m getting used to Vienna in the first decade of the twentieth century. And killing misguided fuckwits trying to kill Hitler and ‘save the world’. For some reason, every time-travelling do-gooder seems determined to off Der Führer before he Führer’s himself. Which is absurd. Every time travelling story hits problems with paradoxes or drops into multiple timeline wonderland. There’s a reason for that.
You. Can’t. Fuck. With. History. It’s that simple. There is no scenario where you can kill the bad person’s parents, or the bad person in their nursery, or ‘warn the pilot’, or whatever, thus averting the impending catastrophe. You stop one bad thing and a new bad thing will do far worse whilst effectively achieving the result you tried to avert. Causality is not as you think you understand it. It’s actually the brutal enforcer of a fixed course.
You read that right: ‘course’. Singular.
There is only ONE future that features humanity. It’s not pleasant, but we’re there. Still warring with each other, still exploiting each other, still messing up the planet. Every other future is a flavour of wasteland. I know this to be true and trust me, if I went ‘back’ to the time I came from to find a future where the Earth was devoid of humans but a green and pleasant land, I’d give up trying to return to the future I came from, and stop intervening there and then.
But, so far, there isn’t one. Every time I ‘go home’, it’s a ruin, a crater or an inland sea – which may just be a really big crater, but I haven’t got the time to explore. Because I have to flicker back and check the common interference points for a stray temporally adept hero or heroine – and kill them before they can do their heroic best and end humanity. Again.
I’m getting tired of my involuntary vocation, so I’ve started leaving little stories like this in the hope of influencing future do-gooders. Go volunteer at your local poor people helping place. Find a cure for stupid. Or how to make useful stuff from household waste. Just stay away from the time manipulation thing, because I can promise you it’ll be fatal.
by Stephen R. Smith | Dec 6, 2016 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Saykoe felt the agents following her, unseen, but their presence always just a corner, just a doorway behind.
She slipped into the narrow gap between two buildings, opened her communications system and coded in to decrypt the tunnel. As she stepped into the street at the end of the alley, the evening disolved into blackness.
“Got her,” the agent spoke aloud, the need for stealth now passed, “she’s out cold and her comm channel is decrypted and open.”
Hours later she awoke, a throbbing pain in the back of her head. The cold asphalt damp beneath her, and the street empty.
In the corner of her heads-up, a nearly open channel blinked, waiting for input.
In the control room, two agents watched Saykoe through the observation glass. She was strapped to an inclined table in the interrogation room, her head wired into a highly restricted VR rig, her every move recorded and scrutinized by the system.
“She won’t know she’s not on the street,” the seated agent spoke, “she’ll still think she’s outside.”
“You were sloppy,” his partner snapped, pacing, “you should have realized there was more than one level of encryption. If it occurs to her she’s being virtualized, she’ll never open a channel and we’ll never get the codes from her.”
Saykoe pulled herself unsteadily to her feet, looked up and down the street but saw no one. There was still the omnipresent feeling of being followed, but the sense of urgency had abated.
The blinking comms-prompt begged for attention.
Slipping back in-between the two buildings, she gave the prompt focus, and started feeding it a complex series of coded keys.
In the server room, the intrusion system slowed the virtual environment and captured every bit with the highest fidelity, while in the control room the agents studied the console with intent.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before. Get me a channel to over-ops, priority, encrypted, they’ll need to see this.”
The seated agent opened the session, coded-in and then fed through the appropriate keys to get over-ops online. A fraction of a second later everything froze.
Under the flickering glare of a single fluorescent tube, Saykoe looked up from the makeshift console to the agent taped tightly to the chair before her, his head wired into a highly restricted VR rig.
“Got you, you fuck.”
With the virtual environment on pause, she executed the code that she had staged, and watched the progress as it crawled through the agent’s open line and into the over-ops cerebral cortex, creating a series of back doors and opening communications ports for future incursions.
Stepping back onto the street, she felt the heat of the thermite as it consumed the heart of the building behind her, and everything within. Turning up her collar, she welcomed the cool breeze as she disappeared into the night.
