by submission | Aug 20, 2024 | Story |
Author: E. S. Foster
The weeds along the pathway clung to my IMRA uniform. The High Witch glared at me as I stumbled over diamond-patterned sticks. “We have no cause for your people here,” she repeated. Her staff—a branch braided with moss and who knew what else—swung toward my head.
I reeled backward, almost tripping over a row of wilted flowers. These people were worse than I thought. After IMRA had sent my colleague, Winston, last month, I wasn’t keen on visiting. But now it was my turn to do the convincing.
“Be gone, lest a curse fall upon you!”
“Ma’am, believe me, IMRA and I only have the best interest of humanity at heart. But the last of the federally mandated rockets are being launched within the next year. Earth isn’t sustainable for humanity anymore. We must relocate.”
I finished my speech with a grunt, a puff of air fogging up my mask. If this High Witch struggled for air, she didn’t show it.
I turned to the orange sky. Through the empty branches, streaks of black clung to the horizon. I tried distinguishing the rotting, empty buildings of the Upper East Side. As if on cue, a soft rumbling rose from miles away.
Several cultist members suddenly leaped out of the park rocks. Their potato-sack robes were sewn with oak branches and acorns, making it easy to blend into the trees. They barreled toward me, some with even larger sticks. I bit my lip.
“We’re reclaiming the earth!”
“This is our home!”
“That’ll be another IMRA rocket!” I shouted over the noise. “Our New York division has one more available in August.”
The High Witch scowled at me.
“Please, I have the information packets—we can provide supplies in the meantime—”
The High Witch threw up a calloused hand. The group forming behind her quieted in a breath. I glanced at each one. Most were older, wearing the tattered hoodies and scarves from their homeless days. Others were more like the “earthers,” as we called them. Some of the many hundreds who refused to leave their farms, villages, and homes. IMRA welcomed them, but they made it clear that they’d rather brave earth’s harsh elements than whatever lay beyond.
“They can send whatever agents they like, even the less experienced ones like you. But we won’t do it.”
“Why not?”
I was more impatient than intended, but the High Witch only shook her head.
“We said this to the last one. The trees are dying, it’s true. Yet they still speak. They seek our help. As we become one with nature, we speak for them. If you are to take the coward’s way out, fine. We will speak for nature and build from the ground up.”
I sighed, lingering on her words. “Can I at least offer you some blankets?”
***
*International Martian Relocation Association, Rocket 8674, prepare for launch.*
I stood on the slick front deck of the ship, gazing out the window at the sea of brown. Behind me, the aisles of seats trembled.
Please locate your designated seat.
Winston turned to me as we strapped ourselves in. “A record of five thousand plus. Have any luck with those Upper East Side earthers?”
“No.” I tossed my head back.
We stared at the fiery smog underneath the long window. “Hopefully the last few come to their senses. Nothing but insanity down there now,” Winston remarked.
I remembered the High Witch’s words.
“No,” I murmured. “There’s some hope.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The room used to be part of a well-appointed apartment. Under the ravages of damp and neglect, it looks like it was abandoned hurriedly. If you peer through the grimy windows and look down, you’ll see waves breaking against ruined shopfronts, and seagulls perched upon tide-tossed vehicles.
In one corner there’s a desk. On the open leaf lies an old personal datapad, one of the first generation of ‘long life’ mobile devices that arose after the technological excesses of the early twenty-first century were outlawed.
A gloved hand disconnects a rapid charge pack and pockets it.
The datapad screen glows faintly, almost obscured on the upper half where the accumulated muck hasn’t been wiped away.
It finishes starting up. A single notification flashes slowly: ‘194 unopened messages’.
There’s a soft sigh, like someone had been holding their breath.
“Play most recent.”
There’s a moment’s silence. The notification changes to ‘Message left 71:06:21:35 ago’, then displays a ‘No Image’ banner.
The voice is hoarse, the sentences broken up like the speaker is concentrating on doing something else.
“Hey, Helen. Must be a couple of months since I last called. Don’t know why I keep doing this, but I never get a decline or a bounce, so I guess that pad I bought you is lying in a drawer somewhere, long forgotten. Anyway, here I am over the United States of Australia, flying something that should’ve been scrapped last century, on the way to somewhere I can’t say to deliver something I can’t tell you about.”
The speaker stops, mutters unintelligibly, then continues.
“Okay, I’ll keep this brief as getting distracted like that again will end me and my latest glorious career. Like I said: I’m not sure why I keep leaving messages for you. But, hey, at least I’ve stopped pouring my stupid heart out. You’re off doing whatever you were doing when we collided and fell in love. I’d like to think it was roving journalist like you told me, but, if I’m honest – and if I can’t be honest while effectively talking to myself, what’s the point? – I think you were lying. Still don’t understand why I’m so sure of that, but there you go. I’d guess it’s a part of me looking for a bigger reason than you just not loving me as much as I loved you.”
A second soft sigh turns into a sob.
“Funny, that. Sad, too. Of all the things I could hold onto as a surety, I’m convinced you lied to me. Which, in the end, explains why you left: I wasn’t the man you thought I was.”
The speaker swears. There’s a distant sound of autocannon firing in short bursts.
“Right, this episode of my irregular confessional’s going to have to end early as it looks like these arseholes won’t leave me alone until I make them. So, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, I wish you well.”
The pause is filled with the roar of powerful engines. It ends with a throaty chuckle.
“Actually, I wish I was with you, and not just because it’s a mugs game I’m playing out here. Best wishes, lady. Sorry for not being who you expected.”
The message ends.
The single notification flashes: ‘193 unopened messages’.
The datapad is picked up and brushed off.
“Shutdown device: mypad.”
The notification changes to ‘Shutting down’.
Another sigh. The gloved hand trembles, then crams the datapad in with the rapid charge pack.
“Sorry for not being who you thought I was. Love you, Phil. Maybe, one day…”
The voice trails off. A door closes.
by submission | Aug 18, 2024 | Story |
Author: Don Nigroni
I was in my study writing verse when this big fellow with a long grey beard and shaggy grey hair inexplicably appeared in front of me. He handed me a sheet of paper.
The paper read:
***
This morning, I was sitting in my living room reading Moby Dick when a big fellow with a long grey beard and shaggy grey hair inexplicably appeared in front of me.
I looked up and said, “Who are you and how the heck did you get in here?”
“Why don’t you just call me St. Peter,” he replied. “I guard the gates to, let’s say, Heaven. I decide whether to let people inside to spend eternity seeing the Beatific Vision or to recycle them. Less than a tenth of a percent are admitted but that’s why I’m here. You seem like a nice guy and, when your time comes, the gates will be opened for you.
But I’ve had this nagging feeling that not everyone eligible wants to spend eternity in Heaven. You’ve lived a rich full life as a nature photographer, traveling hither and yon. I want to know if you’d prefer Heaven or a new life after you pass away?”
I had so many questions flooding into my mind all at once. But I answered, “Heaven sounds boring. I’d rather be, as you say, recycled.”
“Let me assure you that Heaven is supremely and stunningly wonderful. Let me also point out that only a small percent of people on your planet live in comfort. You don’t know what your next life might be like.”
Then the flood of questions came pouring out:
“If you’re from Heaven, how come you have a physical body?”
“How do you recycle people?”
“How can you do what you do with tens of millions dying and being born each year?”
He calmly replied, “I’m an incarnation who, with a host of others, let’s call them angels, reincarnate unworthy people.”
“No offense, but I think I’d prefer reincarnation to Heaven.”
With that he departed as inexplicably as he arrived.
***
After reading the paper, I looked up at him. He stroked his beard and said, “This is a follow-up study. So, what would you like next time, Heaven or reincarnation?”
Seventy-two years ago, I was born into a wealthy family and subsequently led the life of a man of letters.
After careful consideration, I replied, “I’d rather leave that decision up to an expert, you decide.”
And with that he departed as inexplicably as he arrived.
by submission | Aug 17, 2024 | Story |
Author: Pete Smith
I come to with a start. There’s a bell ringing. That’s not good. That’s never good.
Raising my head from the bar, I try to focus. Oh yes – it’s the… landlord chap. Land. Lord. I giggle like a child. He’s ringing time. I look at the clock, and indeed, it’s saying midnight. Shut up, clock; you’re not the boss of me.
I drain my glass and plonk it down heavily on one of the… round things. Beer mats! That’s it. I remember now.
I should go.
Off the bar stool. Whoah! The room spins a bit, but it’s nothing I’m not used to. The barman gives me a disapproving look. Cheeky sod. I knew his grandfather.
Stumble to the toilets. Almost go in the ladies. Get my bearings and shove open the door to the gents. Look at myself in the mirror. Bloody hell. Lean my head on the wall above the urinal and let out a very long… sigh.
I should really stop drinking. I know that doesn’t seem like such a big thing, not from the outside, but it’s difficult when you’ve seen all the shit I have. Death. Destruction. Attack ships on fire, blah blah blah.
I know. Into each life. But I’ve got about a dozen lives worth of shit bouncing around my brain at present, and sometimes you just need to find a way to let off steam.
Anyway.
Outside and the cold air hits me. I’d forgotten it was winter. I look up at the stars.
Feeling slightly less disoriented now, I wrap my scarf around me and head for the car park.
Round the corner I spy a familiar figure hunched over, throwing up in the gutter. Oh dear. He’s changed, at least – though not as much as I’d like. I pull my hat down over my eyes and quicken my pace, but he recognises me, of course.
He grabs feebly at my coat as I pass. “Please… stop” he slurs, but I ignore him and hurry past, as he knows I will.
I find my ride where I left it in the corner of the car park. Only one here so I’ll need to move it. Don’t want any trouble. Cold fingers fumble with the keys and drop them. Bloody hell. Bend down to get them and slip a little. End up with my back leaning against the blue door, breathing heavily.
I’m in no state to drive, but that’s okay. I’ll just… pop back for a couple. Yes. Not like I have a choice, anyway.
I know, I know. I drink too much.
The doctor said I should stop.
Ha bleeding ha.
by submission | Aug 16, 2024 | Story |
Author: Tobias Hope Young
There are moments when the sand looks sturdy. When it isn’t rising and falling, when it’s just completely motionless. It’s in those moments that you might think it’s solid but don’t be fooled. That sand may look firm but if you step on it you will sink like a stone until you’ve reached the core of this planet.
God help you if you try to land a starship on it. I tried a long long time ago. Way way before you were born, son.
Starship is a powerful vehicle but it sinks like everything else. All that sand gets into the engine, it risks sealing you inside that airtight cockpit. The only smart move is to abandon ship and leave your old life and everything you ever knew behind.
Dangerous place this planet, but there are still people living here somehow. People who know not to walk the desert but to sail it.
There are only two types of people here; dead people and sailors, so I decided to become a sailor.
I teamed up with a crazy woman, crazy enough to take me on as an apprentice, crazy enough to go searching for downed starships in uncharted territories, and crazy enough to marry me when I asked.
She taught me everything I know about sailing, the same way she taught you but I didn’t learn what it meant to be a sailor until… well until moments like this.
You see it over there, that cloud on the horizon? It’s called a sandstorm. It’s coming for us and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.
But it’s moments like this that teach us what it means to be a sand sailor. Being a sailor isn’t about scavenging or even about sailing. Being a sailor is about being small. It’s about being the smallest thing there is, being at the mercy of the wind and the weather, and making peace with it.
This is going to be your story, the type of story you can tell your own kids one day because if you get through it you won’t be a kid anymore. You’ll be like me and your mother. You’ll be a sand sailor.
So stay alert. Stay strong. Stay aboard. And whatever you do don’t tell your mother I called her crazy. It’s dangerous enough out here as it is.
by submission | Aug 15, 2024 | Story |
Author: Nick Jessee
The TV is blaring, but I don’t have the energy to turn down the volume. All around, I can tell others are in the same predicament: their TVs blast and rumble muffled shouts, explosions, and laughs through thin apartment walls.
My stomach grumbles. Leather creaks as I shift my sore cheeks on the couch. Last I ate was yesterday, ramen for lunch. I didn’t realize just how long it’d been.
CoBrain chimes in like a peppy morning bird—I can’t remember last I heard a bird, actually—, presenting nearby grocery stores in my mind. It’s amazing that CoBrain not only can work my side hustles, but it can place orders and answer my inquiries. Though what hustles it does, I don’t know. I just know the fine print in the Agreement states, “Agreement is here upon accepted that CoBrain(R) will decide on the work performed, operating within ethical and legal boundaries.” It takes a cut of profits earned, but at least I don’t have to get up and do anything.
An order for a fifteen pack of ramen, a carton of eggs, and some soda is placed unconsciously. CoBrain went ahead and ordered it from a nearby store. I’m shown what’s left in my bank account. The image surfaces like a vivid daydream, the number going back up as CoBrain continues to still earn me money. My head buzzes pleasantly, like inhaling deep breathes of oxygen. CoBrain pumps some extra feel-good chemicals for every purchase/subscription made. And for every ad my brain receives.
A knock on the door, a rustle of bags. Some people won’t or can’t opt to have CoBrain implanted, so we still have those that continue to work. If we didn’t, well…I’d starve, probably. I push myself off the couch and shamble to the door, encumbered by a feeling of burnout. It comes with CoBrain though, just a side effect. It’s careful in how much dopamine and serotonin it measures out, though sometimes it leaves you a little dry. Can’t overdo it.
I open the door to find my neighbor kicking aside littered aluminum cans as he’s scooping up my grocery bag with a grunt. His beard is overgrown, hair long and thick with greasiness.
“Hey,” I wave and lean my shoulder against the doorway. It’s an effort to be standing, as if a wet comforter weighs me down. “That’s mine.” I point to my bag he’s holding.
“Oh,” he looks around, appearing awkward, as if expecting a way out or someone else to interject. The fluorescent hall lights incessantly hum, contouring his sunken eyes and glistens a sheen of oil on his forehead. He starts to turn around, then freezes, eyes and mouth open. Must be an ad coming in. He’s known to indulge in vast libraries of adult streams, and his CoBrain knows to keep on subscribing to all kinds of it. Is that how I look every time I get an ad?
I tug the bag off of his fingers like you would a coat off a rack. He didn’t flinch, nor did his eyes look at me, but rather through me. He smiles absently. I head inside and set the bag on the grimy kitchen counter.
Oh wait, another ad coming in. I forget the groceries. A nice warmth creeps through me, a smile forming as I soak in another ad for yet another streaming service.
CoBrain’s already on it. Thanks, CoBrain, for subscribing.
