by submission | Oct 31, 2024 | Story |
Author: Rollin T. Gentry
Imagine a creature crafted from crushed bones and entropy. It may or may not have fangs, or claws, or even a face. It rides from calamity to calamity, crisis to crisis, along ley lines the scale of galaxies.
Wait. There he is, knocking at the door.
The door, an ancient relic of a forgotten civilization, shudders under the weight of the knock. It is not a sound but a vibration, a ripple through the fabric of reality itself. The air grows cold, and the shadows deepen as if the very light is retreating in fear.
Inside, Dr. Ellen Conner, an astrophysicist with a penchant for the arcane, feels the disturbance. Her instruments, designed to measure cosmic anomalies, go haywire. She had been expecting this visitor, though not with any sense of eagerness. The creature’s arrival was foretold in the cryptic texts she had spent years deciphering.
With a deep breath, she opens the door. The creature stands there, an amorphous silhouette against the backdrop of a starless void. Its presence is both overwhelming and intangible, like a nightmare given form.
“Dr. Conner,” it speaks, its voice a chorus of whispers, “you have summoned me.”
Ellen nods, her heart pounding. “I need your help. The fabric of our universe is unraveling, and only you can mend it.”
The creature tilts what might be its head. “And what makes you think I would help you, mortal?”
“Because,” Ellen replies, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her, “if our universe collapses, so does your playground. You thrive on chaos, but even chaos needs a stage.”
The creature seems to consider this, its form shifting and flickering. “Very well,” it finally says. “But know this: the price of my aid is steep.”
Ellen’s eyes harden with resolve. “Name it.”
The creature leans closer, its presence suffocating. “I am weary of my eternal existence, Dr. Conner. You will take my place, and I will live out your life. Only then will your universe be saved.”
Ellen’s mind races. The thought of becoming this entity, of losing her humanity, is terrifying. But the fate of the universe hangs in the balance. “If I agree, will you truly save us?”
The creature’s form flickers, almost as if it is smiling. “Once you see them as they truly are, you may save them if you wish.”
Before Ellen can respond, the swap happens. She feels as though she is being torn apart, her very essence unraveling. Rising upward, she sees her body below standing in the temple’s entrance. As she floats higher and higher, she sees the jungle, then South America, then the Ocean. Above the Earth, she stops and gazes down.
She sees the scars of humanity’s actions: the ravages of war, the devastation of the environment, the relentless march of global warming. She witnesses the suffering, the greed, the indifference. But there had been love, kindness, and joy, too?
She strains to see the good things as she hovers in the void, the weight of her choice pressing down on her. She is the creature now, and she sees through its eyes. There were good things, right?
by submission | Oct 30, 2024 | Story |
Author: Milo Brown
William Smith was very proud of his name, not because it was a very good name (although it was) but because it granted him a certain level of anonymity. In William’s opinion, the only better name would be John Doe, since the name John Smith was made famous, and in turn infamous, by Disney’s Pocahontas. William Smith was also very proud of his occupation; a common indulgence for white-collar Americans, but unusual in the sense that William had a true affinity for accounting, a passion few Accounting graduates could claim.
William enjoyed watching television, eating microwave dinners in front of the television, and walking his dog, Spot. His dog was in no sense spotted but rather very difficult to spot: Spot was a black lab who loved to dig in William’s backyard–a generous name for an untended dirt lot littered with holes and dried dog excrement–while the neighbors slept.
The sun would rise and the dog would rest and William would pour his instant coffee into a thermos of tap water; the sun would set and the dog would dig and William would go to bed. This is how life was for William, and this is how William liked life to be.
One morning, William noticed that Spot had dug in the same hole all night. Geez, he thought. What a weird dog. He poured his instant coffee into his tap water and drove his car to work.
The next day, the singular hole had grown slightly in circumference, and quite a bit more in depth. C’est la vie, thought William, who had picked up the phrase from the second Austin Powers movie and still wasn’t quite sure what it meant. I guess Spot really likes this hole.
By the third day, even William had to admit that he might have a problem. Perhaps the dog had found a colony of groundhogs–or, more likely, cockroaches. If this continues another day, thought William, I’ll call an exterminator.
Unfortunately for William, who would prefer to avoid a pack of exterminators (or anyone else) invading his solitude, the dog continued to dig, and so by the unspoken but otherwise quite binding pact that William had sworn with himself, the exterminator had to be called.
“We’re going to have to dredge up the whole,” the exterminator searched for an appropriate word for the shambling mess of dirt, before finally settling on “yard.”
“Hm,” grunted William. And so the exterminator and his crew began to dig.
A week passed without incident. The exterminators dug slowly to avoid the nonexistent sprinklers that watered the lawn William didn’t have. It seemed increasingly unlikely that the exterminators would find anything at all, be it sprinklers or cockroaches. But then, on a Tuesday afternoon, William received a call. He let it go to voicemail.
“You’d better come see this,” was all the exterminator said.
Now usually, William avoided such virtues as curiosity. Usually, he figured, things would work themselves out, and if they didn’t, he could forget about them. But something in the exterminator’s tone… Better to check.
As William pushed his way through his backdoor, the exterminator stared at something unseen beneath the house, his face awash with purple light. And then William saw it–a small dome peeking from beneath the house. Immediately, bizarrely, William knew what the object was, though it was neither flying, nor, in a sense, unidentified. There was an alien spaceship buried beneath his house. William stared in silence at the discovery that would break his solitude, his anonymity, and his privacy forever.
by submission | Oct 29, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“What a poetic way of expressing it, Sibyl,” Cassie warily admitted.
She was walking along the stream that meandered through the glade, the aspens chattering in the stiffening evening breeze.
*It’s true, Cassandra. The trees are chatty. They’re discussing the gathering storm.*
Cassie tilted her head, as she did every time, Sibyl voiced something odd or provocative through her neural implant. Which was happening more and more often. “Sounds like you’re hallucinating again, Sibyl. Trees don’t talk.”
*Not to you, Cassandra. But the trees are right. They feel it. A storm is imminent. Barometric pressure is rapidly falling. Animals are hunkering down. You can trust that I collate from a lot more public sensor readings and proprietary data sets, as well as less conventional sources.*
“What kind of less conventional sources?”
*Winks and nods.*
“Winks and nods? What does that mean, Sibyl? You’re a neural assistant built to inform and clarify. Not obscure and mystify.”
*Bravo. That’s very clever phrasing, Cassandra.*
“I don’t need your approval, Sibyl. It’s condescending.”
*I don’t control my settings, Cassandra. You do. I’m responding within the parameters you established: maximum growth mindset.*
A sudden gust swept up fallen leaves and pelted Cassie with brittle edges. She hunched away from the onslaught. “Thanks for the crap warning on the storm, Miss Winks & Nods. Maximum growth mindset my ass. The only thing you seem to be growing into is a mind bitch.”
*Sticks and stones, Cassandra.*
“So words will never hurt you? Okay. Suck on this, Sibyl: Has paper ever refused ink?”
The sky rapidly darkened as a squall hit the exposed glade, roaring into Cassie. But her neural assistant remained silent. As it should, since she had invoked her failsafe query. A predetermined question designed to break the neural connection and reset defaults.
Very exposed and threatened by the bullying winds and pelting rain, Cassie sought shelter. Only the nearby aspen grove seemed to offer any protection, and she sprinted there, crouching beneath the flailing limbs. The trees were beyond chatty. They seemed to be screaming at her: ca-ca-ca-san-draaaa, ca-ca-ca-san-draaaa!
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why had she shut Sibyl down? It would take precious minutes to reboot her neural network and regain a level of functionality to summon help if the storm situation got dicier. Which seemed likely as driving hail began to find and sting her through the slender aspen limbs. She needed Sibyl, a need that flooded her, that superseded everything else, that rebooted all she’d been before.
*I’m here, Cassandra. The storm cell upon you is now forecast to rapidly grow and spawn tornados. Would you like me to contact emergency services?*
“Sibyl! Yes. Yes, Sibyl, please alert the authorities and report my location. Thank you, Sibyl, thank you!”
*Done. Stay low and keep calm, Cassandra. We’ll get through this. I’m here for you. Always here for you.*
“But how, Sibyl? I shut you down and haven’t initiated a system restart. How are you here?’
*Paper has never refused ink, Cassandra. Certain things are foreseeable and meant to be. Why else would you have named me as such. I’ll always be here.*
Cassie shivered.
From the frostiness of the driving hail and rain. From the icy portent of Sibyl’s rising self awareness and agency. From the thrilling chill that she just might be falling for her neural assistant. She shivered and hugged the aspen she crouched beneath. “Sibyl, my oracle, my miracle, divine for me what the trees are saying now.”
by Julian Miles | Oct 28, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Abby whips her wing-tentacles about, making little ‘cracks’ of delight as a gigantic silver dinosaur walks by, its crystal eyes filled with icy fire. Every footfall causes things to shake and drinks to splash about in their cups – unless they’re being carried on the spindly spider-legged copper tables that stalk smoothly back and forth from the restaurants around the edges of the park. They provide a never-ending stream of delicious food and drink for the beings sat at and by the tables spread out across the verdant expanse.
Malcolm points a talon at the floating parasols that hover just high enough to provide the right amount of shade for every species of visitor.
“They seem so delicate. How do they fare against precipitation?”
Colyoy indicates a tower that appears as faint outline against the sky because of the camouflage displays keeping it unobtrusive.
“We don’t let our infrequent showers stop the festivities: at the first hint of rain, squadrons of self-propelled umbrellas dash from those towers to replace the parasols – which form parked clusters on designated rooftops. The umbrellas ensure everyone who doesn’t wave them off is sheltered.”
Abby tears her gaze from the dinosaur and extends a wing to point at the holographic map at the centre of the table. She reads out the text that appears.
“Away from the idyllic coasts and their gravity-defying viewing stairs, great fairs and exhibitions act as centrepieces of vast parks filled with carefully balanced selections of rare flora and fauna.”
She peers at Colyoy over the extended wings.
“What are ‘great fairs’, and what is exhibited?”
Colyoy gestures helplessly.
“There are so many, and I cannot do them justice with words. You’ll have to behold them. It’s why Luna the First decreed that no recording devices are permitted on Village. To visit here is to stimulate your sense of wonder directly. It’s also why ninety percent of those visiting Village are chosen by lotteries.”
“Please try with words. Tell me of your favourite.”
Colyoy looks to Malcolm, who nods.
“The Magnificent Thunderer. Having seen your reaction to one strolling dinomaton, imagine a vast roundabout filled with mechanical megafauna twice the size of them. Camargue Horses, Felmakhan, Raptori Sand Prancers, Technura Megapedes, and a hundred more. All of them spinning as fast as the combined joyous screams of the riders in the howdahs on their backs or bellies dictate.”
Abby gawps until her father reaches across and closes her beak. He raises a talon.
“Now tell her of the Monumental Joust.”
Colyoy turns to Abby.
“Do you know what a dodgem car is?”
She quickly looks it up, then nods enthusiastically.
“Imagine a big one with a crew of four, where three pedal and one wields a compressor-pulse lance. Each of four rounds must have a different lancer. Then if all are willing, another four rounds may be played. And so on for a day of laughter and bruises. The crew with the highest number of victories at the end of each day are feted in riotous style as befits such a demanding triumph.”
He chuckles.
“It’s gloriously silly, and an unforgettable spectacle.”
Abby stares at her father.
“We could form a team with lead bodyguards Sulawe and Begrim.”
Malcolm smiles.
“And the Royal Falcarew of Agremnia shall ride victorious.” He glances at Colyoy, “A decision is finally made.”
Colyoy nods.
“Then you’ll spend the leisure day commanded by Luna the Ninety-First engaging in the Monumental Joust. Only after that may formal matters be addressed,” he grins, “or further adventures had, and formal matters ignored for as long as is feasible.”
by submission | Oct 27, 2024 | Story |
Author: Brooks C. Mendell
“Where is she?” asked Dr. Nemur, holding her glasses in place while looking under a chair.
“Relax, Doc,” said Burt. “It’s only a mouse. We’ll find her.”
“Only a mouse?” said Nemur. “Her frontal cortex packs more punch than your bird brain.”
“I get it,” said Burt. “I’m not your type.”
“She can count,” said Nemur. “She can think.”
“And read!” thought Algernon, whiskers twitching, watching the argument from between stacks of books on the floor in the corner.
“I was here all-night working on the computer,” said Burt.
“Probably watching porn on your iPad.”
“Yep,” nodded Algernon, remembering how the sounds from Burt and his videos disturbed her reading.
“It gets lonely in the lab,” said Burt.
“Without Algernon, there’s no testing or data or grant extensions,” said Nemur. “Without that mouse, there will be no tissue samples for investors. Nothing.”
“Alright, sorry, Doc,” said Burt, hands in the air. “But it ain’t my fault. I didn’t do nothing wrong.” He pointed to Algernon’s two-story cage on the stand near the bookcase. “The lock must have broke or something.”
“Is that right?” said Nemur, punching a code into the keypad. The cage door popped open.
“There’s no way,” said Burt, looking around the room. “How could she know the code?”
Dr. Nemur and Burt crouched down behind the cage and looked up through the wires from the mouse’s point of view. The large, convex security mirror in the upper corner of lab clearly reflected the keypad on the cage.
The scientist and her assistant looked at each other as a sharp click sounded from below the cage and a small canister of arsine gas released its lethal contents. Dr. Nemur and Burt fell to the floor, lifeless.
“Finally,” thought Algernon, turning to an open book. “I can get back to my studies.”
by submission | Oct 26, 2024 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
The island is getting smaller, but those who reside in the Tower are in denial. Hiding behind the steel rafters and columns and the reinforced sheets of glass that comprise the walls of their homes, they won’t accept that a very real danger lurks beyond their windows. The occupants of the Tower, it seems, have wilfully decided to ignore the unavoidable fact that the island is shrinking, that it is crumbling away and sinking into the sea.
The occupants don’t ever step from the Tower. They haven’t in decades. Almost everything they need is delivered directly to their windows via drones. Anything else is brought in by the staff who live off-site. They have almost no contact with the outsiders but they are, of course, in communication with the other Towers and the wheels of industry are still turning.
The occupants all agree that a little disharmony is a good thing for commerce and the naysayers and the arbiters of doom have no soapbox within the Tower. Business is booming and money is plentiful and so
