by Julian Miles | Dec 10, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The lumen panels are set to ‘candlelight’ and the susurrus of the climate control system is muted to barely a whisper. The room is twilit, draped with banners from a hundred victories. In a depression on the floor, an ornamental pool has been reborn as a cushion- and pillow-lined nook for a wearied and bloody command couple to find a moments respite.
An indistinct figure with flaxen hair tilts a face of rare beauty to gaze up at the chiselled lines of a face that could have been hewn from granite – and would have seemed softer had it been so.
“How do I die?”
“It will be a thing of surprise and expectation, an act unforeseen, yet suddenly so obvious to those staggering with grief. ‘Such a bright soul could not last in the tawdry environs of today’, they will say.”
“Michael?”
“He will be as one felled by a mighty blow, but the need to be there for your armies will save him. Duty will ever be his salvation after you are gone.”
“Will I bring peace?”
“Alas, no. There will be a cessation of hostilities. A funeral so rare because of the theretofore unseen gathering of intergalactic luminaries. But then the recriminations will start and rattling sabres will counterpoint venomous rhetoric. The year granted by your death will be recalled as you bestowing a gift upon the troops, even in your passing.”
“What of my killer?”
“He – or more correctly, it – is a companion of doers and movers throughout history, a creature that feeds on the rare essences generated by true heroines and inspirational leaders. But all of that is merely entrée to the haut cuisine created by the storm of emotion over each notary’s death. Thus what started as happenstance has become modus operandi. It is the lover and killer of those who make mankind great.”
“Will it miss me?”
“Forever. Every slaying wreaks decade-long havoc upon its mind, for all that the ecstasy of gourmet fare thunders within. You will be sorely missed.”
“Can you protect me, as you have done so many times before?”
“To defend you would require the end of me.”
“I know my killer very well, don’t I?”
“You do.”
“I started with the wrong question, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“When?”
“Close your eyes.”
The molecularly-aligned edges pass through sleight fields, body armour, dermal weave and titanium-laced bone with only the slightest frissance of impact. The resonance that realigns the edges is unperturbed as the weapon describes a swift reverse question mark in her heart, sundering chambers and cleaving erythrocytes.
She feels a quiver under her breast, but knows the knife is sharper than pain: death will take her before sensory trauma registers.
by submission | Dec 9, 2014 | Story |
Author : Jedd Cole
Brontë was a sad and curious alien android. That’s how I came to know him at least. Most merely saw him as a strange man. But, first and foremost, Brontë was a didact. He did not talk except to teach, and in teaching, I think he believed he was learning. Yeah, I didn’t think it made sense at the time, either.
I first met him on the side of the road by Amelia Park where my car had stalled. He’d been walking by and I asked if he could help. We popped the hood and Brontë began explaining how the car worked to me, examining the tubes and wires and cylinders. His manner perplexed and intrigued me. I still don’t think he knew anything about car engines.
We had to get the car towed. In the meantime, Brontë took me out to dinner. He was teaching me how our table was constructed and veneered, at which point I decided to correct him. The surface was clearly made of one piece of wood, I said; not twenty-three. He seemed taken aback, but only for a few seconds. He nodded and began again, including the revision. I sat with my elbows on the table, staring at this man and his glasses that seemed to go in and out of focus as he talked.
Brontë told me about seven previous girlfriends, of which I soon became the eighth. He’d proposed to each of them, he explained, teaching them about what matrimony meant in various cultures. They’d all turned him down immediately.
I pretty much kept quiet in the beginning. Our relationship was unilateral. Brontë showed no affection, and neither did I. Call me crazy, but was intent on observing him as we meandered around town, how he stopped people on the street to teach them about the effects of littering on the habits of gray housecats, the reason for life according to the Hopi, why the capital of some European country changed three times in the fourteenth century, et cetera ad nauseum.
I tabulated our conversations over the four weeks that I was with him, and concluded that 94.3 percent of his claims were absolutely false. The only times he was right were after others interrupted and corrected him.
We broke up when he proposed to me.
But I didn’t stop observing Brontë. He eventually became a fixture of the city; everyone knew who he was and avoided him if at all possible. No one listened and no one looked into his strange glasses and no one became his ninth girlfriend.
With binoculars, I watched him sit in the window of his apartment, which had always been empty, looking out at the world that shunned him. He started walking the streets without speaking, looking straight ahead, running into street signs and garbage cans and slow-moving cars. He never ate. He never slept.
One day, he walked to the edge of town and just kept going. He wandered into the Sonora desert all alone, following no road. I soon lost him among the mountains and arroyos, saguaros and pines.
I heard recently that his body was found by an Air Force drone, his ten thousand pieces scattered at the bottom of a dry river bed a hundred miles north of here, my suspicions confirmed. Before they could recover the rusty corpse, the local paper reported the second UFO sighting in about a year, and then Brontë was gone. According to my reckoning, the last UFO sighting had been roughly eight girlfriends ago.
by Clint Wilson | Dec 8, 2014 | Story |
Author : Clint Wilson, Staff Writer
The starship dropped down into the clear atmosphere of the water planet. Inside the belly bay, six surf pods awaited their launch. Each one was five meters long, known as “longboards” by current popular culture. And inside of each one of them, there eagerly awaited an anxious human enthusiast.
Connor stood rigid on the inner control board, a replica of a twentieth century longboard, once used to ride the comparatively minuscule waves of Earth. Now its general look and function were mainly for nostalgia, but the manipulations inputed by a rider’s legs, along with measurements of arms, head and torso balance, transmitted via suit sensors, would help to control the entire pod atop the massive waves of Nokium IV.
The tourism company’s vessel lowered to within three meters of a very calm azure sea. The belly bay doors opened, a klaxon sounded, and the six pods splashed into the water together. The long-haired bare-chested ship’s pilot wished them, “bodacious luck,” and immediately maneuvered the craft up and away. A few moments later he shouted into their ear pieces, “Incoming!”
Bobbing in the beautiful waters, all six pods slowly turned toward the eastern horizon, and in the distance they saw it. The fifteen hundred meter wave was still many kilometres away, but they all started engaging their forward thrusters at maximum propulsion. This was the thing that Connor had been waiting for all of his life, had spent his entire savings on, the ultimate wave. He called out to his five friends on the comm link. “Ready boys and girls? This is it! This is the big one!”
Retorts of, “Woo hoo!” and, “Yeehaw!” abounded. Then Connor keyed the musical track inside all of their helmets and the clicky clacky reverb of Mosrite guitars became apparent as the rhythmic stylings of “The Ventures” accompanied their approach to the nearly mile high wave.
Before they knew it it was upon them. And then they began to climb, and climb, and then climb some more. The powerful electric motors of the pods were pushed to their limits as the six surfers reached the crest of the wave. And then in perfect synchronization they all turned around, and began to ride the massive unstoppable behemoth.
Connor shouted with glee, “Here we go gang!” while the roar of billions of tonnes of surging water accompanied by the snazzy melodies and thumping drumbeat of “Walk Don’t Run” assaulted their ears. And they all surfed and surfed along together for many dozens of kilometres, as the monstrous wave carried them forward beneath a glorious cloudless pale blue sky. Eventually they all slipped from the roiling crest, down into the pipeline, with endless millions of litres of translucent turquoise water curling above their heads. Until at long last the massive monster slowly lost momentum and finally deposited them back down onto the planetary ocean’s calm surface, to once again bob safely beneath the warm white sun of Nokium.
And as the tourism ship returned to pick them up, cheers and congratulations could be heard all over the comm link. It had after all been indeed the most bodacious, righteous, and gnarliest of days!
by submission | Dec 7, 2014 | Story |
Author : S T Xavier
“It’s eating from my hand! Look, David! It’s so cute!”
David nods at the image visible only in his mind, speaking aloud the words from the memory. “It sure is, Sarah. You have such a way with birds, my love.”
A giggle comes from the speakers, the sound of Sarah’s voice melodious in the quarantine room. I check my readouts and everything seems to be within spec. I queue up the next memory for David, letting the software do the work of digging it out of his mind and showing it to him. Sarah’s voice again comes through the speakers, this time as a moan of pleasure. I can’t see it, but it’s not the first time I’ve observed someone else’s memory of making love to their spouse. I turn to look at my readouts, trying hard to drown out the sound of the memory.
The sounds get decidedly more intimate before they stop completely. I can see the screen flash with the destruction code. David must have finally pushed his button, unable to take any more. The love-making memories seem to cause that reaction in a lot of clients. Some perverts ride through those memories with ease, instead pushing their button on otherwise happy family moments. I’ll never understand what makes the clients decide, but I can’t entirely understand wanting to go through the process to begin with.
The disconnect code flashes on my screen, so I walk over to David’s chair and begin removing the connections on his head. The one at the top of the spine catches for a second, but I know how to do my job. A few twists and it’s removed along with the rest of them. Dropping the connectors to the side, I grab a small light and shine it in David’s eyes.
“Mr. Welsh. Can you hear me? Please tell me your name and the year.”
David’s eyes blink as they focus. “Of course. David Anthony Welsh, 2418.”
I nod, putting the light away. “Thank you, Mr. Welsh. It appears you’re done here. Shall I walk you out?”
He runs his hands through his brown hair and nods. He doesn’t quite remember where he is or what he’s doing here, but that’s part of the process as well. If I and the software did our jobs properly, he never quite will.
Taking his hand, I help him stand and walk him slowly toward the door. He stumbles for a second, but disorientation is common after a procedure. As we get to the door, his attention focuses on the pane of glass in the side wall and he looks through it curiously. I stop and wait, like I always do.
He looks back at me. “What happened to that poor girl in the other room?”
I nod. This exchange is rather common among clients. “Traffic accident. She died a few days ago.”
He shakes his head. “Such a tragedy. Does she have a name? What about her family?”
I smile sadly. “Her family’s been informed, and processing is finished. Her name is Sarah.”
He looks back through the window, then back at me. “Sarah’s a nice name. What’s her last name? I want to send the family something.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t release that for privacy reasons.” That’s the standard response when a client asks. Of course I can’t tell him her last name is Welsh. It might cause an error in the memory erasure he just paid to go through. But, through his lack of recognition, I know the procedure went as planned. I walk him through the door, leaving his wife of ten years, and all his memories of her, behind.
by submission | Dec 6, 2014 | Story |
Author : Martyn Dade-Robertson
“How about AtJohnaxith?”
“What”
“AtJohnaxith. I know its similar to AtRachelsynth and AtJonoheist’s youngest AtJaneith but they won’t mind will they?”
“This is not a good time darling–aaaaa”
AtMarystrum lay back on her bed, arched her back and dug her nails into the arm of the attending midwife. AtCiscoric sat beside her, tapping absentmindedly at his compuroll and muttered, to himself:
“Crap. One hit. Already taken”
“Why do we have to do this nowwwww oh GOD!!!!”
“It just doesn’t feel right. The little guy can’t come into the world without a name. We should have done this ages ago”
AtCiscoric reclined in a Foamafirm birthing chair, looked out of the window and let the sounds of his wife’s labor wash over him. The gentle electropan-pipe music playing in the background and the dimmed lights were not easing his mind. This should be one of the greatest days of his life but it just wasn’t going how he’d planned.
“It was so much easier for our fathers’ generation. They just took from the measly selection of available names and put them together. With the addition of few extra vowels and the right consonants you could create something unique without too much trouble. Now it feels like very letter combination is taken already”.
“Cisci darling seriously…”
“As for my great grandfather. His name was John. JOHN! There must have been dozens of them.”
AtMarystrum was panting quickly now. The midwife consulted the fetal heart monitor app on her bracelet before flipping back to a game app in which she flung smiley-faced sperms at a grumpy looking egg. “Everything’s normal” she said – to sound professional. The bed would, after all, take care of the hard stuff. She was to birthing what flight attendants where to piloting. Leave the flight to the autopilot and serve the drinks. Although the drinks here were served by a machine down the corridor.
“Your twitter feed’s gone crazy darling.”
AtMarystrum, who didn’t have enough breath to argue any more, responded with a low guttural moan.
@Elizabtheen: go girl! @Marystrum
@Michamiliod: Have you thought about taking an existing name and putting two X’s in the middle. #Michamxxiliod #BBY_NMS.
@Margaranium: @Michamiliod Aren’t you supposed to be working @Marystum?
@Michamiliod: @Margaranium Hadn’t you heard @Marystrum has just gone into labor.
@Michamiliod: RT@Ciscoric: @Marystrum has just gone into labor.
@Elizabtheen: why haven’t you twtd in 2 hours @Marystrum?
@Rachelsynth: Don’t make it too long. You never get retweeted with a long handle #BBY_NMS.
@Janicooldomincohemp: RT @Rachelsyth: Don’t make it to long. You never get retweeted with a long handle #BBY_NMS.
@Franciltornalo: RT Janicooldomincohemp: RT @Rachelsyth: Don’t make it to long. You never get retweeted with a lo
@Elizabtheen: You ignoring me? Scrw you @Marystrum!
“They want a status update honey. Do you want me to tweet something on your behalf?”
There weren’t enough vowels to translate the noises emanating from Marystrum’s lips and bowels and AtCiscoric couldn’t find a suitable emoticon. He instead opted for the approximate translation:
@Marystrum: Nearly there!
@Elizabtheen: Push!
@Michamiliod RT: @Elizabtheen: Push!
@Margaranium: RT: @Michamiliod RT: @Elizabtheen: Push!
@Rachelsynth: RT: @Margaranium: RT @Michamiliod RT: @Elizabtheen: Push!
@Janicooldomincohemp: RT: @Rachelsynth: RT: @Margaranium: RT @Michamiliod RT: @Elizabtheen: Push!
@Franciltornalo: RT: @Janicooldomincohemp: RT: @Rachelsynth: RT: @Margaranium: RT @Michamiliod RT: @Elizabtheen: Push!
“AtCiscoric…Sir…Mr AtCiscoric?”
“Yes?”
AtCiscoric looked up, startled to be torn away from his data flow.
“Would you like to meet your son?”
A tiny figure was being cradled by the PostNatal’s mechanical conveyor which rocked him back and forth through the Blow-dry and Baby Shine. AtCiscoric put down his Compuroll and looked towards Marystrum, who’s pained expressions were now transformed to ones of joy.
“Would you like to hold him”.
His son, now swaddled in a white antibacterial towel, was offered up to AtCiscoric on the PostNatal’s elevated platform. Calm but gasping its first breaths, the baby looked up at its father. Its eyes were blinking and unfocused but recognizable to AtCiscoric as his own. AtCiscoric held the boy, struggling to grasp the enormity of the event and working out how he should react. Then he knew. Settling the baby down, he returned to his compuroll, logged out of Twitter and created a new account:
@Cistoric_2: Hello World!
by submission | Dec 5, 2014 | Story |
Author : Feyisayo Anjorin
When I was a child growing up in Akure, surrounded by hills and tall trees, and green fields, I believed the book of genesis. The first book of the bible was said to be about the beginning of everything. The first things, the newness, the freshness, the revelation. If life indeed has an end, the beginning must be like the morning of it.
We know a lot about beginnings in this place. A beginning of growth, a beginning of rot, an iroko tree could fall for the need of a power; flowers bloom in their time and wither. We know those mornings of rosy dreams and bright flags, when we were drunk on hope, when we were certain of our reason to believe the best.
There was a time when Africa was reborn; a new Africa from the ruins of slave trade, colonialism, and apartheid. Like a baby, and later like a child, we had our excuses. And we could be excused. The misunderstanding of the differing tribes and tongues could cause wars and start fires; we followed our rulers slavishly while children starved and became skeletons, and vultures waited, looking down, waiting for our dead.
We were poor because of the white man’s oppressive system that we hope to change. Soon change is coming. Soon. We were sure.
Now we’ve gone a hundred years into the twenty first century life. Akure, Calabar, Mangaung, Monrovia, Gweru, wherever; we are all Africans because we can still count our giant trees and green fields. We still have a home for lions, and monkeys, and rhinos, and rats, and bats. We have a home for them without needing zoos. Not everybody is as fortunate. All some people have now are videos and pictures of “wildlife”. Sorry for mentioning that word; but this is Africa.
Maybe we are not really behind because we still have to import almost everything needed to be twenty first century savvy.
And then this issue of the law enforcement robots. It doesn’t bother me one bit. The police were a mess before them. There was a time some terrorists abducted over two hundred teenage girls in Chibok and it took the army over a year to get them back. Happy young girls; innocent and vulnerable. Some came back with babies, some pregnant, some came back with HIV and STDs; they had all been raped. They were all scarred for life.
The law enforcement robots were imported two years ago. To be sincere, I’m baffled by their human rights records because of their slavish dedication to the law. I’m not happy that the tossed the most revered Yoruba monarch into the car trunk. I’m against the injury inflicted on those alleged to be resisting arrests. I believe they do issue too many speed fines. They need to put a human face on these things.
But you can see clear signs of sanity here! There was a time when the law meant nothing to government officials and to citizens. It was chaos and we were getting too attached to lawlessness; which was toxic!
This is Africa and our peculiar problems need drastic solutions and adjustments.
The law enforcement robots of Africa have now been programmed to shoot dead any African head of state that tries to go beyond the term of office.
I was glad to hear it as the sun rose this morning on Radio Alalaye while sipping palm wine by the window. I waited there, listening to the online analysis on the benefits and ills.
I got more palm wine. This is just a beginning.
