by submission | May 18, 2024 | Story |
Author: Aubrey Williams
I’ve been trying to figure things out. For no reason, I found myself on the side of a lonely road somewhere. I felt like I’d been asleep for too long on a hot day, and couldn’t quite remember what I was doing. It was quiet, with only the sound of distant sky traffic and grasshoppers, the buckled aluminium of the old crash barrier swaying on its unsteady mounting. I was starting to panic— where the hell was I? I didn’t have my phone on me, so I walked along the road until an AirTram appeared. The driving unit remarked it was a warm day, and that traffic in town was bad, my fellow passengers glumly looking up.
My first port of call was a café, but the three coffees didn’t help. They tasted of nothing, so I figured I had a cold. I couldn’t have looked weird, because people either acknowledged or smiled at me. I even checked the mirror, and I’ve never looked better. Nothing unusual, right? That changed when I popped into my regular haunt, the bar opposite the library. Maybe I drank too much and wandered off in a stupor? As soon as I entered, I could see a few of my friends: Pete from the AirTram yard, Weng-Chi who I had a life-drawing class with, Odie— my fellow gin enthusiast— and so on.
“Oh hell no, you fuck right off!” Weng-Chi said, looking up from his pinball game.
“Hey, what g—”
I couldn’t get a word in edgeways before Odie pushed his drink away, not even looking at me, and retreated into the gents. Pete sized me up, and then turned to the bartender, Akira.
“I told you, she’s not doing well.”
Akira sighed, her hands gripping the edge of the bar, before she glared.
“You’re not welcome here… J.D. You need to leave.”
No one was forthcoming, and I got a weird feeling being there. I left for the park, my head spinning and my stomach full of cotton wool. Soon enough I spied my girlfriend, Vee, her arms clasped tightly around an old book.
“Hey, hon! What—”
She screamed, nearly dropping her book, and held up her palm as if to ward me off, backing away.
“Oh fuck! Fuck! No, no, no! You can’t… she did… leave me alone!”
She burst into tears and loped off.
The only thing I could do after that was head over to my mum’s place.
“Sweetie! You were gone! I was worried sick about you!” She said, as she hugged me close. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, mum, it was such a weird day. I was at the side of a road… I’m going to lie down in my room.”
“No!” She yelped, holding me back “Please don’t disturb… Oh, I should never have tried that silly trick,” she sighed looking at me with pity. “I’m so sorry to have confused you… I just needed you to be here a little longer, that’s all.”
She activated her watch, and asked for “Memory Pal Support.” As she waited for the other person on the end of the line, she looked me up and down.
“I guess you ended up being a lot more like J.D. than I expected.”
The watch lit up, light so furious I couldn’t see.
“Mum, what’s going—”
+++Another jailbroken unit… I almost feel sorry for them. Understandable after a sudden accident like that, but we need for control over what people can do with the Memory Pal units. Poppy, would you wipe and reset this one, and load customer profile #EFN_90_JD00112?+++
by submission | May 17, 2024 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“Watcha got there?” Mik-taa’s co-pilot asked, watching her unfold a large map on a table in the ship’s galley.
“It’s a map,” she replied, not looking up.
“No duh,” Bix scoffed. “Even I recognize old tech maps like that. Whatcha looking for? Going somewhere?”
Mik-taa ignored him. She smoothed the creases in the map and ran her finger along a path somebody inked long ago. A trek of phosphorescent dashes leading from their home world to—
“Well?” Bix insisted. Mik-taa kept her finger on the map and looked up. It was obvious Bix wasn’t going away until she talked to him.
“I’m not planning anything. Look,” Mik-taa said, returning her focus to the map, “I found this stowed in the back of a cabinet below decks. Behind a stack of ancient external hard drives. I wondered what it was, so here I am. Okay?”
As she spoke, Bix moved up behind her to peer over her shoulder. “That’s a star map of the outer galaxy,” he said. “Probably several hundred years old. I’m surprised doesn’t crumble beneath your finger. It belongs in a museum.”
Mik-taa continued tracing the path beneath her fingertip. Bix reached over and placed his finger ahead of hers on the map. “There’s your destination! The edge of the galaxy. A little solar system floating on the fringe.” He leaned closer to me map and squinted. “Path ends at a tiny planet.”
“Wonder what’s there, what’s so important some one had to leave a trail of crumbs.” Mik-taa straightened up. “Hey, we’ve finished our run,” she said making eye contact with Bix, something she rarely did. “And we’re not far from this planet, so…”
“Sure,” Bix said, smiling. He loved it when Mik-taa’s eyes met his. It sent chills from the top of his head to the tip of his tail. The scales along his spine flared and rested. Good thing he was wearing his uniform; otherwise, his response would be embarrassing—especially if she didn’t feel the same way. He cleared his throat. “Let’s see where it leads.”
* * *
They were in the upper atmosphere of the little green and blue world before Mik-taa could finish her energy drink. Modern interstellar travel was like that; but Mik-taa fretted: How nice it would have been to take our time, to really do some sight-seeing along the way. She felt a wave of nostalgia for an experience she’d never had.
Bix interrupted her musing. “Let’s dip a bit closer to the surface. I’ll skip over the water—”
“There’s so much of it!” Mik-taa softly laughed. “Do you think the treasure is sunk below?”
Her laughter sent delicious ripples under his thorny scalp. “Nah.” He answered, adjusting the ship’s settings. “Let’s scan the land masses.”
“Look!” Mik-taa pointed to the video screen above the control panel. “What a beautiful design!”
Bix looked up. On screen was a gorgeous, intricate pattern inlaid in a field of… Bix wasn’t sure. Probably some crop particular to this planet. He recognized the pattern’s style, though.
“That,” he said, pointing to the screen, “is the work of the genius reclusive artist, Moltier. I studied him at the academy; I’d know his work anywhere. This installation—it’s not in his known catalog.”
“So it is treasure!” Mik-taa squealed.
“It is. And he’s likely created others here.” Bix reached over and touched her hand. “We’ll spend as much time as we need to explore.” An electric thrill passed between them. “I guarantee there’s more to come.”
by submission | May 16, 2024 | Story |
Author: David Dumouriez
Rex sleeps a lot more than they do. Well, that’s not so difficult: they don’t sleep! Instead they put themselves on standby, which complicates matters for Rex when he wakes up. Sadly, whatever he does, he can’t make them hear him as he lacks the capacity to return them to their version of consciousness.
And, just as frustratingly as far as Rex is concerned, eating is another thing they don’t need to do. But despite having never experienced that dreaded ache, they clearly get the concept of it because when they’re fully activated they fill his bowl. In fact, it’s one of the first tasks they attend to. He finds that if he shouts a bit, or sings, he often gets a second portion quite soon afterwards. Sometimes, depending on how much he pleases them, it might even be a more exotic or more delicious meal. Something meaty and juicy rather than dry and crunchy.
And they’re not stingy with play either. They love to work him hard and indulge his seemingly endless physical energy. He’ll run all day for them. Catch things, chase objects. Climb. Swim. He’s nothing if not versatile. He can’t work out whether they’re unable to do these things themselves, or whether they just choose not to. In any case, he’s too busy with such activities to analyse events to any great extent. He pushes himself to the limit, then claims the sleep that’s necessary for him to repair his body.
In the meantime, they do whatever it is they do. They’re double his size, so he can’t see clearly what’s going on at their level. The only time he’s roughly equal to them is when they pick him up for some reason. In truth, he doesn’t always want this, but he has to go along with it. (He did try struggling once, but it didn’t end well.) Maybe they do this so they can see him better. Or, to be fair to them, to give him a sense of their appreciation. Other times it seems to be a way to test his powers of landing after they throw him down. It sounds rougher than it is. Actually, he likes it. Sometimes – just sometimes – they dropkick him. That’s not so good. Still, he doesn’t really blame them. The pain lasts longer than the memory of it.
Oh, and there are other things they don’t do. Well, if you don’t eat or drink, you don’t have to worry about any kind of irrigation … But fortunately they provide a little area for that. And magically it’s all much cleaner than it could be.
Also, Rex never sees them interacting. Not like he does, at least. On the other hand, they frequently witness him performing. They even facilitate it! They introduce another specimen into his area, or maybe take him somewhere else to commit the act. Then they, and others that he doesn’t recognise, watch whatever happens and monitor the results. It appears that satisfaction is ensured all round!
Nothing’s perfect, of course. But Rex is quite content. Being human, you see, is really not that bad when all’s said and done.
by submission | May 15, 2024 | Story |
Author: Emily Kinsey
A high-pitched scream tore into the night air, and Jules, leaning against the battered frame leading into her little brother’s room, uncrossed her arms and reflexively placed her hands over her ears.
“Mom, can’t you get him to shut up?” Jules asked. “He’ll wake the neighborhood.”
“He has nightmares,” Jules’ mother said over her shoulder.
“He is a nightmare,” Jules muttered.
“Hunter, sweetie, come out, it’s time for bed,” their mother said, kneeling on her hands and knees, trying to coax her son from the inner depths of his bedroom closet. “You need sleep.”
“I can’t sleep, the Grey’s are coming!”
“Nothing is coming, Hunter,” Jules said from the doorway. “Mom, seriously, the neighbors will call the cops.”
“Hunter, honey, you want your blankie?” their mother asked. “You’re not too old for your lovey.”
“No!” Hunter shouted from the darkened closet.
“Hunter, enough,” their mother said. “Get in bed! Nothing is coming for you, baby, I promise.”
“You’re a liar!” Hunter yelled.
“Honey, I am not a liar. Why would you say that?”
“Because that’s what you say every night!” Hunter shouted. “And it’s a lie! They come every night!”
“Who comes every night?”
“Aliens. The Greys.”
Their mother leaned back on her heels, distracted. “I had a dream about this last night.”
“Déjà vu,” Jules whispered. She felt it too.
“It wasn’t a dream,” Hunter pleaded, emerging from the closet. He looked older to Jules, wiser than his eight years. “And it’s not déjà vu. The Greys are coming. They come every night. Each day repeats itself, and I’m the only one who remembers.”
“Hunter, dial the crazy down to a zero, okay?” Jules said. Goosebumps prickled her arms. “Nothing is—”
The room was suddenly encased in a blinding pale blue light. The wall to Jules’ left billowed and pulled apart silently, disappearing into the night sky.
“Prepare yourselves, what comes next is the worst part,” Hunter said as the room was enveloped in white mist. He darted from the closet and sprinted past Jules. Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her into the hallway. Jules quickly lost sight of her mother in the thick mist.
“Get away from it!” Hunter shouted to Jules.
“What have we tried?” Jules asked. She no longer doubted Hunter.
“Everything,” Hunter said, backing down the hallway and eyeing the intruding mist. “Knives, baseball bats, the fire poker, UV light, water…they’re invincible. They hate loud noises, but the mist deafens all sound. They come in the mist.”
“What do they do when they catch us?”
“Use your imagination.”
Deep dread hit the pit of Jules’ stomach as she thought of her mother. “What do they want from us?”
“Not us, Jules. You. They want you.”
“Me?”
“I’ve tried everything, but they just restart the day over again. They told me last time…it’ll stop if I give them you.”
“Hunter!”
“I’m sorry; I just can’t live another day like this.”
Staunchly, Hunter grabbed his sister and pushed her into the mist. He heard her muted scream as she disappeared into the vapor, and saw a thin, gray claw clamp down on her wrist.
“There, she’s yours!” Hunter yelled into the white abyss. “We had a deal! Now leave me alone!” The mist growled in response, and Hunter, who knew what each growl meant by now, nodded in silent satisfaction. He watched the mist retreat into his bedroom, where it slipped outside. The wall slid back into place, and Hunter was left in eerie, beautiful silence.
“I did it,” Hunter whispered. He fell to the floor and cradled his head. “I’m free. It’s finally over.”
by submission | May 14, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Thor got thunder.
Prometheus got fire.
Shiva got a laser eye.
Me? I got a measly quark. Smallest thing in the universe. Two and a half trillion times smaller than a grain of sand.
What’s a god supposed to do with that? Make the masses tremble and beg mercy, pledge obedience and fealty–to what? A quark, a subatomic particle that can’t even be directly observed. That only theoretically exists.
Does that make me theoretical, a speculative deity, worthy only of mind-crumbling conjecture? That’ll never get me the succulent sacrifices and liberal libations offered up to larger, noisier, showier gods.
How can I compete with those look-at-me divinities? Because it’s all about competition. It always is. If you’re not winning you’re not living–and that’s especially true of immortals. Nothing is worse than being ignored, overlooked, unseen, unnoticed.
Small.
So small that your existence is a question, an academic abstraction, a mere ghost in the machine. Think how hard that makes it to command respect and inspire adulation. Or conjure fear.
That’s the key. Fear. And who fears the very small?
It took a while to figure that out. Most of humanity’s existence, in fact. It took scores of quantum physicists to reveal what lies at the rock-bottom foundation of all matter: my regal quarkiness.
Now, I have the platform to shake the world, demand obeisance, and rule the ethereal pantheon. Thor. Prometheus. Shiva. Mere pretenders of power and might, for without me, without my quarks, there is nothing. I am prime, the building block of creation, everything made to my plan, in my image.
Finally, I have a modern identity worthy of my might, and a newly supreme name to make the masses quaver underfoot and bend a knee to the unbreakable god of small things: LEGO.
by Julian Miles | May 13, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Nineteen hundred tomorrows, and of them, only I got to see a dawn.
The world below is still burning in places: unfortunate for the natives that their home arrived at the same strategically important position as the main battle fleets of two conflicting interstellar empires.
I’ve tuned into their broadcasts. While I can only grasp the meaning of a word here and there of any language they transmit in, the colours are wonderfully vivid. Some of their feeds seem to be dedicated to landscapes, and they were truly beautiful.
Live feeds just show fields of seared ruins littered with the remains of Coleandi and Drutteln warships. The recordings of those wrecks descending like gargantuan bolts of fury are as terrifying as they are awe-inspiring.
What puzzles me the most is the tone of the live reports: they really seem to believe themselves to be the targets of this! As if any of us would bother with a race still engaged in local wars. They haven’t even got orbital colonies yet. How could they possibly consider themselves worthy of invasion?
I’m sure the clumsy white vessels that have risen on gigantic columns of flame are not here to succour anything, either. They’re scavengers, and military-aspected ones at that. While looking for secrets, they’ll be equally happy to find survivors to interrogate.
I’m also sure their ways are as primitive as their cultures, and those cultures are about to get a massive skip-ahead in warfare and spacefaring technologies.
Which is why I’ve recorded this. The nowhere planet I’m orbiting in an escape pod is the third from the Sun in the Nactenid 34 system. The natives call it Earth, and they’re going to be a threat if they don’t exterminate themselves while learning to misuse our technologies. I recommend a watch be placed on them as soon as possible.
As for me, it doesn’t matter if I was Coleandi or Drutteln. I’m not going to let myself be taken and tortured. By the time you see this, I’ll have joined the remains of my nineteen hundred orbiting above a planet gearing up to commit atrocities during a war they can’t win, but very likely will be convinced they can.
This will be transmitted outbound on the emergency channels of both empires.
Forgive me as I close with the blessing of my clade, that has ridden with us from the shallow valleys of our homeland to every place we find our rest: ‘Find you glory in peace, that war never lure you into folly.’
Live fair, ride free, sleep well.
Teldan Hanvu.
