by submission | Oct 4, 2024 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
Scott heard the girl’s scream and thought, ‘Oh crap, not again.’
He was taking out the boxes from the new gadgets he had bought for his recently acquired apartment, bringing them into the alley to be disposed of properly. Scott figured it was still too early in the night for the crazies to be out. He’d been wrong.
The woman was on her knees clutching her torn skirt to her groin, her cheeks exposed in the tiny panties. Her button-down shirt was ripped off one shoulder showing half her beige bra. There was blood leaking from her lip and a darkening bruise growing under one eye. Her makeup was mussed from tears and her hair resembled a rat’s nest. Her scream had momentarily postponed the inevitable.
There was a chain link fence separating his alleyway from the adjoining one on the back-to-back buildings. There, positioned in a square around the unfortunate girl, were four ruffians, bandanas covering their shorn heads and drooping jeans. They resembled a pack of hyenas ready to tear into a wounded gazelle. Scott puffed out a breath. He could turn and go back to his comfortable, air-conditioned, new apartment and watch some TV or he could intervene. Really though, there was no choice.
Scott stepped to the fence, placed his palms together at a ninety-degree opposition, spun his hands until the fingers aligned, pushed up from the tips into a steepled position, then let them slip into the gap of the fingers of the opposing hand and slowly pulled them apart to about shoulder length. The fence separated. More appropriately, the space between his hands had vanished into the fold. Scott stepped through the gap.
The gang had not seen the occurrence but as the slackened fence rattled as it unraveled, they took notice of him.
“Hey man, back the fuck away unless you want to get hurt real bad,” the one closest to him said, brandishing a knife of Rambo-sized proportion.
“Now boys, play time is over and it would be better if all of you just went home.”
“Oh, yeah!” The blade wielding thug moved to slash at Scott’s midsection.
Scott had already deftly manipulated his fingers, duplicating the complex procedure. As the swipe came at his stomach – Scott spread his hands to either side. The man who had been holding the weapon finished his swing and then stared at the stump of his arm, everything below the elbow was gone. There was no blood, no pain. It had not been amputated. His hand and forearm no longer existed on this plane. Had never existed here. It was if he had been born without the limb, only just now realizing it. The detached hand holding the knife was now in the fold.
They all stood there looking at the truncated arm. The three unharmed men took off like shots and were out of the alley in seconds. The depleted criminal spent a few extra moments to try and comprehend what happened, couldn’t, and then staggered off in a daze.
Scott helped the woman to her feet, tied the remnants of the skirt into a knot around her waist, pulled the shirt somewhat back into place and gave her his handkerchief to dab against her face.
“I think you’re OK.”
Her face was a blank mask of bewilderment. Scott put his hands on her shoulders which made her flinch. He said, “Go home, my dear.”
She took one last look into his eyes, blinked, and then limped out of the alleyway.
Scott sighed. People were going to talk about this. He’d have to move. Again.
by submission | Oct 3, 2024 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
The moment is almost here. At last, after all the speculation and rumour, the grand reveal. A cage has been wheeled onto the stage, sitting at its centre, covered by a white sheet, pristine and perfect. Everyone is certain that, when the cover is pulled away, it will be intricate and ornate but formidable. The creature trapped within and unable to escape.
The cage is a giant replica of a Victorian birdcage. Across the theatre speculation begins afresh, hushed but audible. Is the creature in some way birdlike? Winged, even? A raptor – a throwback from pre-history, from the land that time forgot.
This little theatre is packed to the rafters, and the anticipation is rife and sour. It tastes bitter but I keep on swallowing, I keep on looking.
The whole world is watching and I imagine people standing on street corners staring through shop windows at old television sets. Concave screens housed in wooden boxes, rabbit ear aerials perched on top, retro aliens with spindle legs.
This theatre is old, a gilded, burnished artefact with its shag pile carpeting and its flock wallpaper. The plush velvet seats are the colour of blood and the backdrop hanging behind the shrouded cage is colourful but fading. In my head, on those old screens, everything has been reduced to black and white.
I glance up at the drones hovering overhead and a spotlight hits the cage. We can see the creature now, its’ silhouette behind the sheet. It appears naked and not unlike us. We can see legs, arms, hands, the head. The creature doesn’t appear to be bound or gagged and we wonder if there is a blindfold or will the creature be able to see us, be permitted to speak? Will we understand or will it merely screech and squawk? Or has its tongue already been cut away in order to save us from its blasphemy. Will its voice be deep and guttural, an anguished howl?
But this creature is quite clearly delicate and fragile. Sylphlike, a fallen angel perhaps, its wing surgically removed but not its halo, not its glow.
by submission | Oct 2, 2024 | Story |
Author: James Callan
The holographer did more than tell us who was next on their list to be murdered, though that alone would suffice as unnerving. They didn’t mention names at all, opting for an artistic approach, something avant-garde to demonstrate their next dreadful slaughter. The holographer had their modus operandi, their eccentric, sadistic show-and-tell. No one wanted to witness any of it, of course. But that didn’t stop the grisly shows of light.
The holographer was a genius of their craft, capable of weaving light-forged imagery as convincing as materiality. Their “art” was telling of their skill, though it did more than tell: It showed us who was next to be murdered. The images came in hijacked spasms of radiance, every holo-device ejecting a visual presentation that did not miss the nuance of each drop of blood, each soundless scream, each strand of saliva from every wide-mouth vortex of horror.
The holographer didn’t spare their audience the finer distinctions of homicide, nor did they consider their audience beyond its numbers — the more the merrier. The “artist” didn’t bypass any outlets where they might share their work, sparing neither the children’s daycare film theatre nor the mellow, daytime holo-vision programs. The holographer was all about inclusion, sharing their light-engineered horror-show with all of Venus-Side Starport. In vivid color, in deft realism, no one was spared the shocking omens crafted in hovering luminosity.
It happened sporadically –a day, a week, a fortnight between each vulgar exhibit– then, like a ghost, it would enter the room. It would invade your senses with a stunning emission of light, a portent of what was soon to occur. It happened during dinner, at the gym, at work. You’d be eating a sandwich or lifting dumbbells, maybe filing paperwork, having sex, then it seized your awareness completely. You’d be an eye-witness to a violent act, a gruesome murder. And it wasn’t just you, just me. It was everyone.
No one was spared the 3-dimensional soon-to-be homicides, their tasteless, hack-and-slash horror. The visions of terror could not be avoided, and as the death toll climbed, neither, it would seem, could their inevitability.
When my own death was broadcasted over an evening meal shared with my mistress, I dropped my sushi, chopsticks and all. The tank-bred tuna wrapped in UV-grown rice and seaweed-substitute splashed in sort-of-soy-sauce across my plate. I glanced down to a meal that was less authentic than the image of my eventual murder before me. I pushed away my food, averting my eyes from the blunt-force cranial cave-in of my skull, the splintering of my hardhat that I wear at the starport docks.
I glanced at my mistress, noting her wide-eyed fear, the stringy thread of lab-grown sashimi dangling from her coral-red lips.
“Could the holographer be wrong?” Little hope in her tone. “Might you avoid being murdered?”
I measured the qualities of my mistress –her elegance, her beauty, her kindness– none of which I figured I deserved. “Don’t worry.” I assured her. “I’m certain to avoid this horrible death.” I passed through the 3-dimensional image of my brain being smashed into sushi ginger, my skull being fragmented into a joyful celebration of thrown confetti.
“How can you be certain?” Tears in her baby-blue eyes.
“Trust me.” A semblance of bravery. “I will not be murdered by the holographer.”
I went into the next room and sighed, loaded a fresh charge into my laser pistol and raised its barrel to my temple. The cold, gleaming instrument trembled against my ear.
I looked in the mirror, a semblance of bravery. “I will not be murdered by the holographer.”
by submission | Oct 1, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Belcher
The beeping was coming from the back of his skull. Softly at first, then loudly, it crescendoed violently and rattled him awake.
Blearily, he opened his eyes to the silhouette of an enormous, hulking machine. Its high intensity spotlights were trained on him, bleating out its aggressive, high pitched beeping.
Waiting. Idling. Beeping.
His eyes tried to focus, slowly, against the blinding light. The machine was starting to come into focus.
Was that…no, can’t be. Was that…an auto-harvester?
He looked around, eyes still trying to focus. Still dazed, fighting back panic and the strong urge to puke. He was in some kind of field. From the looks of it it appeared to be…corn?
“Where the hell am I?” he thought to himself.
Looking up, he could see the last deep purples of the sunrise fading into pink. Lazy clouds rolled across an endless sky. Wherever he was, it was a far cry from the super-talls of the city where this night, or maybe nights, had begun.
He awkwardly stumbled to his feet, falling backwards before finding his footing. Once upright, he cleared out of the machine’s path. Placated, the beeping ceased and the lumbering machine calmly resumed its work, the high pitch hum of the electric motor and the sounds of blades cutting through the morning birdsong, continuing on its singular task.
“Fuck,” he said out loud. The physical hangover was already rough, but the shame from the emotional one was quickly outpacing it. This was bad, even by the already low expectations he had for himself. He was starting to put together whatever pieces he could.
It began how it often does, with him pouring himself a drink to calm his nerves after the last contract had gone sideways. One turned into two, then another, then to the bar with the cute bartender for a few more. He then inevitably called the guy for something a little stronger. The guy had instead sold him on trying some new synthetic out of the floating colonies. It offered a new type of trip, something “interstellar,” the guy had said with the effortless charisma of the salesman who truly believes in his product. His own predictable lack of self control made it an easy sell.
He vaguely remembered opening the packet and pouring the powder under his tongue on the Skyrail trip back to his apartment, his eyes darting around the train car to make sure nobody was looking. Things got shiny, then wobbly. Then they went black. Now here he was.
He turned slowly in a circle, trying to piece it all together. “Where the hell am I?”
He tried connecting to the farm’s network to find out, well, anything. But since the breach that shut down farm operations worldwide and caused the crop failures a few years back, the gigacorps had locked all the networks down tight. There was no other signal, there probably hadn’t been a human on these automated farms in decades. He was alone out here, and he would have to improvise.
He chased down the lumbering auto-harvester, jogging alongside it until he found the footholds. He grabbed on and hoisted himself to the top. He sat on the top of the machine as it continued on with its task, catching his breath and trying to keep the contents of his stomach where they were. He looked around from this new vantage point, hoping to understand how he ended up here. There was nothing but corn in every direction, all the way to the horizon.
After some searching, he found the control panel and pried it open. He found what he was fairly sure were the wires to the GPS and very much hoped were not the wires to the network antennae. He held his breath, ripped out the wires, and waited. The lumbering machine slowly rolled to a stop. The hum of the electric motor and harvest rotors faded away, replaced by the surrounding birdsong.
A tinny, robotic voice came through muffled speakers. “Guidance error. A surveillance diagnostics drone is being dispatched.” He realized he was still holding his breath, and let out a long, slow exhale.
After a few tortured minutes sitting on top of the dead machine, trying to put the night back together, he was grateful to hear the high pitched hum of the drone rotors headed his way, slowly getting louder.
It lowered itself to eye level, the camera light activated, and the video screen came on. The cherubic, pasty face of a young man with thick black glasses appeared on the screen.
“Uhh, hello,” the man said, uneasily. “Who are you and what are you do…?”
“I need a little help,’ he interrupted. “Look, I promise I’m not here to fuck with anything. I know this sounds insane, but I just had a long night and, uh, well, woke up here.”
It hurt just to say it.
“You…woke up there? Um, Ok. You’ll understand why that’s hard to believe. How did you get there?”
“Decades of poor impulse control,” he thought to himself, but simply answered with a shrug.
“Just a minute.” The man muted his mic, having a conversation with someone in the room. Another face joined the screen, a stern looking woman in a uniform. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, an astonished look on her face. A quiet, animated conversation followed.
The man turned the mic back on.
“The boss says we’ll send a security team out for you. They will bring you back here to the control center. We’ll have to hold you for a while to ask you a few more questions, but if what you say is true you can probably get a ride out from here.”
“Uh, thanks. Appreciate it.”
He sat waiting on top of the silent, hulking machine, trying to put the night together. Trying to put his life together. Failing to do both.
The dawn was fading into day. The birds still singing.
“How did I get here?”
by submission | Sep 30, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
He hadn’t planned on becoming a ghost hunter, but that’s what Mordem Letac felt like now. A trained naturalist, he’d come to the northern reaches of the Yukon Territory earlier in the summer to study migration patterns in the face of ecosystem collapse related to rapidly accelerating climate change.
In some ways studying ecosystem collapse prepared him for becoming a ghost hunter because the once-thriving tundra he was surveying and cataloging had turned into something of a ghost town. Most of the native species had disappeared leaving little but the harsh winds of a bleak winter to come.
And now he was hunting for a ghost. In his own mind, Mordem felt he was humoring a few of the locals from Old Crow, a town of a little over 200, mostly Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation. Many of whom said, privately, that if he wanted to know what had happened to their caribou, foxes, hares, ermines, musk oxen and even wolves, grizzlies and polar bears, he needed to talk to the Silent One, a legendary spirit who at catastrophic times appeared near an ancient stone-ringed berm a couple miles outside of Old Crow. Atop the wide berm was the battered remains of a homestead.
Turned out Mordem wasn’t much of a ghost hunter. He didn’t have to be. The Silent One was there when he sidled into the structure through some missing clapboards. She was as grey and grained as the floorboards she was hunched over. She was painting figures in bright red paint. Paint that Mordem quickly realized was blood.
The blood came from a large carcass off to her right. A carcass that Mordem couldn’t identify: large, bluish, with crocodilian jaws and massive webbed claws. A trail of blood led from it to the Silent One’s brush.
The Silent One ignored Mordem. Cautiously, he approached to examine the figures being meticulously brushed. He immediately recognized the painted shapes: caribou, foxes, ermines, wolves, grizzlies, musk oxen, polar bears. With sweeping strokes the Silent One was creating wave after wave of them in parallel and convergent motion. It was mesmerizing and beautiful.
And then she brushed a larger figure at the rear of all the others: the croco-frog-carcass thing but with snapping jaws and slashing claws bearing down on the other creatures.
A hunt. An uber predator on the prowl.
It hit Mordem like forty degree water: the Silent One was painting a pattern he was very familiar with: migratory routes. And the predators that followed the migration. Whatever that hideous carcass was, it was likely responsible for the disappearance of the area’s mammals.
Mordem took out his phone and began snapping photos trying to process what it meant. An obviously alien species was preying upon the creatures of the Canadian tundra. It was surreal, but not frightening to him. As a naturalist, it made sense. Not the alien species, of course, but the migration and the predators.
Then the Silent One began painting another figure behind the croco-frogs. It was three times the size of a croco-frog and even more vicious looking. Mordem moved for a closer look, and the Silent One met his eye for a moment.
Her eyes were primordial, bright, rich like nebulae ready to give birth to suns. She gave him a very knowing look. And then she was gone. Vanished before his eyes. Only her blood-stained brush remained. Mordem looked down at her last drawing. It was terrifying to behold, but what paralyzed Mordem was what she’d painted in the creature’s fists: a wicked-looking weapon. Some kind of firearm with energy beams flaming forth.
Deep down, Mordem, like every other predator in the wide, wide, wide universe, feared a new alpha predator, another top dog with teeth bared, hellbent and hungry for conquest.
He saw clearly, as the Silent One saw, that it was time to get moving.
He just didn’t know where the human race could flee.
by submission | Sep 29, 2024 | Story |
Author: Ann Graham
Other Sister touches Timid Sister’s elbow, offers a boiled egg on a tiny porcelain plate. She swallows the egg whole. From May to October Timid Sister pushes aside the drapery and plants her face between the window grille bars at sunrise. There’s a smear where her nose lands. Stock-still, she spies a ruby-throated hummingbird eagerly take the sugary liquid. The blown glass globe, already hung on a twisted wrought-iron stand when the centenarian sisters moved in some seven years earlier. Timid Sister flutters, emulates the throaty waves. The cloying syrup makes her cough. Minuscule undulations of the scarlet gorget reflect the easterly sun until it’s bombarded by another feisty hummer. Tracked, trailed, two smooth streaks, one directly on the other’s tail. Timid Sister’s beak bumps the glass pane; her shoulders hunch; her feet disappear. Other Sister touches Timid Sister’s elbow and offers a blue crystal bowl brimming with treacly nectar.
