by submission | Oct 6, 2022 | Story |
Author: Anna Jackson
I couldn’t look at it, but it stood tall and imposing before me, like it was begging me to see. I knew it was time, I knew that I didn’t have a choice, but that didn’t make it any easier. The Gateway was open and it was my turn to step through it. Eventually, I had to look at it, I needed to see. I stared into the deep blue core with wide eyes, the wind scorching them as I stood, unblinking. It felt as though it was absorbing my stare, pulling me closer, waiting for me. Then my eyes met hers. My wife. She couldn’t be on the other side could she? No, I had already resigned myself to her loss. But what if? What if she was waiting there, waiting for me? I couldn’t leave her again. Before I could even think about it, my legs were moving, one step in front of the other in some hypnotic dance. I hesitated inches away from the blue surface, fear enveloped me as I placed my fingertips to the strange liquid. It seemed to pulsate under my touch, like it was alive and breathing. One more step, that’s all it would take. I took a deep breath and thought of her. Then I stepped in. It felt like I had plunged myself into a pool of freezing water, the blue washed over me and filled my eyes; I was drowning between breaths. The substance, whatever it was, stung my skin like shards of ice coursing through my veins. Shivers ran up and down and up my spine again until I was in so deep that I couldn’t see the gateway anymore. All I could see was blue. I raised my wrinkled hands to my face, only to find them fading, crumbling almost into dust. I was slipping away into the emptiness. Then I knew that the gateway was taking me, and that I would never see her again. It lied to me. My eyes were the last to go, the image of blue emptiness burned into my vanished corneas.
by submission | Oct 5, 2022 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“So we’re outside, drinking on the patio like we do sometimes after work, when Ellie looks up at the sky and goes—”
“I said, ‘What is THAT?’” Ellie laughed awkwardly. From his seat next to the sofa, the interviewer, Mister Guest, leaned towards her, holding his small recorder. He wore a black suit and skinny tie, plain white shirt, and highly polished shoes. Very professional, Ellie thought.
“Continue,” Guest encouraged.
“Around sunset that day the clouds looked like buttered popcorn—and I’m daydreaming when suddenly this THING slips out from the clouds and glides, real slow, towards us.”
“Daydreaming?” Ellie could hear the puzzlement in Guest’s voice.
She sighed. “Like wondering what life would be like if I, I mean we, lived somewhere else, somewhere with exotic cultures and beautiful landscapes and fascinating histories.”
Listening, Guest tilted his head. His oddly-pointy ears perked up. “What did this ‘thing’ look like?”
“HUGE and silent. Triangle-shaped, dark gray. Color-changing lights on each corner—white to purple, then orange, then back to white. And in the very middle of this thing, there’s a big glass globe. Like a crystal ball.” She scrunched her eyebrows together.“You could see the sky and clouds through it, but they looked distorted.”
“Hell, I saw that, too,” Trent said, slurping his beer.
“What did it sound like?” Guest asked Ellie, ignoring Trent’s interruption.
“Nothing.” Ellie answered. “No engine roar or motor hum or propellers buzzing—”
“Speak for yourself,” Trent snorted. He was annoyed; this was supposed to be his interview. He’s the one who looked up Extra-Terrestrial Investigators, Inc., online. He’s the one who made the call to set up the interview.
“Oh?” Guest said, still pointing the recorder at Ellie.
Trent leaned in and spoke loudly. “I heard this ‘mmmmmmmm’.” Trent’s eyes became unfocused as he fell under the spell of creating his own fiction. “Like a heavenly choir holding one long note, getting louder and louder until it was rattlin’ my bones!”
Ellie put her head in her hands.
Trent took a long pull on his beer. “That UFO sent out sound-waves to hypnotize us! It was gonna beam us up to be probed or who knows what, if I hadn’t dragged Ellie back into the house. I’m the hero. That’s your story, mister.”
“Huh,” was all Guest said; he lightly touched Ellie’s shoulder. “You were saying?”
She looked up. “It hovered over us for a minute or two, then smoothly slipped back into the clouds and disappeared.” She shrugged.
Mister Guest clicked off his recorder. “Thanks for your time, and information.” He never took his eyes off Ellie. “We’ll be in touch.”
* * *
Back at headquarters, Mister Guest turned on his recorder. His supervisor, Director Cloak, listened closely, occasionally nodding. “So the male, though an absolute beast, was actually closer to the truth.”
“Yep,” Guest agreed. “He’s physically fit, steeped in Earth-culture UFO lore, and prone to gross exaggeration. No matter what we do to him, or how long we keep him, his peers won’t believe him.”
“An excellent find, then!” Cloak commended.“Well done.”
“One last thing,” Guest added.“My youngest has a birthday soon and, as this female is intelligent, docile yet adventurous, I think she’ll—”
“Make a good pet,” Cloak finished. “Go ahead. Schedule your follow-up interview.”
“Terrific!” Guest chirped. “I’ll wrap her up.”
by submission | Oct 4, 2022 | Story |
Author: Reba Elliott
The sun rises and sets, then the other sun rises and and sets, and then the planet rises and the sun rises and the planet sets and the other sun rises and the sun sets and the other sun sets. There is light everywhere. Leaves grow long and wild and in all directions, reaching for every light source at once. And our shadows, also, grow long and wild, and in all directions. They fade in and out, stretch and dance. There are years without night.
We spin and the planets spin and the suns spin. It is dizzying. We live on a moon, one of several, orbiting a planet, orbiting two stars. And out there, other galaxies spin and spin, full of a million lights.
Have you ever seen a ball made of a hundred tiny mirrors? They reflect light as the ball spins, sending little spots of light flying across the walls and floor. Can you imagine being inside of that ball of mirrors, all of them reflecting your light back at you, over and over and over until you go blind? No. I agree. I’d rather be on the outside too.
It isn’t strange living in this environment if you were born here and lived here your whole life, like I have. My house is covered in vines stretching toward one sun or the other. I never have to rotate my houseplants. Every wall is filled with windows.
How do you know what you were meant to do? Some of us are born into it. Some of us go searching for a long time and then eventually come home to work on the family farm. Some of us go searching and never return. I don’t know what those ones find, because they don’t come back to tell us.
Do the plants ask what they were meant to do? I think so. Otherwise why would they be reaching first for one star and then for the other?
The straight line: that is something I know nothing about. We just spin, here. Here, we just spin. And everything around us spins, and the whole universe is spinning. That is the one constant in the universe: everything spins.
by Julian Miles | Oct 3, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The city burns behind them. Long shadows stretch almost to the citadel of government. Late afternoon sunlight picks out moments in bright clarity: metallic reflections from the bent panels of a vandalised coupe, a discarded sheet spread like spilt milk, the sparkle of falling tears.
Ahead of such scenes, a mob stands. The roaring of righteous anger has faded in the face of the rows of masked soldiers who block the street. Behind them can be seen the squat forms of armoured cars.
This impasse has stood unchanged for nearly an hour. Within the mob, a few arteries of anger seek to drive it forward. Veins of unspoken reticence keep it still. Within the serried ranks, there is little movement: mainly the shifting of position that betrays discomfort. This crisis arose faster than expected. A number of the troops are locals. For all that command has tried to minimise the number of them at the front, unit cohesion has to take precedent over the threat of adverse emotional reactions.
There’s a stirring within the mob. Surveillance images are confused for a moment, then a smarter observer pulls the watchers back so an overview can be gained: a figure moves forward. The mob parts and reforms behind. Little eddies of concern can be seen in the wake.
Stepping into the clear space between the groups, the figure is revealed to be an older man in nondescript casual clothing. He bears no placard, displays no holograms, wears no badges or disguise. In his arms a child is cradled.
Walking to a point between the two groups, he crouches and places the limp figure down, taking a moment to tuck a roll of material under the child’s head.
A hesitant voice calls from amongst the soldiers: “Is… Is he hurt?”
The man straightens up, shaking his head: “Bless you for asking, but no. Royan got overstimulated when the drummers joined in. He’s taking a nap to process it.” He looks down and smiles: “Pretty soon he’ll be back to demand we all play football with him.”
There are nods of understanding on both sides.
The man looks about. He raises his voice. It’s deep: carries well.
“Four minutes ago, somebody made a mistake. A press release about this,” he waves his hands to encompass the stalled riot, “was sent to Reuters earlier than intended. It says dozens of soldiers and rioters were killed by a suicide bomber. It also says left-wing fanatics claimed responsibility.”
Soldiers grip their weapons tighter. A few begin to bring them up, but are ordered to stand down.
On a nearby rooftop a hidden observer receives a terse message, then recalls a drone with its cargo undelivered.
The man points towards the citadel of government.
“I came here to protest against the uncaring bastards who are driving ordinary people to destitution and death so they can hoard even more wealth.”
He looks down: “I want my boy to be able to carry on playing football, because the medical care he needs is affordable, the social care he sometimes needs is available, and both are given by experts.”
The man sits down cross-legged, spreading his arms in a gesture for others join him.
“I will not be party to a hoax that kills. Will you?”
The ripple of people sitting down is halfway through the mob when one of the soldiers steps forward, slings his weapon, and sits down. The ripple that starts travels faster.
Sitting by his sleeping son, he looks up at the hovering watchers from between two groups of seated people.
“No massacres. No compliance. Your move.”
by submission | Oct 2, 2022 | Story |
Author: Rainbow Heartshine
We have enough feathers for a couple of mattresses now.
I’m not such an awful person as to use so, but how are you supposed to dispose of angel down?
Whether they count as the real thing is over my head, theologically. It shouldn’t be. When she showed up and explained, I could get it. Ancient saints might’ve made some mistakes about her kind, but Spock would be able to do the math–and what a beautiful calculation. When we meet, the shape she takes is the optimal solution to the equation of her nature and my desires.
The shining silver demon that produces is out of my dreams, but the kind innocence on her face, that’s her contribution, I could never have imagined. It gave me pause the first night, but she assured me not every stereotype about her kind is wrong. The demon and innocence are both the truth. We play the games you’d think.
Usually.
Then one night instead of shining silicone bat wings that glowed with starscapes when the lights were off, she had feathers, sparkly and pure, like something off a Christmas card.
It was alright until I got my hand in them.
I pulled every single one out. I have every night since. Things taken off her body still exist when she stops manifesting, so the fluffy irony builds up–my succubus girlfriend’s as gay as I am, and it’s filling my closet with angel feathers.
She says it’s delicious catharsis, but I worry. Hatred is poison, to her kind. She says she would choke if it was her I was hating, but some poisons are so subtle. I loathe myself for desiring this. I can do the math that lets her bear the violence for me without becoming the object of my hate, but I worry, not well enough. Never has that stupid “Lesbian sex as sushi” metaphor been more apt as my hope I’m cutting this spiritual fugu right.
Her answer to my fear is confusing, or at least I want it to be. She says if we stop this here, that will be the hate that brings her death.
I say I’ll never sleep in a bed made of hate, and beg her to find other food, the nights I’m like this, but it’s no use, we’re in love.
Can you see the flaw in my math? I can, tonight–sorry if you hoped this would be one of those riddle stories. I just got the answer, so I’m telling you.
I’ve built a new life, replaced everything church gave me, even, I find myself thinking, as she walks through that door perpendicular to everything she uses to get into my bedroom, spiritual transcendence. Yet something misses. An ineffable comfort I can’t give a name to. If I can’t find it with her, where will I ever?
She has the answer, tonight. It freaked me right out when she showed up looking entirely human and dressed in a wedding gown–until she took my hand and laid it on her body and the fabric burst into flames like I was carved from the core of a star, and revealed her unearthly demon-flesh underneath. The fire is warm, like kisses, but looks as hellish and dreadful as the darkness I feel inside, playing this game. Smoke rises and ash falls as we slowly, relishingly destroy the dress. The smoke smells of roasting marshmallows, and vanishes through the ceiling like this is a videogame.
The ash is the solution. Where it lands, it reassembles itself into beautiful, silk bedsheets.
by submission | Oct 1, 2022 | Story |
Author: James Moran
In the days when Earth was small the other planets eyed it hungrily and argued over how they would split it up.
Like a mother protecting her young, the Moon circled Earth, a wary eye on each of the planets. She visited the ears of Venus and Mercury until she finally convinced them to forge an alliance with Earth and with her.
Still she was apprehensive.
Out of desperation she took a bite from Earth. Instead of feeding herself with that bite, she fed the bite with herself. In her stomach it grew and gathered strength. Once satisfied, she spat upon Earth a young man who stood upon strong limbs and yielded a sword and shield.
The sword flickered. The shield rattled. The young man fell to his knees, shivering in fear.
Go, his mother commanded. Protect us from the far planets.
I want to stay with you, Mother, the young man wept.
If you do not go, then I will, the Moon warned.
I will stay here and protect you, the young man argued.
If you stay we’ll perish that much faster. You have one day to decide, the Moon said. Stay here and die with us, or go so that we might survive.
Beneath the weight of fear and disgrace the young man could not even touch his sword.
The Moon disappeared over the horizon. As soon as the young man could no longer see the Moon, the thought of her coming to harm became unbearable. His hands quaked and swelled. He leapt into space armed only with rage. The outer planets hardly had time to grow concerned over this crazed boy before he was upon them cutting their ranks and handily smashing them into one another. Never before had the outer planets fought such an opponent.
Quickly they retreated.
Eager to reunite with his mother and bask in her pride, the young man returned to the inner planets. Yet, spotting the Moon and fragile Earth in the distance, he stopped short.
He glanced back at those outer planets.
Right there, between the hungry outer planets and the defenseless inner planets, he made a new home
