by submission | Sep 24, 2023 | Story |
Author: Caley Schneider
‘Ha. Not if you were the last man on Earth.’ That’s what she’d said to smirking Cole Hamilton when he, not so subtly, suggested an intimate rendezvous in their bustling Interlaken hostel. He thought them both being American was enough to push her into his gym-bro, I-never-forget-my-protein arms.
How the times have changed. Perhaps Marissa would have had a different answer now. But she couldn’t have guessed she’d end up an 18 year old-virgin-apocalypse-survivor. There used to be plenty of fish in the sea. The sea had become a pond, and now a puddle. Of one.
Days 1-9 After, Marissa had flipped the fuck out and pulled herself together. Her dorm-mates’ slack faces haunted her dreams, but the dozens of others she encountered passed through her memory like stones skipping on a lake. It was a consolation that she didn’t recognize any rotting corpses she encountered. Even Cole had been on a train to Milan by the time It struck. So by day 7 she had pillaged her way through Interlaken, leaving a trail of clubbing dresses and toiletries in exchange for water bottles and a sleeping bag
Marissa had spent the entire day 8 swimming in Lake Brienz and sunbathing on the shore. Deciding if she was the type of person to sink or swim, literally and metaphorically. She had entire pharmacies at her disposal, which, with a little research, would let her go out with a goofy smile on her face. On the other hand, some sick joke of nature, or sadist of a god had allowed her to survive whatever had killed all those around her. Maybe she was meant to live?
On the way to Interlaken, both days and decades ago, she’d jumped out of the train to take a hurried snapshot of a quintessential European panorama- castle, lake, mountains, even a ship with the Swiss flag waving at the bow. Leaving Interlaken, she’d stayed near the lake, the yellow signs for hikers showed her the way beyond a doubt. On day 11 she’d slept in that picturesque castle. It was a little cold, but it only smelled of stone and centuries old smoke, not dead bodies.
Days 12-14 were ones Marissa tried to repress. On deciding to swim rather than blissfully sink, her plan came to her – walk to the ocean. She could fish (for fish and men?), make signal fires, spot ships and planes on the wide horizon. Her home country would be only one impossible swim away.
She knew from her guide book that she had a choice- to walk over mountain ranges or through the impressive Lötschberg tunnel. She couldn’t get lost in the tunnel, most likely it would also be free of wolves and bears (Switzerland had those, right?). In the end, the 9 miles of invasive darkness wreaked havoc on her mind as a wolf might have done her flesh.
How does one get through 14 hours of lonely claustrophobia? By singing. Frustratingly, the only song to come to mind in those sable echoing hours, was ‘Muffin Man.’ The boy she’d nannied back home would have been delighted.
Now it was all behind her. All the road signs read Genoa. She smelled the ocean! On day 27, she spotted a figure walking towards her. Something like hope, but painful, bloomed inside her ribcage. They neared each other with a slowness that spoke of fate, destiny, maybe even fairy tales. Finally, she saw a figure against the shimmering concrete. She stopped walking. Impossible. She knew those arms anywhere. The Adam to her Eve was Cole fucking Hamilton.
by submission | Sep 23, 2023 | Story |
Author: Jaime K Devine
How long has it been November 15th? I’ve pulled this same picture of a hamster on a running wheel off the One-A-Day Cute Animals calendar for at least a week now. I feel like I’m losing it, so I call my sister.
“Yesterday was November 15th, right?”
“No, today is November 15th.”
“Yeah, I know that today is November 15th, but yesterday was November 15th too.”
“… I think this is just post-partum brain fog.”
My toddler comes running into the room with a poopy diaper.
“I’m sorry, I gotta go.”
Every day, it’s the same. I wake up at 5:47 when my 4-month-old cries. I check the calendar. Hamster on a wheel. I text my friends, “How long has it been November 15th?”
“You’re just tired”, they tell me. I try calling my husband; he’s on a work trip in Japan. No matter when I call, he’s either in a meeting, asleep, or just ignoring me. I check the internet—- well, I try to check the internet. The baby cries; my 2-year-old tugs at my shirt; the baby poops; the toddler poops. I need to poop. The toddler insists on coming with me into the bathroom. No matter how long I am stuck in November 15th, I can’t find anyone else who remembers.
I’m trapped in November 15th alone. 5:47, wake up, settle the baby, try to get back to sleep. The toddler crawls into my bed and kicks my face. The kids are hungry. I hold the 4-month-old to my breast while I try to keep my 2-year-old from spilling cereal everywhere. They are too young to even pay attention to the tv. Too cold for the playground. The toddler won’t nap. The baby has colic.
I just need one day away. I call my sister, “Can you watch the kids?” No, she lives six hours away. I call every babysitter in town. It’s too short notice, maybe tomorrow. I try giving the kids cold medicine so that they will sleep. It makes the baby sick; I spend the rest of the day cleaning up vomit. I take the kids to the fire station. I put the carrier down and I tell my toddler to sit. I run away. The kids scream. Firefighters catch me. I spend the rest of the day with child services. Post-partum depression, they say. They set up an appointment… for next Thursday.
I tear the hamster off the calendar again and collapse to the floor. I just need one day in this endless time loop when I don’t have to wipe anyone else’s butt. When I don’t have a toothless human gnawing on my nipple. When I don’t have to build any block towers. I need just one day off. Just one.
I fill up the bathtub. I put the 4-month-old in first. I have to hold down the toddler. Just one day, I cry. The kids go silent. I go to my bedroom and sleep. I eat lunch alone at a restaurant. I get a beer. I binge watch reality tv. I cry all day.
5:46. I wake up to blood-curdling screams like I’ve never heard before. I run to the baby’s room. He’s thrashing and shrieking. He screams louder when I reach for him. He bats at me. I back away and go to check on the toddler. She’s sobbing under her covers. I pull back the blanket.
“NO!” She shouts in her limited vocabulary. “No! No bath!”
That’s when I realize that I’m not trapped alone in November 15th. My children remember. They will always remember.
by submission | Sep 22, 2023 | Story |
Author: Bill Cox
I’m making this recording standing on the cliffs at Troup Head on the Moray coast of Scotland. This used to be one of my favourite places. It’s famous for the seabird colonies that nest here, Gannets, Guillemots and Razorbills creating raucous seasonal cities on sheer faces of rock.
I especially liked coming here at sunset, on evenings like this, to watch a golden sun sink below the watery horizon, ornamenting the sky in ever-changing hues of oranges, reds, purples and pinks. I’m watching the sunset now, my rational mind telling me that the elements of beauty are still there – the vibrant colours, the crashing of the waves, the natural setting – but inside I feel nothing.
Of course, I’m not alone in that regard. I’ve heard plenty of other people say the same thing, read all the internet think-pieces, the blogs and scientific journals, seen the statistics for the soaring suicide rates. Like you, I know exactly when beauty was taken out of my life. Four months ago, on a Tuesday, at 1143 am.
I remember where I was at the time – who doesn’t? It’s the ultimate ‘where were you when’ moment. I was in a sandwich shop downtown, waiting in a queue, when they arrived.
The invasion of Earth lasted 15 seconds. Enough time to look puzzled and ask ‘what’s happening?’ They were everywhere at once. There was no spirited resistance, no plucky Earthmen facing down the alien menace, no nukes launched by embattled Presidents. The technological gulf was simply too large for us to do anything other than stand helplessly, mouths open slack-jawed.
The alien occupation lasted sixty minutes. Like you, I’ve only dream-like memories from that hour. I remember being aware of their presence beside me, of shapes and colours and sounds I’ve no words for. Like you, that hour ended for me with a profound sense of loss. Then they were gone, leaving only a message behind, copied onto every computer on the planet.
It took months to decode it, chunks being released to the public as our best and brightest deciphered them. At first, there was widespread jubilation. They’d left us details of cures for almost all human diseases, which promised to usher in an unprecedented era of health and longevity for all mankind.
Then the other shoe dropped. The final part of their message talked about having taken something from every human being in return. Inside each of us had been a microscopic sliver of dark matter, the substance they used to power their machines and great engines. The aliens treated us like crops of wheat and barley. They harvested us.
Biologists and physicists were puzzled. However, as reports of accelerating epidemics of depression, mental health crises, loss of faith, loss of identity, all came to light, a startling conclusion was reached.
They’d taken our souls.
I used to be an artist. I loved to draw. Now, my sense of beauty, of awe, of transcendence, it’s all gone. Mechanically, I can still put pencil to paper, but the drive, the desire, the satisfaction have all vanished. I feel hollow inside, a shell without any substance.
I stand here on these cliffs, aware that, barring misfortune, I could live a long, healthy life. It means nothing to me. All I feel is emptiness inside. So, I’m deciding whether to jump now. If I do, I’ll leave this recording here, to explain why.
It’s a long way down, but inside, I feel that I’ve already fallen so far, into a deeper despair than I could ever have imagined.
What’s a little further?
by submission | Sep 21, 2023 | Story |
Author: Paul Schmidt
Joshua burst awake, a dislocated memory of laughter and candlelight tapering into the ether. That same synthetic voice buzzed in his ear. His contact companion, installed at his ocular barrier, always had a habit of waking him abruptly.
“Rise and shine, Joshua! It’s a fantastic day.”
Joshua gritted his teeth, groggily slipping on yesterday’s shirt and shuffled out towards his larger-than-life floor display. His home responded to his movements, gradually illuminating with every step. Something on the display caught his eye. A curious pop-up right in the middle of the global news feed.
“It’s finally here. Humanity’s triumph over time itself.” The synthetic voice had an uncanny way of detecting interest.
The pop-up was all too clear. It screamed, “Aging-Defunct, the Fountain of Forever Youth!”
“Now what the hell is this?” Joshua squinted at the new arrival.
“Based on your marginally positive interaction with the newsfeed,” the voice persevered, “I have completed your online purchase for Aging-Defunct. Delivery estimated next week.”
Frustratingly, Joshua made his coffee in silence. Sipping, he reread the exuberant pop-up. Freedom from the cycle of life and death. An invention that defies human nature itself. Too cryptic to be reliable, too authoritative to dismiss.
Over the next week, Joshua’s curiosity became a slow-burning anticipation. By the time the looming package sat in his living room, he was almost eager.
“And what exactly did I just sign for?” Joshua asked suspiciously, staring at a seemingly ordinary syringe.
“It’s your Aging-Defunct,” the voice chimed cheerfully.
“What, this needle?”
“Indeed. A simple injection to hinder your internal epigenetic clocks. You’ll never age another day, guaranteed.”
Joshua eyed the syringe, thoughts spinning. The weight of immortality resting in a cheap plastic casing.
It took three days of internal debates, scouring articles, and calling family members before finally, Joshua sighed.
“Alright.” The syringe pierced his skin. He waited.
For anything. A shiver. A sudden epiphany. Anything at all.
“You may not feel it, even for weeks,” the voice soothed. “But rest assured, Joshua, your transactional history would suggest you’ve made the best investment of your life.”
And with that cheerful note, Joshua started his first day as an immortal. His first day staring at an endless future, with no defined ending in sight. Little did he know; forever might not be as rosy as it sounds. Behind those endless tomorrows, lay the true test of Humanity’s triumph: the grim reality of outlasting time.
by submission | Sep 20, 2023 | Story |
Author: Allie Nava
They say your life flashes before you as you fold into the arms of death, and perhaps that is what happened to me when I lost those eight minutes and twenty seconds.
I was a child peddling gleeful “whee’s” on a red bicycle, over a calming ocean of green hillocks. I was an adolescent pulling weeds, while inhaling rose and tangerine under a relentless yellow sun. I was a violinist sipping scalding tomato soup, alone, amidst a sea of fellow musicians taking their rehearsal breaks. That is, until someone pointed to the distant mountaintops and asked why I too was not heading in that direction.
I was an adolescent that packed my gear and walked in stride for years. I stumbled now and then, as if in a child’s jump rope game that had aimed to trip me. But I found my footing and reached the apex, even before some of the other mountaineers. I lived there many years and became productive, and a family grew before my eyes. But soon my hair turned gray and betrayed me, without remorse.
I was an adult who bid farewell and climbed down from the mountaintop and arrived to a reflecting pond at the foot of the hills. I imbibed sweet jasmine from flowering bushes. I held golden wheat berries past their harvest. I wondered what had happened to my violin and my garden and my bicycle.
I sat down and closed my eyes and drew my breath. I lost all sensation in my extremities, and I floated on the clouds, my body above the ocean. I had returned home to my intended destination, but wondered why I had walked so far away only to return to the path I knew was true.
Now it didn’t matter. My last eight minutes and twenty seconds were up, and so were everyone else’s. The whole planet had gone dark. We had lost our sun. It had taken eight minutes and twenty seconds for us to realize – the time it took for light to travel to our planet. And within a few days the temperatures were going to drop precipitously, and few humans would survive.
by xdhz8 | Sep 19, 2023 | Story |
Author: David Henson
“I’d rather not plug in now, Pop.”
“Robby, you and Sally do as your father asks. It’s good to relive family memories.”
Steven Matlink sees his wife, son and daughter enter the reminiscences room and put on their helmets. “Thanks, Dorothy. They always mind you better than me.”
“And whose fault is that?”
The four go into the reminiscences room, which contains an artificial brain that wouldn’t quite fit in a bathtub. The organ pulses to simulate blood flow. Lights flash to suggest firing synapses.
Steven puts on one of the helmets. “Family Brain, I want to relive our day at MarsLand.” He becomes immersed in memories of the enclosed amusement park on the red planet.
“Robby, Sally, stay close,” Dorothy says as the family strolls down the crowded midway. The mother takes her son’s hand. “Steven, pay attention and hold on to Sally, will you?”
Steven feels his daughter’s grip. When the girl strides ahead of her father, he feels the tug at his shoulder. He’s always amazed at how real the illusion seems. “Hey, Sally, slow down. Rocket Robot isn’t going anywhere.”
“Hurry, Pop,” Robby says, “before the line gets longer.”
The four Matlinks join hands, snake single file through the crowd, and clamber into one of the cabins of Rocket Robot.
“Blast off!” Robby shouts.
“No, it’s lift off, silly.” Sally tickles her brother in the ribs.
Robby’s giggles are interrupted by Rocket Robot shooting up toward the transparent dome. “I see Saturn,” the boy says.
“Oh, yeah? I see Pluto,” Sally says.
Suddenly the cage drops. The four Matlinks scream.
Steven feels giddy and weightless. “You should see your hair floating up,” he shouts to his wife.
Dorothy says something he can’t hear over the rush of the plunge.
Back on the ground, the family disembarks. “Can we get back in line?” Robby says.
Dorothy squeezes her son’s shoulder. “Don’t you want to try something different?”
Sally squats then jumps straight up. “I’m Rocket Robot.”
Robby copies his older sister. “I blasted off higher.”
Steven laughs. “It’s a tie. You both win … comet cones for all!”
“That’ll spoil their lunch,” Dorothy says. “Oh, well, life is short.”
Steven sighs and removes his helmet. He looks around at the three empty seats, helmets askew on the floor. He tells himself he has to get on with his existence in the real world. “But not today.” He puts his helmet back on. “Family Brain, repeat.” Steven sees his wife, son and daughter enter the reminiscences room and put on their helmets…
This time, when Dorothy says “Life is short,” he hears in her voice a tone he hadn’t previously noticed. Is that why she blocked her memories, he wonders. Was she already planning to —
“Knock, knock.”
The image of Steven at the family brain dissolves as Rob, his hair gray, removes the sensors from his temples. A woman, white hair framing her face, has stepped out of a beam of light.
“Hi, Sally, good to see you.”
“Popped in to say ‘hello’ to my brother. What’re you up to, Rob?”
Rob motions toward the baseball-size orb on the table next to his float recliner. “Reliving some of Pop’s memories. I hadn’t realized he spent so much time plugged in to the family brain after Mom and us moved out. He —”
“What are you doing, Sweetie?” Doris, Sally’s daughter, says.
The image of Rob and Sally dissolves as the girl disconnects from her brain chip. “Visiting some of Great Uncle Rob’s memories. Mom, can we go to MarsLand? I —”
The image of Doris and her daughter dissolves …
