The Cult of Personality

by J.R. Blackwell | Nov 2, 2007 | Story

Author : J.R.Blackwell, Staff Writer

“I was a fat old man way before it got popular.” The fat old man leaned across the old fashioned, wooden bar. “When I chose this body it was before what’s-his-face got on the Feeds about bellies and beards. I decided I wanted to be big, on my own, for, whatsit, philosophical reasons.”

“Oh yeah?” said the bartender, distantly sympathetic.

“I wanted to fill up space.” The old man gestured at his girth.

The bartender nodded, cleaning a glass. The old man continued. “I was raised in the Cult of Barbie. Really, I was. I know I don’t look like it now but I’d been a Barbie all my life. I know, doesn’t show to look at me now, but I was one of the plastic people, shiny hair, long legs, perfect surgical tan. I used to wear miniskirts. And the shoes, rows and rows of them. My closets, if you could have seen them then, you would have been amazed.”

The fat old man, who wasn’t really old at all, pushed himself back from the bar and stood, pointing at his feet. “You know how many shoes I’ve got now? Two, the ones I’m wearing. I didn’t take this body to be fashionable.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Then why did you take it?”

Shaking his finger, the old man came back to sit on the barstool. “It’s not to rebel against the Cult, if that’s what you think.”

“Didn’t even come to my mind.” said the bartender.

“I did it to be free. You always had to watch yourself with the Barbie’s. You always had to be perfect.” He shook his head. “I did it. It was the way I was raised. I went through Skipper then the initiation to a full Barbie, the whole thing. You ever dated a Barbie?”

“Do I look like I make enough money to date a Barbie?”

The old man laughed. “No, you don’t. But they slum it sometimes. Although they always drive the bankrupt ones to tears. I remember. I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t take more money and spend it on clothes, crap really, just crap. I wanted to be covered by fat, my inner self-hidden. I wanted a big beard so you couldn’t ignore me. I wanted to be a drunk, I wanted to smell like a man whose been somewhere besides the mall and the compound.”

The bartender placed the glass upside down on the shelf. “You’ve been places since those days, then?”

“Oh yes.” said the old man. “I’ve seen up more skirts than when I lived among them. I’ve walked far in these good shoes. Then, when I want to disappear, I’m not pretty enough to notice.” He sighed over his drink. “But now, that damned actors made my look popular.”

“You gonna change then?” said the bartender.

“I have to, don’t I? I’m not one of those fad bodies.”

“So you’re worried that people will see you as fashionable then?”

“Yes.” The old man looked into his drink, his face warped in the brown liquid. “You know what?” he said, looking up at the bartender. “Screw em. I’m not changing. I’ll be this way long after they’ve found another body type to take.”

“You’ll be even further out of fashion then.”

“You’re right, you’re damned right.” The old man slammed his fist onto the bar, triumphant. “Bartender, another drink to celebrate.” He raised his glass “To the death of fashion.” He said. “May we all fall out of style.”

Origami Stars

by Sam Clough | Nov 1, 2007 | Story

Author : Sam Clough aka “Hrekka”, Staff Writer

“We’ve considered the simple stuff in previous sessions, and now all of you are comfortable with the basics of folding space, correct?”

The teacher saw some nods of assent from his class.

“Excellent. But this is the advanced class. I’m not just going to teach you to fold space — I’m going to teach you origami.”

He drew a sheet of plain, white paper from his desk, and held it up.

“I’m not trying to overextend my metaphor, don’t worry. A piece of paper really is the easiest way to show you the folds. That way you can all see the work in progress, and understand where all the folds are meant to go.”

As he spoke, the teacher’s hands were creasing and folding the paper. The eyes of his class were focused hard on those fine movements, most of them probably recording it in their cortex or otherwise. He soon finished, and held up a model of a twelve-pointed star between his thumb and forefinger.

“And this is where the metaphor breaks down. In your spacetime version, when you reach this step, you need to grab the center of the structure and do the tesseract twist, wrench it round by about half a rad. Then put the entire thing somewhere safe, and release.”

The teacher sat back in his chair, and closed his eyes. About a metre above the desk and it’s spread of paper and origami, the air began to distort. Light shifted crazily through the patch. The teacher’s face betrayed his enjoyment of the task.

He opened his eyes, and the miniature star above his desk ignited.

Trick or Treat

by submission | Oct 31, 2007 | Story

Author : J. S. Kachelries

Officer Gannon of the Washington DC Police was clandestinely peeking around the trunk of a large maple tree next to the curb. A patrol car pulled up behind him and turned off its headlights. Sergeant Jose Viernes climbed out. “Hey, Bill, dispatch said you requested backup. What’s going on?”

Gannon whispered, “See those two trick or treaters that look like aliens from another planet? Well, they’re acting very suspiciously. They only go to the houses of Senators and Congressmen. They just walked four blocks, from Congressman Bartlett’s house to Senator Mikulski’s house, but didn’t stop anywhere in between.”

“Maybe they give out the best candy.”

“No, there’s more than that. Once they enter a house, they stay for over five minutes. No normal kid would do that.”

“Wait a minute. Are you trying to say that you think they’re terrorists?”

“No, don’t be ridiculous. I’m saying that I think they are aliens from another planet. It’s a perfect cover. They can walk around all night and nobody would notice. They must be collecting intelligence.”

“Intelligence? From democrats? Now who’s being ridiculous?”

“Ha, ha, very funny. Well, I don’t care what you think. I’m confronting them when they come out. You just watch my back.”

When the two little “aliens” reached the sidewalk, officer Gannon drew his gun, “Freeze right there,” he barked. The two aliens dropped their candy bags and put their hands in the air. Their arms were visibly trembling. “I’m on to you guys,” he continued. “This charade is over. You’re coming with me.” He reached over and grabbed one of the alien’s antennas and pulled him toward the patrol car. His rubber mask popped off, revealing a small, petrified, blond haired, blue eyed boy. The child dropped to his knees and covered his head with his rubber alien hands, “Please don’t shoot me,” he pleaded.

Sergeant Viernes broke into laughter. “Nice going, Bill. Now he’ll have nightmares ’till Christmas. It’s OK son,” he said as he attempted to comfort the boy, “he was only kidding. You know, just a little joke on Halloween. Now, go ahead and pick up your bags and have fun.” Viernes walked past the children and gingerly removed the gun from Gannon’s numb grip, and handed the alien mask back to the child. “Com’on Bill, lets get you some donuts. I think your blood sugar is out of whack.”

The moment the patrol car was out of sight, the two kids took off in the opposite direction. They cut through a dense hedge, and stopped in the back yard of an abandoned house. One of the children pressed a button on his belt, and their spaceship decloaked and lowered a ramp. The two aliens scampered inside and reactivated the cloak. “Tuomita kadotukseen, that was close,” said Taa-Lol. “I thought he was going to look into our bags and find our mind-suckers. I’m so glad the High Council recommended that we use nested costumes, in case we got confronted. Those guys are geniuses.”

Fee-Kak disagreed. “The High Council are idiots,” he remarked. “How are we supposed to gather intelligence, if we can only operate one day a year? At this rate, we won’t be ready to invade for a century.” He began removing his costumes, “You know,” he said, “tonight’s scare gives me an idea. Get the High Council on the hyper-space radio.”

Starting November 1, 2007, the advanced scouts of the Lalande Imperial Invasion Fleet began collecting intelligence 365 days a year, disguised as children.

The Russian Package

by submission | Oct 25, 2007 | Story

Author : Viktor Kuprin

Father was up late cleaning his long rifle and my old musket. Mother fried biscuits and packed pickle dog for us to take on our trip to Fort Needmore.

No, we don’t eat dogs. That’s just what we called pickled baloney. We always took it when we went into the woods.

I’d only been to the fort a couple of times. Father said we had to go. There was big trouble coming, and the Americans couldn’t help us. They didn’t have enough ships or soldiers.

Some said the Americans didn’t care about our world because we didn’t have much money and they didn’t want our furs and mussels for trade. Instead, the CIS Space Army, the Russians, would be coming.

The next morning Mother put out my best buckskins and boots. But then she bawled something awful when we hit the trail. She cried so hard, Father had to help her back inside the cabin. That scared me.

It was the end of the hot season, so we had an easy hike through the woods. The air was sweet and the ground was dry. We stopped once to watch a big fat rockchuck grubbing around a bunch of wineberry bushes. Father told me to leave it be.

When we got to Fort Needmore, the Russians were there. They wore strange hats and clothes, all dark blue or camouflaged. Even some of their ladyfolk wore uniforms. On their suits there was a weird patch that looked like black noodles with a ball on top. Father said it was the CIS flag. Some of them wore red rocket-and-sickle medallions.

The big meeting was held in front of the distillery. We gathered around, and a Russian with white hair and blue eyes stood on a whiskey barrel to talk to us. He said everyone had to come to the fort, and to bring all our black powder and ammunition. The “Yelgrammites” were coming and we had to fight them.

Father acted like he didn’t believe the Russian. “You mean helgrammites? Like we seine up out of the river rocks?”

The Russian nodded. “Da, but bigger. In spaceships they come, thousands and thousands. They have intelligence, but they don’t communicate with us. They show no mercy. We must make ready to fight soon. Or they kill you and take your world.”

After the meeting, the Russians handed out packages to everyone in the crowd. Father told me to get one. A pretty Russian lady dressed in white handed it to me.

When we got back to the cabin that night, Father let Mother open the package. Inside it was sacks of buckwheat, canned food, medicines, and square blocks wrapped up in silver foil. Mother handed one of the blocks to me. I couldn’t read the Cyrillic letters on the pretty paper, so I just ripped it open.

I thought it looked like smashed skat. It really did, all brown and…well. Father and Mother laughed and laughed. They told me to taste it. And it was heavenly good. Mother thought it was chocolate, but Father said chocolate costs over a hundred dollars a kilo. The Russians would not be giving that away. I know now that it was a carob bar.

I broke the carob into small pieces so it would last longer. Father and Mother both took some. And as we enjoyed that sweet treat, sitting together as a family by the light of the oil lamps, we didn’t know what was coming.

Outside, from high in the night sky, we heard sounds like thunder, the sonic booms. Father ran for his rifle.