by Julian Miles | Sep 10, 2014 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Dad said that the nannybots inside would stop the monsters from getting me. I liked that. The first night after the injection, I slept with the lights off. My nannybots would protect me. Even when mum died the next day, I knew that bad things couldn’t get me and only cried a little.
There’s a knock on the door. I know who it is before the voice comes.
“Chloe? It’s Pietro. Can I come in?”
“Of course.”
Pietro is bigger than dad ever was, and has a physique like my dad thought he had. But the main reason I like Pietro is because my nannybots like him. Having someone who can hold me without going into spasms or being turned to sludge is wonderful.
“How are things today?”
“Better. My arm has stopped itching.”
“Can I see?”
I emerge from under the sheet and hold my arm out, smiling as his eyes widen. My skin is like the softest silver-grey silk, with purple filigree patterns that change colour with my mood. Dad’s notes called them ‘nanotattoos’.
Pietro takes my arm so gently. His touch makes my skin tingle and the filigree flushes a sparkling violet. He smiles.
“You’re complete.”
I nod: “Do you think that now it’s over, we could get a pet?”
His expression drops into a frown and my filigree goes dark.
“It’ll be the same, Chloe. Your nannybots wouldn’t like it.”
I feel a tear slip down my cheek. Of all the things that my nannybots don’t like, cute furry animals are the thing we disagree about.
What dad did to me made him rich and famous. He spent a lot of that money hiding the fact that my nannybots had only one response to things they didn’t like: they killed them. Didn’t matter if it was a common cold bug or the lady hired to teach me to play piano.
On my fifteenth birthday, Pietro came into my life, cameraman for a sneaky reporter. He picked me up from the floor where I cried over the puddle that the reporter had become when he tried to stop me calling my dad. My nannybots hadn’t liked that. I waited for Pietro to scream and die, but he didn’t. His words were kind, but his touch was like what mum described as ‘cool water in the desert’. I never knew that I desperately needed to touch someone, until that moment.
Then dad rushed in shouting, before falling silent as he saw me cradled in Pietro’s arms.
“Young man, you should leave.”
I felt the arms around me turned steely: “Sir, I don’t think I’ll be doing that until this lady sends me away.”
He called me a lady. Dads face flushed red and he grabbed Pietro’s arm. I saw the purple flash that travelled from me, through Pietro, to dad. Then dad went all stiff. He looked at me, nodded, and fell backwards.
My dad’s last words were: “Time to pay the piper.”
Since then, we’ve been together. Pietro taught me to laugh, fight, love, hide and lie. He also taught me to meditate, and that let me engage with my nannybots. They wanted to make me better. After Pietro and I talked, I let them. Today, they finished.
Something makes a noise. I see Pietro has his other hand behind his back. I grin: “Show me.”
His arm comes forward. In his hand is an Alsatian puppy. I can see the smoky grey filigree patterns on its skin.
“Happy Rebirthday, beautiful. From me and your nannybots.”
by submission | Sep 9, 2014 | Story |
Author : Charles E.J. Moulton
William felt relieved, actually.
One more hour of digging and his hands would have lost all their flesh.
William threw down his shovel, straightened his back, stretching his muscles and positively felt his 50 year-old bones snap, crackle and pop inside his body.
The termite nests he had found proved it.
The small parasites had caused the fairy circles.
“One more picture,” William whispered to himself, lifting his Nikon D4 and pushing the button. He triggered utter panic down there. He loved watching the little guys. Was that mean? William didn’t know. The fact of the matter was that lonely William found himself at last in the position of being able to deliver the geological institute a definite solution as to why these strange fairy circles were appearing along the African coast.
Fairy circles? Why had William become so interested in these things at all? That Spanish ufologist came to mind, that dark guy with the dyed blond hair. A whole evening’s worth of discussion had commenced and prompted William to prove the Spanish guy wrong. Standing here in Namibia five years later, that damn sun transforming his skin into a wasteland of wounds, William remembered yelling at that guy that Africa was not the U.S. and that the American crop circles were not to be compared with the African coast.
Termites.
William reached toward his back pocket and took out his lukewarm water. The liquid felt cool trickling down his throat, cooler than the African sun. In comparison with that sun, the wind seemed chilly. In comparison with the heat, the water seemed refreshing. In comparison with the surrounding grass, these bare patches of wasteland seemed desolate. Eaten by parasites, devoured by insects, all life extinguished to serve one breed of vermin.
William took a few tired steps toward the large stone, throwing the bottle into his bag. Too many years now, too much research. It was time to go home now, take all his research, all those probes, all those little bugs, all that red sand, and give it to the institute in Johannesburg.
William wanted to spend at least a month just doing paper work at his office, eating pizza with his kids over the weekend, making love to his wife on Friday nights, enjoying an Orange River South African Pinotage red wine and a Bobotie dish of South African ground meat with an egg topping. No more than a few jotting of words in his notebook and he could call his wife and tell her to bring out the Scrabble game and pop the pop-corn for the kids.
No time for phone-calls, only time for the dropping of William’s notebook and pen. Had he not been seated, William would’ve stumbled.
The sun darkened because of the size of the arriving spaceships. William now knew what the Spaniard had described and how it was to see a UFO: the disability to move, the increased heartbeat, cold sweat running down a spine, the tingling of the nerve cells, the fear, then three alien ships burning three new dead fairy circles into the Arican ground.
When the alien walked out and took him by the hand, William didn’t protest. Questions were asked, information was exchanged and somewhere inside one of the ships he saw him: the Spanish ufologist. He smiled. It seemed, he belonged there.
William left the fairy circles forever, drove home, made love to his wife, gave up geology and became a painter.
William’s UFO-experience remained a secret for the rest of his life.
Termites remain the official cause of the circles.
by submission | Sep 8, 2014 | Story |
Author : C. Chatfield
“Shoot it.”
“Shut up, Jim.”
“It might be dangerous.”
“A bear wanders into my yard, I call Animal Control. I’m not gonna shoot it just for being here, Gabe.”
“Sure. You got the number for Alien Control?”
“Quiet. It’s probably not an alien.”
“You ever see goo move like that?”
Next to the three men, a patch of rippling orange goo extended probing tendrils into the surrounding underbrush. There was a sizzling sound as the creature began to sink through the vegetation. After a moment of contemplation, it trembled and assumed the shape and texture of the dissolved grass and bushes: a flawless disguise, if not for the stubbornly garish shade of orange.
“What do you think you’re doing, Jim?”
“I’m just gonna nudge it.”
Jim eased up to the phony grass and poked it with the toe of his brown boot. He let out a yelp and fell backward, abandoning the boot, as the ooze reared up in one flowing motion. By the time his friends lifted him off his rear, all that remained was a bright orange boot sitting in a circle of dirt.
“Christ!” Jim grasped for Gerry’s gun, his eyes the size of golf balls. “Shoot it!”
The creature ballooned upwards until it towered over the terrified men. The pillar of ooze collapsed squarely onto Jim, cutting off his screech.
Gerry and Gabe stood frozen while the goo twisted and writhed into a humanoid shape. A moment later, the new Jim was shaking out his limbs and humming, surveying the empty meadow with satisfaction before turning to the two men.
“Weapon?”
Gerry nodded numbly and handed over the gun.
“Truck?”
Gabe gave him the keys.
The new Jim drove the car in a meandering arc before rolling down the passenger window to speak to them in a halting voice, choosing each word with painstaking care. “Thanks, guys. I gotta say, I’m sorry about your friend. If it helps, he’ll live on inside of me. In one way, I’ll give him a new life. It should be very exciting.” He paused and cocked his head, “You two probably don’t have much information about this planet that I didn’t already get from your friend, so I’m gonna leave you here. Go ahead and try to tell someone what happened, but I don’t think anyone’ll believe you.”
He waved and drove off, leaving Gerry and Gabe to gape. When the taillights had disappeared and the dust settled, Gabe sank to his knees. “Dear God, what’s going on? No one’s gonna believe us. They’ll probably say we killed Jim, if that goddamn maniac hasn’t taken over the world by tomorrow. And, oh Christ, Jim is gone, Gerry. Gerry? Are you okay?”
Gerry shook his head, his entire body racked with silent, hysterical giggles. He waved a shaky hand in the direction of the truck and the unsuspecting town,“D’ya think it knows it’s orange?”
by submission | Sep 7, 2014 | Story |
Author : Elijah Goering
My body was worn out. My organs were failing because they were simply too old, older than any human had ever been before. I would never speak again, and I had hours, maybe minutes to live. I asked the doctor to leave, and grabbed a pen and paper. Then I reached for the little red button hanging from a silver chain around my neck. I held It a moment, then pressed it down.
Today I woke in pain. It was nearly half an hour before I was up and dressed. Before I could leave my bedroom I found myself face to face with myself. I was familiar with the experience, and I waited for him to speak or act, but he did nothing. He looked into my eyes for a long moment, then reached into his pocket and handed me a slip of paper. It read simply, “It’s time.” I watched him press the button and disappear.
I recalled the day that I had met my guardian angel. I had just woken to another morning of my youth, and finding myself wide awake, I rose and dressed immediately. As I turned to leave my room a man appeared before me.
He was very old. His skin was wrinkled and his hair was thin and white. But he stood very straight, and his shining blue eyes spoke of intelligence. His jaw was set in a solemn expression and a single tear slid,almost unnoticed, down his wrinkled cheek. He stared right into my eyes for a long moment before I could look away.
“Who are you?” I asked.
Suddenly the man smiled. “I’m your guardian angel,” He said cheerfully. He took two long steps towards me so he was looking down at me, and reached for an unseen necklace beneath his formal attire. It was the button I had since come to know so well.
“This button,” he explained “Will destroy me when it’s pressed. After that, whenever you press it, It will take you back in time to the moment you desire. In that moment there will be two of you, one who has traveled back and one who has not. You can then act quickly but you must not linger. Soon, you must press the button again, and the version of you who has traveled through time will be destroyed. Have I made myself clear?” I nodded and he put the necklace around my neck.
“Never take it off.” Tears were streaming down his face now, but he was still smiling. “Now go ahead, press it.”
I tried to say something but I didn’t know what to say. I looked up at him and he nodded encouragingly. I pressed the button and just like that he was gone.
Later that day I met him again, in the youthful body that I recognized as my own. He was covered by sweat and soot. He walked purposefully over to me and stamped out an ember at my foot that had jumped from the fireplace unnoticed. Wordlessly, he had pressed the button and disappeared.
At last, I thought. In all my years he had visited me many times, but I had never pushed the button. Slowly, I had come to understand. Now at last, It was my turn. I closed my eyes and a tear rolled down my cheek. I opened my eyes and stood up as straight as I could, and pushed the button.
by Stephen R. Smith | Sep 6, 2014 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
“Don’t tell me you love me,” I hold her face in my hand as she speaks, her gaze locked with mine, “you’re only saying that because you need me, and you think that will make me stay.”
I don’t understand where she gets these ideas from. I’m quite certain I don’t need anyone. I’m practically perfect all on my own, but on the off chance I’m missing something obvious, I take stock.
I can feel every muscle in my body, flexing and un-flexing each from my toes to my face and down my arms to my finger tips, careful not to move too radically for fear of startling her or breaking her face. I can feel the weight of her in my hand; she’s pulling away from me emotionally, but there’s no doubt she’s moving into me physically, and that feels… wonderful.
“I never know what’s going on with you,” she’s speaking again, and while I continue to self evaluate I still process her every word, “when you’re not looking at me, it’s like you’re a million miles away, it’s like you’re fixated on everything but me, you study everything around you all the time, and you don’t ever talk.” I catch my eyes roaming about the room, and turn back to find her still staring intently at me. I focus on her eyes, there’s something about them, the deepness of the blue, the contrasting flecks of green and yellow scattered through the iris like stars in the night sky. There’s a softness there, a warmth, they could keep me –
“And then there you are, you look at me and it’s like you’re looking right into me, into my soul. I’ve never felt anything like that, and it’s that look, that depth of focus that makes me think maybe, just maybe you do love me after all.”
She sits and places her hand on mine, both of ours now cradling her face, but the moment is fleeting and she pulls back and guides my hand to the table.
“I can’t do this, I can’t be with someone that has so much else going on in their mind, it’s not fair.” She’s on her feet now, pacing around the kitchen. The coffee is still warm, the smell permeating the air around us, I catch myself calculating how long it will remain drinkable before requiring reheating. My mind wanders sometimes like that. The sunlight has just caught the chrome on the stovetop making it three twenty seven in the afternoon, given the date. She moves things on the counter absently. I’ll move them back later. I cleaned and tidied everything this morning while she was sleeping, washed and folded the laundry, prepared the ingredients for the dinner I would be making in ninety three – ninety two minutes. Assuming she doesn’t leave.
I stand, lifting the chair reflexively as I unload my weight from it, moving and setting it down without a sound just far enough behind me that I can step away from the table without touching either. Thoughtless precision, the reflex of silent motion.
When I place my hands on her shoulders she flinches. I must make a point of making noise when I approach her, for all her keenness of hearing, she startles surprisingly easily. She turns and leans back against the counter. I place my hands on her shoulders again, squeezing just enough to impart a sense of affection, but not so much as to shatter her scapula or clavicles. That tends to end relationships very quickly.
She looks at my face, raises her hands to my chest and I can feel her heart beating through her fingertips just slightly ahead of the sound of it in my ears. I measure the pressure, noting it for future reference as an appropriate response should this situation play out in reverse. I’m lost in her eyes again. I don’t fully understand this phenomenon, but it’s unlike anything I’ve felt with anyone or anything else.
For the first time today I speak.
“I don’t love you because I need you,” I pause for an appropriate number of seconds, she waits expectantly, “I need you because I love you.”
The words hold no logic for me, but they are a truth, and a truth that she seems to understand.
In eighty seven minutes, I’ll be starting dinner. Eighty six.
