by submission | Dec 12, 2014 | Story |
Author : Roger Dale Trexler
Peterson peered out through the energy bubble surrounding him and surveyed the place he had arrived in. It was strange, this place, totally unlike his own dimension. The light was different. It cast a halo of yellow around everything, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust. When they did, he saw the scientists looking in on him. They were human, like he was. It was yet another surprise of many surprises.
He listened as the scientists talked.
“I don’t understand it,” said Professor Furia. “This man….” He turned and pointed at the man behind the glass “…should not be here.”
Professor Simpson nodded and walked to the glass case. “Have we finally opened the portal into another dimension?” he asked.
Furia replied, “I think so.”
Then, he turned and regarded Peterson.
Their experiment had been virtually fruitless till now. They had sent several short ionic bursts into a radioactive isotope. A strange reaction had occurred; but, beyond that….nothing.
Till now.
After a particularly powerful burst into the isotope, Peterson appeared in the isolation chamber. Everyone was dumbfounded. Little did they know that Peterson had been working in his dimension to fix the mess they made. Each time they exploded an isotope, they opened a breach in his universe. Their latest experiment had opened a slit wide enough for Peterson to come through, and he did. He surrounded himself with a stasis barrier to hold in his own anti-matter and stepped into the opening.
Now, he peered at the scientists causing all the destruction. Furia and Simpson did not understand that they had breached an anti-matter universe from within a matter universe. They did not see the disintegration of planets, the screaming of millions as they sizzled out of existence.
“He shouldn’t be here,” Furia said. Then, he pursed his chin to his face. “You don’t think….?”
Simpson nodded. He turned to Peterson. “Do you understand me?” he asked.
Peterson nodded back.
“How is that possible?” asked Furia. Then, he saw the small device attached to Peterson’s chest. He pointed at it. “Is that thing translating for you?”
Peterson nodded again.
“Amazing!” Simpson said. “We don’t have anything like it over here.”
The two matter scientists looked at each other. Their only thought was that, if they could get that device, they would be able to fund their research with it for the rest of their lives.
“Why are you here?” asked Furia.
For a moment, Peterson did not answer. Then, he said: “To stop you.”
“Stop us?” asked Simpson.
“Yes. What you’re doing is destroying my universe.”
“We didn’t mean to,” said Furia. “We just need to know.”
“Know what?” asked Peterson. “That there are other universes?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there are….and you’re destroying one.”
He touched something in his palm.
“What’s that?” asked Furia.
“I’m sorry,” Peterson said. “But I have to seal the breach. Forgive me.”
He looked the two scientists in the eyes as he flicked the switch that broke the stasis barrier between the matter and anti-matter universes.
As the three scientists sizzled, then imploded, the breach between the universes was sealed, and both universes were safe again….for awhile.
by submission | Dec 11, 2014 | Story |
Author : Gray Blix
I know, I know, a blog is not the most effective way to warn humanity about an extraterrestrial threat, but I can’t get the mainstream media to take me seriously. I can’t even get supermarket tabloids to answer my phone calls and emails. Photos of UFOs or ETs would get their attention, but I don’t have any. I just have alien voices in my head, and they’re apparently not newsworthy. Too many other people are walking around talking to themselves, like me. Which is my point, actually. I used to avoid such people, but now I seek them out to compare stories, and I’ve found that a lot of them are possessed by aliens. Remember that movie about a guy who gets hold of some special sunglasses that allow him to see aliens disguised as humans? Well, that’s me! Except I don’t need the sunglasses. And the aliens aren’t disguised as humans. They’re communicating with humans. Telepathically.
“Possessed” is not exactly the right word to describe this. It’s not like those movies about demons taking control of people. It’s more like a Vulcan mind meld. But not a one-time link. An ongoing conversation. Like that movie about a guy who communicates telepathically with a girl’s brain in a jar. That was a comedy, but this is serious. Really. Yeah, I can see why nobody pays attention to my warnings. Look, forget all that movie stuff. Let me boil it all down to a simple message: DO NOT TRY TO COMMUNICATE WITH ALIENS TELEPATHICALLY. Don’t do it. Don’t even think about doing it.
Well, OK, I think it’s safe to read this one-page blog, but only to get the message about NOT doing that other thing, so that you can prevent the aliens from getting into your mind the way they got into mine. Long story short, last summer my girlfriend and I were sitting on the porch swing at my parents cabin just looking up at the stars, and we saw a light moving across the sky. I said it was a UFO. She said it was an airplane. I leaned forward and thought, hey, you up there, if you’re an ET give me a sign. It stopped. I fell out of the swing, and when I looked up again I couldn’t pick out that light from amongst all the stars. But they had picked out my mind from amongst 7 billion humans. That’s how they got in. I invited them.
Fast forward to the present. I no longer have a girlfriend. My parents think I’m nuts. I dropped out of college. Not a day has gone by that aliens have not communicated with me. When I’m not out aimlessly wandering the streets starting conversations with people who talk to themselves, I spend a lot of time in my room watching movies. The aliens watch them through me. They’re not interested in the contents of my brain anymore, having thoroughly reviewed my memories and analyzed my cognitive processes. At this stage, I function as a streaming media device.
One day we watched Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and I asked why they’d never abducted me. I know, I know, a stupid question. It’s like I’m always looking for trouble. Anyway, they said they don’t do that much anymore. There’s nothing left to learn about the anatomy of humans or cows or any of the other earthly creatures they have dissected. Their clinical interest is all about minds now. Or so they say. But I don’t think it’s our scientific value that keeps them connected to us. It’s our entertainment value.
by submission | Dec 9, 2014 | Story |
Author : Jedd Cole
Brontë was a sad and curious alien android. That’s how I came to know him at least. Most merely saw him as a strange man. But, first and foremost, Brontë was a didact. He did not talk except to teach, and in teaching, I think he believed he was learning. Yeah, I didn’t think it made sense at the time, either.
I first met him on the side of the road by Amelia Park where my car had stalled. He’d been walking by and I asked if he could help. We popped the hood and Brontë began explaining how the car worked to me, examining the tubes and wires and cylinders. His manner perplexed and intrigued me. I still don’t think he knew anything about car engines.
We had to get the car towed. In the meantime, Brontë took me out to dinner. He was teaching me how our table was constructed and veneered, at which point I decided to correct him. The surface was clearly made of one piece of wood, I said; not twenty-three. He seemed taken aback, but only for a few seconds. He nodded and began again, including the revision. I sat with my elbows on the table, staring at this man and his glasses that seemed to go in and out of focus as he talked.
Brontë told me about seven previous girlfriends, of which I soon became the eighth. He’d proposed to each of them, he explained, teaching them about what matrimony meant in various cultures. They’d all turned him down immediately.
I pretty much kept quiet in the beginning. Our relationship was unilateral. Brontë showed no affection, and neither did I. Call me crazy, but was intent on observing him as we meandered around town, how he stopped people on the street to teach them about the effects of littering on the habits of gray housecats, the reason for life according to the Hopi, why the capital of some European country changed three times in the fourteenth century, et cetera ad nauseum.
I tabulated our conversations over the four weeks that I was with him, and concluded that 94.3 percent of his claims were absolutely false. The only times he was right were after others interrupted and corrected him.
We broke up when he proposed to me.
But I didn’t stop observing Brontë. He eventually became a fixture of the city; everyone knew who he was and avoided him if at all possible. No one listened and no one looked into his strange glasses and no one became his ninth girlfriend.
With binoculars, I watched him sit in the window of his apartment, which had always been empty, looking out at the world that shunned him. He started walking the streets without speaking, looking straight ahead, running into street signs and garbage cans and slow-moving cars. He never ate. He never slept.
One day, he walked to the edge of town and just kept going. He wandered into the Sonora desert all alone, following no road. I soon lost him among the mountains and arroyos, saguaros and pines.
I heard recently that his body was found by an Air Force drone, his ten thousand pieces scattered at the bottom of a dry river bed a hundred miles north of here, my suspicions confirmed. Before they could recover the rusty corpse, the local paper reported the second UFO sighting in about a year, and then Brontë was gone. According to my reckoning, the last UFO sighting had been roughly eight girlfriends ago.
by submission | Dec 7, 2014 | Story |
Author : S T Xavier
“It’s eating from my hand! Look, David! It’s so cute!”
David nods at the image visible only in his mind, speaking aloud the words from the memory. “It sure is, Sarah. You have such a way with birds, my love.”
A giggle comes from the speakers, the sound of Sarah’s voice melodious in the quarantine room. I check my readouts and everything seems to be within spec. I queue up the next memory for David, letting the software do the work of digging it out of his mind and showing it to him. Sarah’s voice again comes through the speakers, this time as a moan of pleasure. I can’t see it, but it’s not the first time I’ve observed someone else’s memory of making love to their spouse. I turn to look at my readouts, trying hard to drown out the sound of the memory.
The sounds get decidedly more intimate before they stop completely. I can see the screen flash with the destruction code. David must have finally pushed his button, unable to take any more. The love-making memories seem to cause that reaction in a lot of clients. Some perverts ride through those memories with ease, instead pushing their button on otherwise happy family moments. I’ll never understand what makes the clients decide, but I can’t entirely understand wanting to go through the process to begin with.
The disconnect code flashes on my screen, so I walk over to David’s chair and begin removing the connections on his head. The one at the top of the spine catches for a second, but I know how to do my job. A few twists and it’s removed along with the rest of them. Dropping the connectors to the side, I grab a small light and shine it in David’s eyes.
“Mr. Welsh. Can you hear me? Please tell me your name and the year.”
David’s eyes blink as they focus. “Of course. David Anthony Welsh, 2418.”
I nod, putting the light away. “Thank you, Mr. Welsh. It appears you’re done here. Shall I walk you out?”
He runs his hands through his brown hair and nods. He doesn’t quite remember where he is or what he’s doing here, but that’s part of the process as well. If I and the software did our jobs properly, he never quite will.
Taking his hand, I help him stand and walk him slowly toward the door. He stumbles for a second, but disorientation is common after a procedure. As we get to the door, his attention focuses on the pane of glass in the side wall and he looks through it curiously. I stop and wait, like I always do.
He looks back at me. “What happened to that poor girl in the other room?”
I nod. This exchange is rather common among clients. “Traffic accident. She died a few days ago.”
He shakes his head. “Such a tragedy. Does she have a name? What about her family?”
I smile sadly. “Her family’s been informed, and processing is finished. Her name is Sarah.”
He looks back through the window, then back at me. “Sarah’s a nice name. What’s her last name? I want to send the family something.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t release that for privacy reasons.” That’s the standard response when a client asks. Of course I can’t tell him her last name is Welsh. It might cause an error in the memory erasure he just paid to go through. But, through his lack of recognition, I know the procedure went as planned. I walk him through the door, leaving his wife of ten years, and all his memories of her, behind.
by submission | Dec 6, 2014 | Story |
Author : Martyn Dade-Robertson
“How about AtJohnaxith?”
“What”
“AtJohnaxith. I know its similar to AtRachelsynth and AtJonoheist’s youngest AtJaneith but they won’t mind will they?”
“This is not a good time darling–aaaaa”
AtMarystrum lay back on her bed, arched her back and dug her nails into the arm of the attending midwife. AtCiscoric sat beside her, tapping absentmindedly at his compuroll and muttered, to himself:
“Crap. One hit. Already taken”
“Why do we have to do this nowwwww oh GOD!!!!”
“It just doesn’t feel right. The little guy can’t come into the world without a name. We should have done this ages ago”
AtCiscoric reclined in a Foamafirm birthing chair, looked out of the window and let the sounds of his wife’s labor wash over him. The gentle electropan-pipe music playing in the background and the dimmed lights were not easing his mind. This should be one of the greatest days of his life but it just wasn’t going how he’d planned.
“It was so much easier for our fathers’ generation. They just took from the measly selection of available names and put them together. With the addition of few extra vowels and the right consonants you could create something unique without too much trouble. Now it feels like very letter combination is taken already”.
“Cisci darling seriously…”
“As for my great grandfather. His name was John. JOHN! There must have been dozens of them.”
AtMarystrum was panting quickly now. The midwife consulted the fetal heart monitor app on her bracelet before flipping back to a game app in which she flung smiley-faced sperms at a grumpy looking egg. “Everything’s normal” she said – to sound professional. The bed would, after all, take care of the hard stuff. She was to birthing what flight attendants where to piloting. Leave the flight to the autopilot and serve the drinks. Although the drinks here were served by a machine down the corridor.
“Your twitter feed’s gone crazy darling.”
AtMarystrum, who didn’t have enough breath to argue any more, responded with a low guttural moan.
@Elizabtheen: go girl! @Marystrum
@Michamiliod: Have you thought about taking an existing name and putting two X’s in the middle. #Michamxxiliod #BBY_NMS.
@Margaranium: @Michamiliod Aren’t you supposed to be working @Marystum?
@Michamiliod: @Margaranium Hadn’t you heard @Marystrum has just gone into labor.
@Michamiliod: RT@Ciscoric: @Marystrum has just gone into labor.
@Elizabtheen: why haven’t you twtd in 2 hours @Marystrum?
@Rachelsynth: Don’t make it too long. You never get retweeted with a long handle #BBY_NMS.
@Janicooldomincohemp: RT @Rachelsyth: Don’t make it to long. You never get retweeted with a long handle #BBY_NMS.
@Franciltornalo: RT Janicooldomincohemp: RT @Rachelsyth: Don’t make it to long. You never get retweeted with a lo
@Elizabtheen: You ignoring me? Scrw you @Marystrum!
“They want a status update honey. Do you want me to tweet something on your behalf?”
There weren’t enough vowels to translate the noises emanating from Marystrum’s lips and bowels and AtCiscoric couldn’t find a suitable emoticon. He instead opted for the approximate translation:
@Marystrum: Nearly there!
@Elizabtheen: Push!
@Michamiliod RT: @Elizabtheen: Push!
@Margaranium: RT: @Michamiliod RT: @Elizabtheen: Push!
@Rachelsynth: RT: @Margaranium: RT @Michamiliod RT: @Elizabtheen: Push!
@Janicooldomincohemp: RT: @Rachelsynth: RT: @Margaranium: RT @Michamiliod RT: @Elizabtheen: Push!
@Franciltornalo: RT: @Janicooldomincohemp: RT: @Rachelsynth: RT: @Margaranium: RT @Michamiliod RT: @Elizabtheen: Push!
“AtCiscoric…Sir…Mr AtCiscoric?”
“Yes?”
AtCiscoric looked up, startled to be torn away from his data flow.
“Would you like to meet your son?”
A tiny figure was being cradled by the PostNatal’s mechanical conveyor which rocked him back and forth through the Blow-dry and Baby Shine. AtCiscoric put down his Compuroll and looked towards Marystrum, who’s pained expressions were now transformed to ones of joy.
“Would you like to hold him”.
His son, now swaddled in a white antibacterial towel, was offered up to AtCiscoric on the PostNatal’s elevated platform. Calm but gasping its first breaths, the baby looked up at its father. Its eyes were blinking and unfocused but recognizable to AtCiscoric as his own. AtCiscoric held the boy, struggling to grasp the enormity of the event and working out how he should react. Then he knew. Settling the baby down, he returned to his compuroll, logged out of Twitter and created a new account:
@Cistoric_2: Hello World!
