Thursday, June 28, 2018


By John Grey

Algorithmic passion: what next?
She transforms, becomes, a girl of such beauty,
and tilts her head to the sky,
as sun pours down to enlighten me the more.
Lovers must have someone to love.
These scientists code the foundations,
the criteria, but I make the choices.
I am her true creator.

At home, she stares at me adoringly,
speaks well of who I am.
I snap many a photograph
but none as enduring as my mind’s rotogravure.
She’s definitely a quantum shift in adorability.
Luscious, sensual, she has no other form.
The cooking, the cleaning, are mere adjuncts.
It’s her flesh that matters, soft and pliant.
She makes love like a sacred Sanskrit manual,
pleases all of my body parts
when and where required.

What is it like to live with a flawless woman, you may ask.
Sure, it’s a burden on my credit card.
But I’m paying it off month by month.
There’ll come a day when I own her outright.
And, unlike a car, there’s no need to replace her.

Some say that I live in a fool’s world,
that, for all her faults,
a real woman comes with a sincerity,
a true caring, that a shapely android does not.
Try tell me that when my lover
spreads her arms, her legs, so willingly,
when she swirls like a carousel
while I’m riding every horse at once.
A real woman would want so much in return.
My special angel requires nothing more
than occasional recharging.

It’s a new world.
We can get what we want.
No longer must we be satisfied with each other.
Sure, when the constant love-making
leads to my fatal heart attack,
her twenty-five-year-old tears won’t be real.
But my twenty-seven-year-old ones will be.

- - -
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

Thursday, June 21, 2018


By Bruce Mundhenke

When they first came, they seemed almost an answer to prayer. They were smaller than us and thin. They had mouths, but never smiled. Their eyes were much bigger than ours. They seldom blinked. They wore one piece outfits made from some type of blue material. They spoke without opening their mouths, using telepathy. They communicated effectively with us, letting us know what their questions or needs were.

When asked who they were, they let us know only that they were nomads, travelers who have been moving throughout various galaxies, not only in this universe, but also in other dimensions. Their travels have been from a time so far back it would seem endless to us. They communicated to us that after they had learned how to enter other dimensions, they had access to different types of worlds that would seem quite strange to us.

At first, they landed in major cities all over the earth, working with national and civic leaders. They seemed to be on a problem solving mission, helping the people of the Earth by providing the people of the Earth with various solutions to many of their problems. They provided powerful, compact sources of energy that eliminated the need for nuclear reactors or coal burning power plants. They demonstrated to physicians New ways to treat heart disease and various types of cancer.

As time went on, more and more of their ships came to earth. They began to use advanced techniques to mine various metals and precious stones. When there were attempts by various military forces to stop the mining, they easily defeated any forces that came against them.

National armies and air forces where destroyed. They also began to destroy cities, rapidly killing most of the people on earth. Those who were able to survive by living in primitive areas were left alone. When they had harvested whatever metals and stones they required for their purposes, they left the planet, leaving it forever changed.


Nature rapidly reclaimed the planet and those left alive on earth began to rebuild their civilization. After much time, those alive had difficulty knowing what had actually taken place when the Nomads came to the earth long ago. Stories had been handed down to children for nearly a thousand years. Some on earth worshiped them. Many thought they were evil gods. Over time, these different beliefs led to much warfare among various tribes of people on earth and caused much blood to be spilled.

- - -
Bruce Mundhenke writes poetry and short fiction in Illinois, where he lives with his wife and their dog and cat.

Thursday, June 14, 2018


The Brexit
By David K Scholes

My granddaughter looked out at the vast slag heap beyond the Ionic shield that still protected us all.

“What are those?” Annabelle pointed to a largish formation of small, fast flying objects. She saw them before I did.

“Drone bots,” I replied “Nothing to worry about. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen any hereabouts.”

How strange that all this time after the failure of the Russian Federation there was still the very occasional automated attack against us. Attacks that had been programmed years ago and time delayed. King George may have been right to keep the ion shield in place. Despite the drain on the energy grid.

* * *

“The land you see before you is a part of what was once called Wales,” I told Annabelle. “Once it was even a part of us, part of our, our Kingdom.” I hesitated for a moment wondering if I was committing an offense by the revelation. The teaching of history was reserved now for a very select few. Some parts of our history weren’t taught anymore. I was just fortunate that I had lived the history and knew what really happened.

I had thought about taking Annabelle north in a flyer to see what was once called Scotland. Just as a part of her education. Of slowly, quietly revealing the truth to her but these days Scotland more than closely resembled Wales. A slag heap. Unfortunately the energy grid reserves didn’t extend to them or Northern Ireland. A decision made easier for us when they all left the Union.

Still Annabelle had been old enough to witness the closing of the very last embassy on our soil. An event long overdue coming even after the last of the immigrants had been kicked out. It was the embassy of what we had come to call the Merkelites. A nation group we had twice warred with and beaten. The Merkelites had kicked our asses over the Brexit. They say revenge is a dish best served cold and it was made doubly sweet when not long before our closing their embassy they had begged for our military help against the Chinese.

* * *

As the oldest person still living in Angleland I was old enough to remember the Brexit. The very hard Brexit dished out by an angry, spiteful, vengeful European Union. The worst of all possible deals. A bitter pill to swallow that would have consequences for decades to come.

My mind continued to wander even as Annabelle spoke. I thought of the many free trade deals our once great nation had hoped to secure after the Brexit. One by one – these great promises fell on stony ground. The then still mighty United States under a man whose name has been written out of our histories did not come to our aid as we hoped. Instead they chose a path of isolation quite different from ours. Even our once friends of the Commonwealth of Nations spurned us. Perhaps remembering how we had once spurned them.

* * *

I watched the last of the Russian drone bots strike the Ion shield. Unlike the others it exploded in sub-nuclear fury. “Looks as though some of their weapons are still working,” I said it too quietly for Annabelle to hear.

My mind wandered back into the past again. After the Brexit, Russia, perceiving our weakness and increasing isolation tormented us more than ever.

The penetrating long range bombers testing our depleted air defences, the deathly quiet submarines and grotesque surface warships both defying our shrunken navy even just off our coastline. The almost constant and escalating cyber attacks, Worst of all the robotic drones. Thousands and thousands of them. Fired against us and then forgotten. Some on time delay and some armed with the just sub nuclear micro weapons.

The time came too when the United Kingdom nuclear deterrent – the final generation of Trident type missile submarines broke down. When for long periods we could not maintain even one such boat at sea. Worse, the Russians knew it.

Yet how the mighty had fallen! The modest Russian economy could not sustain such vast defence expenditures and eventually the country imploded in on itself. To the relief of us all. Now the wrecks of their bombers, submarines and surface warships litter our eastern seaboard. We cannot afford to remove them. Not yet.

* * *

Somewhere in our isolation and decline the King and the royal family dissolved the parliament and took over the reins of power again.

Against all predictions it was good for us in ways we could not have imagined. Things essential to our survival, like the Ion shield and the superlative All England fighter had been forced upon us though at considerable dislocation to our economy.

* * *

China has occupied parts of a spent Russia now and invades the broken countries of the former European Union. They are all that stands between us and the world’s only super power.

Here in what is left of our Island we await them.

To get us they will have to overcome our mighty Ion Shield and a few other surprises that lie in store.

It will be interesting.

- - -
The author is a science fiction writer who has written more than 200 short stories. He has written eight collections of short stories and two novellas (all on Amazon). He has been published on the Antipodean SF, Beam Me Up Pod Cast, Farther Stars Than These, 365 Tomorrows, Bewildering Stories, the WiFiles sites and the former Golden Visions magazine. He is currently about half way through a new collection of science fiction short stories.

Thursday, June 7, 2018


By Rich Menz

Does humanity return after the store bought, stickerd apple falls from the pine?
It’s a trap.
The cold explanation is too simple for them to believe.
Wind blown is all.
Just like the hours of undeniable footage from the mysterious Pacific Northwest.
Just like the indentations in mud and sand.
All which have been chipped and frayed from years of speculation.
All wind blown.
Our tracks are similar, barely heading somewhere.
Towards each other, perhaps.
The meeting of man and beast has always proven to be more
than a passing wave to a shaky camera or a primal grunt
from distant brush.
Man has carved his way into the universe by staring down his reflection
in the iris of the serpent.
A spear wielding coming of age.
In the misty northern woods hangs a web
where mankind meets it’s true fate.
A fly, defiant and adolescent, scales the silk entanglement to reach the spider.

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