tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-117768750561155962024-03-14T15:29:03.644-07:00Farther Stars Than TheseNew voices, new flash-length science fiction.E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.comBlogger427125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-49090125808006618032020-02-13T00:00:00.001-08:002020-02-13T00:00:00.519-08:00Bound For Farther Stars<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Farther Stars Than These is a weekly sci-fi magazine and part of <a href="http://www.thunderune.com/">Thunderune Publishing</a>'s free fiction lineup.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><br />
</b></span> <span style="font-size: small;"><b>Though this magazine is currently closed to submissions, you can still read some great stories in the archives by picking an author name from the drop down menu on the left or by picking a date from the menu at the bottom of the page.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">- - -</span> </b></span>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-43383647918814977252020-02-13T00:00:00.000-08:002020-02-13T00:00:00.258-08:002/13/20<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>The Old Robot</b></span> <br />
<i>By Daniel Purcell</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
They were seemingly the only Brits – though it wasn’t called Britain anymore - in the hotel. The hotel was a vast, metallic monolith, and their room seemed several miles high. They did not speak to anyone on the way to their room. A great, grey obelisk stood in the courtyard far below, overlooking the ocean. The rain streamed off it and the bronzed engravings of the fallen soldiers glistened. Marble benches surrounded it in a semi-circle, tables accompanying them, but it was otherwise bereft of cars or people. <br />
<br />
The British wife looked out the window, forlorn. The tall augmented windows offered an artificial projection of the world outside: pollution-less skies, a paradise of normal climes, stylish people roaming about and old-fashioned cars. Instead, she deactivated it and ‘pinched’ the glass, zooming in on the courtyard below. Beneath one of the dripping benches was an old robot the size of a toddler – of the variety just before the android era, though uncannily human in appearance. It hunched itself and cowered, so as not to be dripped on.<br />
<br />
“I’m going down to get that robot,” the British wife said.<br />
<br />
Her husband lay on the undulating bed, spectacles illuminating as he scanned through his socials and current projects. “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll do it.”<br />
<br />
“No, I’ll fetch it. The poor wee thing is trying to keep out the rain.”<br />
<br />
“Be careful you don’t catch your death. It’s raining cats and dogs out there apparently,” her husband offered, unmoving.<br />
<br />
She zipped downstairs in the elevator and at the front desk the concierge simulant stood up to greet her warmly. She had to pass the front desk to get to the entrance. This version was perhaps middle-aged, and she liked the dignity and attentiveness in this model.<br />
<br />
“Good afternoon,” he said. “Not a day for venturing outside.”<br />
<br />
“Aye, but I just need to do something.”<br />
<br />
With gusto, she opened the main door of the entrance and looked out. It was raining heavier now. The robot was a good twenty yards away, diagonally to her left. As she stood in the doorway, there was a great fluttering behind and an umbrella was lofted over her. It was the maid that had tended to their room earlier.<br />
<br />
“Please,” said the Hispanic maid simulant. “No get wet, very very bad weather.”<br />
<br />
Outside, the polluted air was palpable. With the maid holding the umbrella over her, they went out under the thunderous rain and inspected under the marble bench. Water had pooled around it, but underneath the robot was gone. She suddenly felt deflated. The maid looked at her, brow furrowed.<br />
<br />
“Sorry, there was an old robot there,” said the British wife. “I definitely saw it.”<br />
<br />
<i>“Viejo robot?”</i> the maid giggled. “Out here in rain.”<br />
<br />
“Si, under this table,” she said. Then, “Oh, I wanted it so badly. It looked so helpless and it reminded me of another time.”<br />
<br />
The maid looked perplexed but ushered the British wife back towards the hotel. “Come on, we need to get back inside. No good out here.”<br />
<br />
When they reached the entrance, she went ahead of the maid. The hotel concierge bowed as she passed the desk, but she could scarcely muster a response. She was dejected and even felt foolish to be returning empty-handed. Nonetheless, she went back up to their room. William was still on the bed as if nothing had happened.<br />
<br />
“Find what you were looking for?” he asked, taking his spectacles off.<br />
<br />
“No, it wasn’t there.”<br />
<br />
“Maybe someone took it away to throw in the bin,” he said, massaging his eyes.<br />
<br />
“I’m just so sad now,” she said. “It’s not nice for it to be sat out there, getting all wet and malfunctioning. It looked so lost and in need. I don’t know why I even care.”<br />
<br />
She went over to the window and the image of the humanoid robot, so small and innocent was indelible in her mind. They had had problems trying to conceive in the past. She felt a lump in the back of her throat and hastened to change her thoughts. She reconfigured the window to ‘mirror mode’ and studied herself.<br />
<br />
“It was just an old robot,” William said. “Things are better now. Don’t get upset, please.”<br />
<br />
“Do you think I’m still pretty?”<br />
<br />
“Of course I do.”<br />
<br />
“I was thinking perhaps I should change my face…maybe my shape, upgrade. I don’t know, I like the way I used to be. I just want to change something, you know?”<br />
<br />
“Aye.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, I just miss how things used to be. I miss antique games and toys and clean air. I really wish I could’ve saved that robot and brought it in.”<br />
<br />
“Shut up and sync in like everyone else. You’re just acting silly now.”<br />
<br />
His wife went back to the window and changed the view to the outside - the real outside. She muttered about being bored and hating ‘syncing in.’ William did not listen to her.<br />
<br />
Someone knocked on the door.<br />
<br />
“Probably that maid again,” he said.<br />
<br />
It was. The maid stood in the doorway and just from the shadow behind her emerged the old, little robot. It buzzed and smiled and teetered towards the British wife – who knelt and welcomed it into her bosom, her mood suddenly elevated.<br />
<br />
“Sorry to disturb,” the maid said. “The concierge asks to bring here.”<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>Daniel Purcell lives with his partner in Glasgow, Scotland. He studied English at the University of Liverpool and has traveled extensively around the world. When he’s not traveling, he enjoys writing and reading mainly horror and science fiction.</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-84243219844352028102020-02-06T00:00:00.000-08:002020-02-06T00:00:15.682-08:002/6/20<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alt-Bio</b></span> <br />
<i>By <a href="https://realitysbellow.wordpress.com/">Charlotte Ozment</a></i> <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I don't know what it was I loved about you,<br />
we weren't even comprised<br />
of the same sub-atomic material.<br />
But it is a proven fact<br />
that love doesn’t always follow the rules.<br />
<br />
Our physicalities would never meet,<br />
our existence based on different minerals and wavelengths,<br />
contrary bio-chemistries through and throughout.<br />
<br />
And we should never have found each other.<br />
But a thought, rooted, fruited<br />
and shot out into space to find a happy medium<br />
will sometimes blossom into a whole ‘nother animal.<br />
<br />
My family was on its way to K2-72 e,<br />
sleep a requirement for travel<br />
to keep the years unchanged.<br />
<br />
The cloud that enveloped our vessel,<br />
some type of comet debris I determined at first inspection,<br />
triggered the robo-tenders to awaken me,<br />
my shift and its required parameters already assigned.<br />
<br />
Soon after, the ship's sensors scanned and identified<br />
the seed of an unknown variety<br />
which had settled into one of the myriad corners<br />
embedded between fuselage<br />
that just happened to be adjacent to my cryo-pod.<br />
<br />
When I reached out to touch the membrane separating it and I,<br />
my life, as my species understood it, changed. <br />
Realms were leapt across, particles re-aligned,<br />
becoming charged and self-organized, altered to blend.<br />
<br />
And the beginning of this cosmic Romeo and Juliet tale was spun,<br />
inward towards microcosmic stars bursting with condensed gases,<br />
a romance steeped in space-myth, born.<br />
<br />
From first contact our nervous systems<br />
created a disparate daughter-verse<br />
containing an entire life of meeting and touching,<br />
building a home on first soil met,<br />
children of a different sort<br />
bred and released into actuality,<br />
all persisting through a dream shared by two entities<br />
that never should have coincided in principal at all,<br />
who loved against predictable odds and proved<br />
that flawed physics could never survive cherished destinies.<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>Charlotte Ozment is a retired bureaucratic worker-bee whose work has been published in many unique publications such as “Aphelion”, “Gyroscope Review”, “Mad Swirl”, “Quail Bell”, “Star*Line”, and “Shoreline of Infinity”.</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-60003475221828326062020-01-30T00:00:00.000-08:002020-01-30T00:00:09.992-08:001/30/20<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>The Laws of Arizna</b></span> <br />
<i>By Thomas G Schmidt</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
Jordan Kelly sat quietly, anxiously awaiting some explanation of why he was being charged with a "crime against the state".<br />
<br />
"No need to be so nervous Mr, Kelly. This is just a preliminary hearing."<br />
<br />
Arizna VII, the latest and most advanced legal robot on Earth, looked directly at the 42 year old man. The robot's voice software was very advanced and the android-like body made the robot seem almost human. Kelly was close to believing that he could plead his case to the machine but deep down inside, he knew that was probably impossible. This was a 7th generation "Insight" class robot which saw issues in a very "black and white" manner. No shades of grey.<br />
<br />
"Please explain why you cut the electricity to the 3rd floor of Horizon Hospital on July 23, 2152."<br />
<br />
"Why do you need that? You have already decided that I am guilty." Kelly had not planned to be confrontational but the Insight robot class was notorious for determining a man's fate even before any legal proceedings were held.<br />
<br />
Arizna VII turned to Kelly, a perplexed look on the robot's face. "We need your explanation of the event for the legal records."<br />
<br />
Kelly was tempted to tell the robot to just "shove it" but he knew that his actions might negatively impact his family. The Insight class robot held all the cards so he had to play by its rules.<br />
<br />
Jordan Kelly sighed and then proceeded to explain that his actions were taken to save an 8 year old boy from accidental electrocution. He had to act fast and, in doing so, he was unaware that cutting off the electricity would lead to the death of 8 people relying on electrical ventilators on the same hospital floor.<br />
<br />
"So you acted without thought?"<br />
<br />
"No. I acted as quickly as I could save the life of a young boy."<br />
<br />
"At the expense of 8 others."<br />
<br />
"I didn't know about them!" Kelly was becoming agitated.<br />
<br />
"That is not a defense under the law. You have sole responsibility for your actions."<br />
<br />
Kelly shifted nervously in his seat. The Insight class of legal robots had been programmed using advanced Boolean analysis methods. A large series of binary response algorithms examined each situation. Yes/No or True/False decisions were made by the robots to be used in complex equations to remove all ambiguity from each decision. And decisions were final. No appeals.<br />
<br />
The advanced robots had been the brain child of Weston Bennett, a brilliant robotics designer. Bennett created the Insights to eliminate indecision and conflict within a legal system which was rapidly tearing apart the fabric of society. But the very same robots created as part of Insight ended up ultimately turned on their creator when they judged him by these same new, non-yielding laws. Bennett ended up regretting his work while sitting inside a jail cell after being found guilty in a car accident caused a medical condition he had developed. "You are responsible for your actions" had been the verdict rendered by Arizna VII, the very same robot presiding over Jordan Kelly today.<br />
<br />
Arizna VII jotted down some notes and then looked up at Kelly. "Have you any other defense to offer?"<br />
<br />
Kelly raised his arms in frustration, not knowing what to say in response. "Only that I am sorry. I am truly sorry for what happened to those other people."<br />
<br />
Arizna VII looked down at the legal papers and made some final notes. "Being sorry will not bring those people back to life, Mr. Kelly."<br />
<br />
Kelly gave no response. After a few awkward moments, the robot looked back up and signaled to the Centurion III class guard to take Kelly back to his cell. <br />
<br />
"Your trial will take place next Monday at 10 AM. Until then, you are remanded to custody in the Lincoln Federal Penitentiary. Good day, Mr. Kelly."<br />
<br />
Jordan Kelly walked slowly toward the court room door and then stopped. Turning around, Kelly blurted out a single comment.<br />
<br />
"This isn't fair."<br />
<br />
Arizna VII responded almost immediately. "This court is not commissioned to be fair Mr. Kelly. We are solely required to be just."<br />
<br />
And with that, the Centurion III guards escorted Jordan Kelly back to his cell.<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>Tom Schmidt is a Chemical Engineer working in medical diagnostics in upstate New York. He has had a variety of short stories published in the past on websites such as www.short-story.me, www.fartherstars.com, www.short-humour.org.uk and www.overmydeadbody.com.</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-13407036562884251862020-01-23T00:00:00.000-08:002020-01-23T00:00:05.703-08:001/23/20<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Slug</b></span> <br />
<i>By <a href="http://www.davidsjournal.com/">David Castlewitz</a></i> <br />
<br />
<br />
The woman who came into the shop was just another slug-induced daydream, Owen Fedderer thought. She was too beautiful to be real. She couldn't be interested in talking to him. Customers came in for radio repairs or to buy a new floor model or a do-it-yourself crystal radio kit; but they never lingered to talk about politics, or muse on the economy, or assess the rumblings of war on the other side of the Atlantic. Unlike his father, who'd established the repair shop when radios were a novelty for hobbyists, Owen lacked the art of repartee. No flashing smile. No inviting demeanor.<br />
<br />
He lived with his shortcomings, content after 43 years of life to being the geeky middle-aged man behind the counter, just as he'd been an oddball when he was in school. He had his comic books, his paperback novels, and the radio dramas he looked forward to at the end of each day. They defined his life. Anything added by that slug his dad kept in a glass aquarium in the basement came as a bonus.<br />
<br />
For years, Owen never gave his dad's strange pet much notice. He seldom stopped to look at the aquarium on the waist-high shelf dad built. He never had much interest in watching feeding time, when his father dropped two or three white mice near the slimy gray creature sitting on a bed of moss.<br />
<br />
But, after dad died, Owen took responsibility for his father's pet. He continued to feed it. He monitored the mouse population kept in several cages in the basement, making sure the moms didn't eat their young so there was always a goodly supply of food for the slug.<br />
<br />
As Dad had intimated before going into the hospital for the heart surgery that would kill him, the slug rewarded whoever fed it. It offered stirring stories of grand adventure, visions of great battles between space-faring warships, and stunning heroines. When such daydreams came to Owen's mind, he was certain these were slug-induced.<br />
<br />
He shouldn't be ogling females anyway, Owen thought. Mom often chastised him for staring at people, especially girls, and he often worried that her spirit remained in the shop, ready to pounce on him with a wooden ruler if he didn't behave.<br />
<br />
The slinky brunette looked like she'd been peeled from a page of a comic book. Silk dress and small hoop earrings, along with high heels and pointed toe shoes defined her as unusual for the neighborhood. Her husky voice matched the rest of her to the point that Owen felt the sting of his mother's ruler on his butt.<br />
<br />
In his imagination, Dad looked on from the workbench in a corner, next to the toilet with its lopsided black-on-white "WC" sign.<br />
<br />
The woman browsed the bulky radios sitting on the floor beneath a shelf of cathedral styled models. All of the radios were much the same, with a handful of tubes, waxy capacitors, crumbly resistors, and nests of beefy wire on the inside, with dials and station indicators outside.<br />
<br />
"Is Crenshen here?" the woman whispered, her sweet voice stretching from where she stood at the shelf of radios. Suddenly, the slinky lady stepped behind the counter. Owen tried to stop her. Customers weren't allowed back there.<br />
<br />
They especially couldn't open the door to the basement.<br />
<br />
He reached for her arm, amazed that she felt so warm and real. She couldn't be a product of any daydream.<br />
<br />
"You can't go down there, Miss!"'<br />
<br />
"Crenshen's down there."<br />
<br />
"Nothing's down there," Owen lied, but he thought of the slug – Crenshen? – and suspected his odd visitor of reading his thoughts.<br />
<br />
"Hmmm," she said, smiling. She had an aristocratic face, her nose not too long, chin not too pointed. For a second, Owen thought he'd seen her in a comic book about Lady Star, a black-clad beauty who rescued lost orphans in dire need of a hero.<br />
<br />
Owen followed the lady down the rickety steps into the basement. When she walked towards the cages housing the mice destined to be the slug's future meals, Owen pulled on the string that worked the overhead lamp, a naked bulb at the end of cloth covered wires.<br />
<br />
"Crenshen," the woman said to the slug.<br />
<br />
"Don't touch him," Owen pleaded. "Don't hurt him."<br />
<br />
"Her," the woman said. "I've been looking all over for her. For years. All over and forever." She pushed aside the screen set across the top of the glass-and-metal aquarium, the one that Dad said protected the slug from rats and cats.<br />
<br />
"He – she – is my pet. My dad's. And mine. Now."<br />
<br />
The woman snorted. "Is that what you think?" A haughty voice. Condescending. She sounded so much like the Lady Star of Owen's imagination that he started to doubt her reality.<br />
<br />
"Stop it," he said, embarrassed by how forcefully he spoke. Mom would've never put up with that kind of talk from him. Why was he the villain in this piece? "I'm the hero," he croaked.<br />
<br />
"Then you should be protecting Crenshen."<br />
<br />
The slug smiled. Owen had never seen its teeth – her teeth – though he suspected it – she – had them. How else did she – it – chew those white mice?<br />
<br />
"I am. Protecting. Her."<br />
<br />
The brunette tilted her head to one side. She looked strong and capable, much as Lady Star would in any comic book page. Then she turned, marched up the cellar stairs and into the store. Owen chased after her, arriving as she exited the store and joined the pedestrian traffic outside.<br />
<br />
"Would you like Lady Star to come back?" the slug asked in Owen's mind.<br />
<br />
Owen looked out through the window at the passersby. He'd enjoyed the daydream. He hoped the slug would send him more. Perhaps he'd turn them into something that would make his fortune. Stories for comic books, perhaps.<br />
<br />
That idea brought a smile to his soft round face. The future looked very bright. He had the slug to thank for that.<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>After a long and successful career as a software developer and technical architect, David has turned to a first love: writing fiction of all sorts, especially SF and fantasy. He's published stories in Phase 2, Farther Stars Than These, SciFan, Martian Wave, Flash Fiction Press , Bonfires and Vanities (an anthology) and other online as well as print magazines. Visit his web site: <a href="http://www.davidsjournal.com/">http://www.davidsjournal.com</a> to learn more and for links to his Kindle books on Amazon.</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-38125320090000614552020-01-16T00:00:00.000-08:002020-01-16T00:00:07.023-08:001/16/20<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Challenger Deep, A Romance of the Depths!</b></span> <br />
<i>By David Barber</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
Time presses and this copy must must be brief.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">The Descent</div><br />
My name is David Barber, special reporter for the New York Daily Gazette, whose job is to record our story as we plunge into the sunless deeps, six miles below. Two hours have passed since we squeezed into the armoured hull of Professor Champion’s submersible and took our last lungful of fresh air at the ocean surface.<br />
<br />
Hear the prescient words of Lord Royston, companion of Professor Champion in so many adventures, and now our pilot as we plunge downwards:<br />
<br />
<i>I've tried exploring and aeroplanes and such, but this search for undersea beasts that look like lobster-supper dreams is the salt of existence.</i><br />
<br />
At last our lights reveal the drear expanse of the abyssal floor, where one tiny animal (a sea cucumber, Champion says) inches its solitary way.<br />
<br />
I wonder if it has eyes to witness the blazing monster of steel invading its realm? We take turns crowding the porthole to view the desolate scene, as a sparse diatomaceous snow drifts down from the waters above.<br />
<br />
Champion measures the temperature and salinity, and blinds us with a flash photograph. Time passes and Royston becomes concerned about our air. He says it is time we bade farewell to the depths. I feel someone should say a few words to honour the moment, but before anyone can speak, Royston releases the external weights to begin our ascent.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Trapped!</div><br />
Except we do not rise! For half an hour Royston struggles with the controls. From the porthole we can even glimpse the fallen weights. It is as if something is holding us down. Perhaps a giant squid, Royston speculates, and wonders if an electric shock from our batteries might free us from its tentacles. Always the man of action.<br />
<br />
Champion though is already busy, he flashes our lights, once, twice, then three, four times. Counting! But how could an insensate beast understand?<br />
<br />
Whatever dwells here was attracted by our lights, Champion reasons. We are invaders and perhaps this is their response.<br />
<br />
He and Royston square up to one another, as best two powerful men stooped inside a steel ball can manage. As I move to part them, our outside lights fail and our craft lurches into motion. Something is dragging us into the abyss!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Into The Abyssal Realm</div><br />
We have come to rest within a chamber, lit by a ghastly phosphorescence. We have yet to glimpse what Champion insists are our rescuers. Royston and he bicker while the air in our submersible grows foul.<br />
<br />
Panting, Champion argues if they had wanted our deaths, they need not have moved us. Royston bitterly regrets not bringing a gun.<br />
<br />
In the end, Champion unscrews the door, and we gulp air as thick as fish soup, but there is oxygen in it and we live!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">The World Lost To Us</div><br />
Champion supposes the creatures keep us alive for study. To them the surface world must seem akin to the deadly vacuum of space for us. Released from the enormous pressure of the ocean, they would explode, and must believe no living thing could endure in the great emptiness above. And yet we came.<br />
<br />
Examining our prison, Champion wonders if we are not inside some leviathan of the deep. We have not seen our captors though we have heard them. They have provided air, and sustenance of sorts can be scraped from the walls of this place.<br />
<br />
Royston shrugs, he says he has eaten worse on his adventures.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Escape!</div><br />
We must escape, Royston insists, his anger stoked by inactivity. He says we must lock ourselves in the Professor's vessel and somehow breach the chamber that imprisons us. A dozen impossibilities before we rise to the surface, where even then, the crew of Champion's ship, believing us dead, must have sailed for home long ago.<br />
<br />
Champion merely shrugged shoulders big as an Assyrian bull, but if I had known his plan I would have supported Royston in his lesser madness.<br />
<br />
The Professor spends his time trying to communicate with our unseen gaolers. They are rational beings, he insists, and claims to have progressed beyond simple mathematics.<br />
<br />
I wake to find Champion unloading the submersible. Our captors do not need this equipment, he says, and who knows what we may find useful for our survival.<br />
<br />
What he meant, I did not realise at first, though Royston had already guessed. Moustaches quivering with rage, he accuses Champion of planning to hand over our vessel to these creatures!<br />
<br />
The Professor faces him calmly. Filled by the ocean, then sealed, his submersible was capable of containing the terrible pressure even to the surface. These beings might visit our own world much as we had visited theirs. By helping them he hoped to earn their trust.<br />
<br />
Trust! mocks Royston. These unseen creatures will no more return us to the surface than we would return a specimen to the ocean floor. Champion is deluded if he hopes to become their ambassador to the world of light above. Again the two men begin shouting at one another, but I suspect it is all too late.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">To the Editor,<i> New York Daily Gazette.</i></div><br />
Perhaps Champion's ship faithfully searches for us still; perhaps the creatures will make contact above; perhaps we will be freed after all.<br />
<br />
I have little faith in the Professor's plan, but it is my job to report a story which may be Champion's last adventure. Whatever the outcome, I ask only that it is printed under my byline. These pages will ascend with the submersible.<br />
<br />
I must hurry, I hear the creatures coming.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">The End</div><br />
<br />
- - - E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-177164904105554552020-01-09T00:00:00.000-08:002020-01-09T00:00:06.300-08:001/9/20<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>The Art of Detection</b></span> <br />
<i>By David K Scholes</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
With super computer assistance, the three of us pored over the various mind image, life force energy, and bio patterns. All of them in 3D.<br />
<br />
Robotic investigators, the “B” team if you like, were at hand ready to assist. Perhaps even hoping, with their emotion chips in, to find something that we human experts couldn’t.<br />
<br />
There were of course other “A” teams and many, many other robot led “B’ teams, the world over, doing the same type of work as us. Fighting the same fight. <br />
<br />
Even with all the expertise at our disposal though it was hard going.<br />
<br />
“They are getting almost impossible to detect now,” said the Prime investigator. “Their ability to replicate even a mind image or life force energy pattern is approaching perfection.” <br />
<br />
I sighed remembering back to the old days – when fingerprints, retina scans and voice prints were enough for differentiation.<br />
<br />
“That particular mind image there,” I laser connected to it. “If you fast forward the 3D pattern, condense 10 minutes worth into 30 seconds, there’s something different about it. Something clearly outside of human parameters.”<br />
<br />
“You are right,” responded the prime “well done indeed!”<br />
<br />
“Only problem now,” grumbled the Third putting a damper on things by stating the obvious “is determining what alien race we are dealing with.”<br />
<br />
“If indeed it even belongs to a race,” I countered.<br />
<br />
Non-human needn’t be adversarial. Of the many extra-terrestrial and extra-dimensional visitors and occasional alternate reality visitors we received some were proven friendly and would never seek to take advantage of us. Just curious visitors. <br />
<br />
On the best available information the number of alien assumptions of existing human identities was far, far more than any Earth authority could ever admit to. If it were known it would lead to panic. The only plus, if you can call it that, was that almost all of them only ever appeared to be temporary. The Aliens, extra-terrestrial, extra-dimensional or whatever all had somewhere to go back to. They’d leave and we would do our best to clean up afterwards.<br />
<br />
Prime had made the joy ride in a car analogy but I didn’t like that comparison. After all – joy ride cars often got burned out.<br />
<br />
I persisted with the mind image currently occupying our attention. “We’ll need to go back on this one – re-check everything; interview records, current surveillance, even the basics like retina scans and such, everything. There’s something not right about it.”<br />
<br />
“I think it’s one of them,” I said quietly “one of the non-recognisables,” I tried to keep an emotionless face.<br />
<br />
Both the Prime and the Third’s faces went white.<br />
<br />
They were the hardest of all to deal with. Something in their natural form, even if we could expose it, that we would never normally recognise as any form of intelligent life. It was not proven but some considered that these visitors were not temporary.<br />
<br />
We meticulously worked through everything we had on this one and another A team with another Prime joined us.<br />
<br />
The evidence, each just little things, started to accumulate. Even among the non-recognisables – there were different types; non-recognisable corporeals, non- recognisable non-corporeals, extreme transients that didn’t fit either of these categories and finally – them. <br />
<br />
“I think its one of them,” I exclaimed, speaking at a point where I should have left it to one of the Primes.<br />
<br />
“An abstract!” – the super computer beat both Primes to it.<br />
<br />
“A concept?” the Third from my team exclaimed.<br />
<br />
“The assigned SAS surveillance team has lost track of it,” the Prime from my team exclaimed nervously. “Two of them were killed in the process.”<br />
<br />
We knew about the abstracts but nobody had ever caught one – not in human-assumed form and most certainly not in its impossible to detect non-recognisable abstract form.<br />
<br />
“Any sense from all of our analysis as to what concept we are dealing with here?” I asked. <br />
<br />
“Enmity, enmity is the primary concept registering here,” the super computer with its super emotion chip was best placed to answer this. “Perpetual enmity,” the super computer modified its initial statement.<br />
<br />
“Hatred, perpetual hatred,” I exclaimed.<br />
<br />
“This is too much for Special Forces,” exclaimed my Prime. “Even the SAS; get the Queller teams on it. Find it, dump it, before it returns to its abstract form."<br />
<br />
<i>If it returns, </i>I thought.<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>The author has written over 200 speculative fiction short stories. Some of these are included in his eight collections of short stories (all on Amazon). He has also published two science fiction novellas and been published on a range of speculative fiction sites. Including: Antipodean SF, Beam Me Up Pod Cast, Farther Stars Than These, 365 Tomorrows, Bewildering Stories, the WiFiles and the former Golden Visions magazine. He will soon publish a new collection of science fiction short stories “Contingency Nine and Other Science Fiction Stories”.</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-64394195131151684732020-01-02T00:00:00.000-08:002020-01-02T00:36:22.658-08:001/2/20<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>NOWHERE--WITH DIRE WOLVES</b></span> <br />
<i>By Janet Shell Anderson</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
I’m nowhere. Utica Rainbasin.<br />
<br />
I’m Jesebeel Florencia Delilah Hanson, from DC, which is probably on fire. There’s no news here. The Second Civil War’s not happening here. Nothing’s happening here but the wind, the “stock,” the birds, the dire wolves.<br />
<br />
I’m sitting on a pile of something, hay, maybe, in Flyover country, watching the “stock”. Wild Jack Bisonette’s the biggest, kind of like a cow and goat combined, huge. Has two calves, big as buses. Frankie’s another one. They talk in weird accents but don’t say much, and I’m warned not to get close because they have tempers.<br />
<br />
Another thing here when I came were giant white birds, whooping cranes, thousands. Five feet tall. Scary. But they’re gone now.<br />
And there are dire wolves, far out, by Lincoln Creek. An alarm will sound if they come too close.<br />
<br />
Why’m I here?<br />
<br />
I think a couple of guys are missing back in DC who went to my room to question me a couple of weeks ago because they thought I knew too much. I’m a professional entertainer, a Lollapalooza Class II, sixteen years old. So these guys were not cool. My turndown service, which eats anything that shouldn’t be in my room, like crumbs or dried flower petals or whatever, probably ate them. So the thing is, I can’t go back.<br />
<br />
There isn’t much call for an entertainer out here.<br />
<br />
The prairie--they call it--is huge. Right now, except for the animals, it’s almost bare, kind of wet, the ground’s black and makes a mess if you walk in it with heels.<br />
<br />
So I have to make sure the people here--all twelve of them--don’t get any ideas about sending me back. Have to make sure they don’t get any ideas at all. Not so hard. They talk less than Wild Jack and don’t seem to care I’m around.<br />
<br />
But the dire wolves do. I’ve a feeling they watch me. I dream they do.<br />
<br />
I’ve a feeling the people here are really, really old. They don’t look old, don’t act old, and I don’t really know anybody who is old, but they feel old. Their eyes are old. Their eyes have seen too much. They have huge green and yellow machines that “put the crop in.” I don’t know what the “crop” is. I asked Wild Jack what it was, and she said, “Stuff to eat.”<br />
<br />
The sky’s low and grey, and the wind howls. A robotrain crosses far off. Machines like insects sit in fields. No cars. The cloud’re pleated like the belly of the whale that hangs in the hall of the Natural History Museum in DC.<br />
<br />
I’m in the belly of a whale, hiding out, nowhere--with dire wolves.<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>I have been published by Farther Stars Than These, 365 Tomorrows, Vestal Review, decomP, FRIGG, Grey Sparrow and many others, nominated for the Pushcart Prize, included in a collection of short works with Joyce Carol Oates. I am an attorney.</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-76319956230341956272019-12-26T00:00:00.000-08:002019-12-26T00:00:08.698-08:0012/26/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alien Botany</b></span> <br />
<i>By John Grey</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
It is a zarkal-blossom afternoon.<br />
<br />
A creature, the zextotl,<br />
buzzes its way among fresh flowers,<br />
is attracted to what the blooms attract.<br />
<br />
It’s a whir of wings, a sudden dive at<br />
the most sedate of nibblers, piercing<br />
the victim’s carapace with a syringe-like lance.<br />
<br />
It’s the time to fill the nest with stung corpses.<br />
<br />
Bingles, tinier than itself, are easy targets.<br />
The zextotl stabs and injects, piles up the victims,<br />
bears them back to its home of spun paper, river mud.<br />
<br />
Two Earthlings, leading botanists,<br />
watch excitedly but cautiously,<br />
snap photo after photo<br />
of these purple beauties.<br />
<br />
The zarkal is a thousand feet high.<br />
The zextotl is the size of an average Earth rocket.<br />
Even the bingle would outweigh an elephant.<br />
<br />
Despite their degrees,<br />
two Earthlings cannot be conceited long.<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Qwerty, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and failbetter.</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-74732556967658426142019-12-19T00:00:00.000-08:002019-12-19T00:00:06.490-08:0012/19/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>The Vacuumer</b></span> <br />
<i>By <a href="http://orangehallway.com/">Eric Suhem</a></i> <br />
<br />
<br />
<i>“Vacuum this, vacuum that! I’m not a machine!” yelled Timothy, nude and perched in a tree in front of the office building, vacuum accessories in his hands. As he screamed at the passersby, the asylum van’s siren could be heard in the distance.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<u><b>Monday</b></u><br />
<br />
Dr. Hoover stood in the hall addressing Sylvia. “I am glad you have applied for the position of ‘Office Vacuumer’, the job is yours,” said Dr. Hoover. “This position will help you to clean the impurities from your consciousness and cleanse your soul. Vacuuming my office will give you a sense of purpose, a dedication of spirit. Don’t listen to that voice inside of you, as its views are steeped in an archaic, narcissistic, navel-gazing, self-involvement that will repeatedly drop you into a psychological null pit of need and greed. The benefits to your soul of simple service cannot be overestimated.” Sylvia looked forward to the work, somehow wanting to be around vacuuming.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>On the first day of therapy in the asylum, Timothy noticed crumbs on the floor under the couch, so he volunteered for a vacuuming work shift.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<u><b>Tuesday</b></u><br />
<br />
Sylvia started work at Dr. Hoover’s office. As she was vacuuming, Dr. Hoover walked in, clutching papers in his hand. “Now Sylvia,” he said, “if you are able to use each of these diagrams to disassemble and reassemble your vacuum, you will be freed of all anxieties, self-doubt, and feelings of victimization.” He handed her the drawings depicting mechanical details of various vacuum components and then left the room. Sylvia put the diagrams on the floor in a mandala pattern and began to disassemble the vacuum.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>During his work shift at the asylum, Timothy was vacuuming the hallway when a man in a white coat approached. “Come with me, Timothy, we need to discuss how to vacuum the shag carpet,” said the man.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<b><u>Wednesday</u></b><br />
<br />
“Why are there crumbs all over the carpet?” Where’s the vacuumer?” demanded Dr. Hoover. Sylvia was frantically trying to reassemble the vacuum she had disassembled the day before. Dr. Hoover found her and said, “Sylvia, do you understand that you are a co-conspirator in your feelings of self-doubt and anxiety, perpetuating them as a comfortable integration of your self-identity, giving you license to not have to undergo the efforts of psychological growth? You must start taking more responsibility for your feelings, as this will help you to function more effectively and responsibly.” He then left the room, scowling at the crumbs on the carpet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Timothy’s mind flashed on what seemed to be a dark room with a movie screen. He was strapped down to a chair, watching a film of a woman trying to assemble a vacuum in an office. People in white coats hovered near him as the screen faded to black.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<b><u>Thursday</u></b><br />
<br />
Sylvia arrived early at the office but wasn’t making any progress reassembling the vacuum. She left the office and drove out of the city to the forest, where she wandered amidst the redwoods, inhaling the crisp clean air. Sylvia happened upon a meadow full of flowers. Each of the flowers resembled the mandala of vacuum cleaner diagrams she’d created on Tuesday. Staring at a flower, she realized, “I need to follow that voice inside of me.” She returned to the office and found the disassembled vacuum parts, strewn on the floor. Following the instructions in her mandala of diagrams, she assembled the pieces.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Timothy finished vacuuming the reception area, and sat on the carpet, visualizing a woman using a mandala of diagrams to reassemble her vacuum. As she put the parts together, snapping the last piece into place, he felt something click in his own mind, his tattered psyche beginning to reconstruct.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<b><u>Friday</u></b><br />
<br />
<i>“Timothy, you experienced a nervous breakdown on your last vacuuming job. Fortunately, my technique combining hypnosis, psychotropic drugs and subliminal suggestion worked to accomplish your recovery!” said the psychiatrist. Timothy mulled this over, as faded images of Sylvia frolicking through a forest and assembling a vacuum drifted through his head in a residual mist.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Later that day, Timothy was given his belongings, mainly vacuum accessories, at the exit desk. The psychiatrist waved to him. “Goodbye Timothy, and happy vacuuming.”</i><br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>Eric Suhem lives in the orange hallway (<a href="http://www.orangehallway.com/">www.orangehallway.com</a>)</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-57094231332885810342019-12-12T00:00:00.000-08:002019-12-12T00:00:03.220-08:0012/12/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Passenger 859</b></span> <br />
<i>By Ridge Smith</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Mars.</i> Alon awoke with a start and swung his legs over the side of his cot. The steady hum of the thrusters filled his ears for the hundredth time. It had only taken a day to reach their destination, and Alon was filled with apprehension. The previous day had been utter torture: a short trip up to Luna, followed by a mountain of paperwork. A small price to pay, however, for the opportunity to colonize a new planet. Not to mention, the ship they had built for the journey was the largest ship ever designed, more massive than those of Mars.<br />
<br />
The U.T.F. Azmon was built to fly faster and more efficiently than any ship before it, and serve as the first city on their new home planet. It was massive in size, big enough to house an entire colony, though it seemed barren now with just over 1000 passengers. Most ships of this size were war-ships, loaded with nuclear missiles, rail guns, and lasers, but there was no risk of war here. They were far beyond the grey zone, and enemy ships wouldn’t dare interfere with this mission.<br />
<br />
Instead of heavy weaponry, the Azmon was loaded with plant-life. Each room of the ship had a large cutout the size of a normal window full of plants to help regulate the air. Throughout the entire center of the ship the scientists of Terra had created a lush, green Eden full of plants and water. Artificial streams flowed through the ship, providing hydro-power and sustaining the plants. The garden, as it was called, was full of plants of all sizes, including trees, flowers, crops, and genetically engineered plants capable of producing the maximum amount of oxygen. He remembered walking the winding paths through the garden during orientation on Luna. Never had he felt such humidity in a controlled environment; it rivaled the preservation pods back on Terra. Despite the humid air, the high oxygen environment made the air feel cold. The old term breath of fresh air came to Alon’s mind. It was a paradise the old Terra would have known, back when it was still called Earth.<br />
<br />
With a lump in his throat, Alon glanced at his holo-pad. He touched the screen to bring up a picture of a woman. Beneath her picture read: Passenger 759. Alon looked down at his suit. 859. Passenger 759 was Alon’s assigned partner for the breeding program.<br />
<br />
<i>Why am I doing this again?</i> Alon thought for no more than a moment. <br />
<br />
His father. Those damn Martian traitors killed millions of Terrans in the Martian War. His father was a pilot, and died just before Mars gained their independence three years after the war began. The Martian city of Guan Yu prospered when they began mining the asteroid belt. Terra kept their hold as long as they could, but the Martian colony was built to thrive and expand. Martian colonists were genetically enhanced. They were smarter, stronger, and faster than Terran soldiers, and their regime was built for war. The first Martian attack came seemingly from nowhere. Terra was too busy fighting itself; none of the unified powers saw it coming. Terra only held its ground as long as it did because of the United Terran Alliance. Their sheer numbers kept Mars from taking control of the planet. This was Alon’s chance to make a difference, to help Terra regain control over the system. He would do whatever it took to make that dream, the dream of millions of Terran children who were orphaned by the Martians’ war, come true.<br />
<br />
Alon heard the thrusters slowly begin to fade. He walked over and slowly opened his window shutter, careful to make sure the sun was not on this side of the ship. There, huge and beautiful in front of him was his new home. Similar in size to Terra. Clouds swirled above the surface of the planet. From here it was hard to believe that beneath those clouds was a hellish surface, completely unlivable and deadly. This is why the Azmon would stay in the sky, above the cloud level. The colony would be dependent on Terra, at first, but would provide a direct link to the mines of Mercury. They would support each other, and together they would take on the Martian Global Collective. Alon’s new home: Venus.<br />
<br />
Suddenly the planet was blocked out as dark metal engulfed his view. The room darkened, and the darkness was replaced by a faint red glow and the sound of sirens. Panicking, Alon rushed to the other side of the room, opposite his window. As he secured himself to the safety harness, the emergency shutters began to descend, blocking his view of the other ship. Before slamming shut, Alon caught one final view and his heart dropped, sweat beading against his forehead. Engrained in Alon’s vision was the deep, dark red of the Martian flag.<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>My name is Ridge Smith. I have been imagining and enjoying science fiction for most of my life, but have only begun to write fiction myself recently.</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-45274965947999109312019-12-05T00:00:00.000-08:002019-12-05T00:00:04.486-08:0012/5/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>The Local Astronomy </b></span> <br />
<i>By Hillary Lyon</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
expert wields a machete because people think <br />
grant monies grow on trees<br />
<br />
learn to interpret the sky he says<br />
for an authentic rooftop experience<br />
<br />
the first colors of sunrise<br />
heighten awareness<br />
<br />
and ceremoniously quiet the mind<br />
by gliding over the glass surface<br />
<br />
of dawning consciousness glittering<br />
like mica-flecked sand<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>Hillary Lyon is founder of and editor for the Arizona-based small press poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. The author of more than 20 poetry chapbooks, her poems have appeared in journals such as Black Petals, Bloodbond, Dreams & Nightmares, Scifaikuest, Illumen, and Jellyfish Whispers, as well as numerous anthologies. <a href="http://hillarylyon.wordpress.com/">hillarylyon.wordpress.com</a></i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-43106370611673259202019-11-28T00:00:00.000-08:002019-11-28T00:00:03.807-08:0011/28/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>In A White Room</b></span> <br />
<i>By Dave Ludford</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
On one wall of the white room you see trains leaving a station with no destination, passengers waving goodbye at windows though they’re not really leaving. How could they be when there is absolutely nowhere for them to go? The white room creates images and lets your mind fill in the blanks.<br />
<br />
“How did I get here?” you ask.<br />
<br />
“You didn’t,” comes the reply in your own voice. “You never left where you were. Where you were is here. The white room creates illusions” it added unnecessarily.<br />
<br />
“Why, may I ask, am I seeing these illusions?”<br />
<br />
“You are seeing your own life and the experiences contained therein. But the illusions themselves are illusions. Fleeting, transient ephemera. False magic. They signify nothing because reality is nothing. There is only the white room and your own imagination.”<br />
<br />
You take a while to come to terms with this, and then a thought occurs:<br />
<br />
“But I didn’t imagine trains leaving a station and people waving at the windows.”<br />
<br />
“No, but somebody else did.”<br />
<br />
“Somebody else? Who? I’m not alone here?”<br />
<br />
“One can never be alone in the white room. Others, like you, will always come across this place. Call it fate, whatever.”<br />
<br />
You are then witness to further illusions created by others you cannot see or sense in any way: soldiers marching into a battle that will never happen. Endlessly marching. A woman giving birth to herself, ad infinitum. Dolls within dolls all exactly the same. Athletes running backwards on a track away from the starting line that will never become the finishing line.<br />
<br />
“Tell me…my life…it hasn’t happened yet?”<br />
<br />
“No, and may never happen. Birth, life and death: the cycle of life. All illusions.”<br />
<br />
“Which would suggest that I too am an illusion?”<br />
<br />
“Yes. The white room is the only reality. A reality that exists absolutely nowhere at any point in time or in any physical place. It just is; or isn’t, to be more accurate.”<br />
<br />
“Perhaps the white room too is an illusion, therefore, conjured by my own imagination.”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” you reply to yourself.<br />
<br />
“I have one final question. Am I God?”<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>Dave Ludford is a writer from Nuneaton, England, whose works of poetry and short fiction have appeared at a variety of venues in the US, UK and India. His horror collection 'A Place of Skulls and Other Tales' is available now from Parallel Universe Publications or via Amazon.<br />
</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-7421625641418789902019-11-21T00:00:00.000-08:002019-11-21T00:00:06.430-08:0011/21/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Awakening</b></span> <br />
<i>By David K Scholes</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
I awakened from the deep drug induced sleep/hibernation. The anti-nightmare medications had, at least to some extent, worked. Thank goodness for that. I couldn’t take another mind assault at the level I experienced last time around. It would have broken me. I simply would never have woken up.<br />
<br />
I hoped I hadn’t been woken early as a result of computer failure.<br />
<br />
The fact that I was still in sensory deprivation mode seemed unusual and gave me cause for concern.<br />
<br />
There was a waiting period but with no way of measuring it and with no reference point it might have been only a few seconds or it might have been all of eternity. It certainly seemed like the latter.<br />
<br />
Eventually, and to my great relief, the sleep/hibernation pod opened up. My sleep hazed vision was still limited but I could just see the nearby 3D computer display of my vital and other life signs. Within arms reach, that is if I could have moved my arms. Blood pressure, pulse rate, temperature seemed within normal Earth human limits as was my life force energy level. My brain activity was well above hyper activity level but I didn’t need a computer to tell me that. <br />
<br />
I was still effectively frozen and knew that by now that should not be. I could just make out the real elapsed time since my initial sensory awakening – over 2 standard Earth hours. More than enough time for me to be med-checked, decontaminated if necessary, energy replenished, fully suited up and about my duties. <br />
<br />
My unassisted vision slowly improved and I saw that there wasn’t anyone or anything to help me. Not even the soothing, reassuring voice of the normally ever hovering, ubiquitous AI med-bots. <br />
<br />
Those of my companions that I could now see were still seemingly ensconced within their sleep/hibernation chambers. Were they okay? I couldn’t tell. They should have been up and about by now. I was normally the last of them to come out of the sleep/hibernation state.<br />
<br />
Slowly, but slowly, movement returned to my body. I found I was not restricted by the usual gentle, flexible force constraints that were applied during sleep/hibernation. As I slowly rose out of the sleep/hibernation pod a great hunger fell upon me, completely overwhelming all other feelings I had. Including the present highly dangerous situation.<br />
<br />
Finally a single lone med-bot appeared, ready to inject me with the usual range of standard medically proven nutrients. I shoved the irritating little AI away not without some force. <br />
<br />
I had been through a lot since my awakening and now was not the time for mere intravenous fluid nourishment.<br />
<br />
“Computer,” I found I was yelling at the top of my voice, not even knowing if the central computer was still functioning properly “get me some solid nourishment now. I’ll take some Hot Oat Meal, Blueberry Muffins and an espresso coffee!” <br />
<br />
As the central computer complied with my very reasonable request I began to feel a bit more like my old self.<br />
<br />
Also, just then, the other sleep/hibernation pods started to yield up their occupants. I watched on with some trepidation.<br />
<br />
I was sure there was a time back deep in the distant past when ordinary people like us didn’t need to have to go to so much trouble just to get a good night’s sleep.<br />
<br />
I told myself this as the first members of my family wearily emerged from their pods.<br />
<br />
“Get a move on Dad, you will be late for work,” my eldest son exclaimed.<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>The author has written over 200 speculative fiction short stories. Some of these are included in his eight collections of short stories (all on Amazon). He has also published two science fiction novellas and been published on a range of speculative fiction sites. Including: Antipodean SF, Beam Me Up Pod Cast, Farther Stars Than These, 365 Tomorrows, Bewildering Stories, the WiFiles and the former Golden Visions magazine. He will soon publish a new collection of science fiction short stories “Contingency Nine and Other Science Fiction Stories</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-40689426467944024922019-11-14T00:00:00.000-08:002019-11-14T00:00:02.935-08:0011/14/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Big Bang</b></span> <br />
<i>By <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bohemians-Graphic-History-Paul-Buhle/dp/1781682615">David Berger</a></i> <br />
<br />
<br />
“I’ve got a secret.”<br />
“The old TV show?<br />
“No!<br />
“Oh.”<br />
“Heard of the Big Bang?”<br />
“The TV show?”<br />
“No, the Cosmic Event.”<br />
“Oh, sure. Like Carl Sagan?”<br />
“No. That was Cosmos.”<br />
“Sorry. I watch lots of TV.”<br />
“I mean when the universe began. 13½ billion years ago.”<br />
“Oh. Okay.”<br />
“It’s a secret. I’ve never told anyone. But I was there.”<br />
“That’s fantastic. You never told anyone?”<br />
“They’d think I was crazy.”<br />
“Yeah, well, it is weird. But really? When it happened. You were there?”<br />
“Yup!”<br />
“What was it like? Was it ultimately hot?”<br />
“Actually, kinda cool.”<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>I'm an old Brooklyn Lefty, now living in Manhattan with my wife of 26 years: the finest jazz singer in NYC. I'm a Dad and a Granddad. I've been a caseworker, construction worker, letter carrier, high school and ESL teacher, a legal proofreader and a union organizer. I love life, my wife and the world. Hope to help the latter escape destruction.</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-38436945082040412732019-11-07T00:00:00.000-08:002019-11-07T00:00:03.081-08:0011/7/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Sunsports</b></span> <br />
<i>By David Barber</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Quick, Quick, the Circumsolar Dash is Starting.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Here in the shade of Mercury, ships jostle through the countdown, jockeying for position. Half the System is taking feed, coverage of all the action from this year’s Sunsports. And new to reporting is AL, the series 7000 artificial intelligence...</i><br />
<br />
<i>We prefer the term "autonomic lifeform" Chuck.</i><br />
<br />
<i>So, AL, talk us through the favourites, what with old Earth money and new Mars tech,how good those new cooling units are, and what we’ll see when the heat is on.</i><br />
<br />
<i>It was exactly ten years ago, Chuck, that Lisa Chan took a short-cut through the corona. She went deeper and hotter than anyone before, and set the benchmark for today’s racers. Of course, she was disqualified post-mortem…</i><br />
<br />
<br />
2<br />
<br />
<br />
Nate straightened his cap, took a breath and tried to push open the door.<br />
<br />
“Team pilots only,” cautioned the hologram suddenly at his elbow.<br />
<br />
“I’m on the list.”<br />
<br />
The virtual maître d’ turned virtual pages. “Ah,” it said finally. “Team Luna.”<br />
<br />
Inside, it was oven-hot and sweat popped out on his brow. Can’t stand the heat, don’t compete, goes the Sunsports jingle.<br />
<br />
His nerve almost failed, but he sat down opposite Lola Speed, last years’ winner. She wore Mars Tek’s trademark silver, and looked older than the holo of her he prized as a kid.<br />
<br />
She studied him, seemingly unaffected by the sauna heat. “Nate Booker,” she said. “New pilot for Luna, right?”<br />
<br />
Nate wasn’t famous, she just had implants and recognition software.<br />
<br />
“What you flying?”<br />
<br />
He explained about his Ceres Series Three with the new cooling unit. Salt stung his eyes and he knuckled it away.<br />
<br />
“Looked at that Mackenzie cooler,” Lola Speed interrupted. “Unreliable. Don’t go deep with it, kid.”<br />
<br />
Racers used to shave an orbit round the sun; these days you cut corners, diving through the corona and trusting in your hardware until you surfaced to dump the thermal load. Winners stayed down the longest.<br />
<br />
“Heard Milland takes risks with his crew.”<br />
<br />
Cosmo Milland was the new owner of Team Luna, and you heard talk like that about him, but Nate was just starting out and couldn’t afford to pick and choose.<br />
<br />
“Can’t stand the heat, don’t compete,” he said, dizzily, his Team Luna outfit darkening with sweat.<br />
<br />
<br />
3<br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>Sundiving.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>Hard to hear their voices over the air-con’s howl. Something about the engines, about help. Eventually flaws in the mirror layer burn through, punching brilliant spikes across the cockpit. The incandescence crisps the eye even through lids squeezed shut.</i><br />
<br />
<i>This is what can happen when you dive too deep, going for the record. Some leave their coms on right to the end, so we can all hear what bad luck sounds like.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
4<br />
<br />
Nate had got off to a bad start, outmanoeuvred by the Team Terra third string who’d blocked him at the last moment. Now he accelerated flat out, downwards into the corona.<br />
<br />
The Mackenzie cooling rig encased him like a set of Russian dolls, with his his own naked flesh at its heart. Engineering trade-offs and the constraints of physics meant he squeezed into a space no bigger than a coffin.<br />
<br />
The corona might be tenuous, but the radiative load from plasma at millions of degrees was making itself felt. Across the board, layer after layer of his cooling system changed to red.<br />
<br />
Below him, deep into the brilliance, another craft ghosted intermittently on his screen; maybe the Team Terra craft that blocked his start, but it was already heading back out.<br />
<br />
Nate plunged down past it into the furnace, filter after filter struggling with the brightness, ever closer to the boiling surface of the sun.<br />
<br />
5<br />
<br />
<i>So AL, tell us about this new idea from Team Terra’s Dave Beauman, sharing the pilot’s seat with a series 7000. Because it reminds me how Jessie Bulland limped in on manual that time a solar flare frazzled everyone’s circuits. Could silicon have brought home that win, AL?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>Well Chuck, the 7000 series is the most advanced...</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>Sorry to cut you off there AL, but there’s news in about three-time winner, Lola Speed.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
6<br />
<br />
The roar of the air-con made it hard to hear, but it was Lola Speed alright; Nate knew that voice.<br />
<br />
“What you doing this deep kid?” he thought she said.<br />
<br />
His last refrigeration layer was beginning to overload, and droplets of sweat floated off him as the air temperature rose remorselessly.<br />
<br />
He asked what was wrong, if he could help. Perhaps she couldn’t hear him, perhaps she knew there was no help.<br />
<br />
“Make your choices while you can, kid.”<br />
<br />
He was at the nadir of own trajectory now, and would start to climb out of the corona. Lola Speed’s craft still tumbled sunwards.<br />
<br />
“Mirror layer next,” she panted. “Not long...” Her voice rose to a scream, then cut off.<br />
<br />
<br />
7<br />
<br />
There was a Team Luna engineer on coms, with Cosmo Milland breathing down her neck. “Our readouts show some issues with the Mackenzie rig,” she said carefully. “But it’s within tolerance.”<br />
<br />
Milland seized the mike. “What the hell’s going on? You did a great first dive, even after that crappy start, now you’re ahead of the pack, and there’s some quibble about cooling?”<br />
<br />
“Made a choice,” said Nate. He had glimpsed the future.<br />
<br />
In the silence, you could hear Milland trying to make sense of it. “You refuse to dive again and you’re finished in sunsports, you hear me?”<br />
<br />
Nate flicked off the com and began plotting a safe orbit back to Mercury.<br />
<br />
<br />
8<br />
<br />
<i>They were so sure that flesh and silicon would be a winning team, a synergy where second by second one partner would monitor data critical to optimal performance, while the other did whatever it is humans do, cutting corners, making wisecracks and pushing engines beyond the limits they were designed for.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>But note how much power that cooling unit squanders keeping Beauman alive as we plough the corona, in direct conflict with the goal of this mission, to win the Circumsolar Dash.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>So I’m sorry, Dave.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
- - -E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-10819687248316528742019-10-24T00:00:00.000-07:002019-10-24T00:00:01.073-07:0010/24/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Bedside Laboratory</b></span> <br />
<i>By Hillary Lyon</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
the shifting voltage<br />
the miniature needles<br />
the cockpit-like desk<br />
all the instruments <br />
of space exploration<br />
in an ordinary room<br />
hospital-silent<br />
the heavy gentlemen<br />
monitor the brain waves <br />
beyond the door<br />
meticulously recording <br />
extremely rare nightmares<br />
of irradiated borderlands<br />
and workers with color-coded<br />
skin doomed to suffer <br />
the frenzy in the blood<br />
found in the lucid dream<br />
of knives and fishes<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>Hillary Lyon is founder of and editor for the Arizona-based small press poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. The author of more than 20 poetry chapbooks, her poems have appeared in journals such as Black Petals, Bloodbond, Dreams & Nightmares, Scifaikuest, Illumen, and Jellyfish Whispers, as well as numerous anthologies. <a href="http://hillarylyon.wordpress.com/">hillarylyon.wordpress.com</a></i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-1784170398501746512019-10-17T00:00:00.000-07:002019-10-17T00:00:06.279-07:0010/17/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>WHERE THE WIND SAYS CRAZY THINGS</b></span> <br />
<i>By Janet Shell Anderson</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
The moon had set when the alarm sounded for dire wolves last night. I saw them from the dark house, from the upstairs window as they crossed through the sketchy windbreak, three rows of old, twisted junipers and cedars. The wolves slid into the yard like shadows, almost invisible, as I watched through the spidery glass and thin lace curtain. They’d come for me, sat in a group near the bridalwreath spirea. A drone came down suddenly from the stock shed, and they left. <br />
<br />
I’ve been out here in the Rainwater Basin since March, and it’s May now, I think. Now the sky’s velvet grey, sirens are quiet, the drone and wolves, gone. Day’s begun, and the rising Moon’s like a broken cookie above wide, empty fields. The people here went out on their enormous yellow and green machines a while back just at Moonrise. Since you can’t see the drivers on the machines, the huge things seem to be running themselves. A robotrain cuts across the far horizon.<br />
<br />
No other people come here. The roads are dirt or gravel. Sometimes when it hasn’t rained, the roads raise their own dust that swirls in here to Utica Rainbasin as if it’s come to find someone. Maybe me. The wind talks long words, its own language.<br />
I wear dusters now, long pants, boots, my hair twisted in a bun like people a thousand years ago. Or green and yellow gear if I ride the machines. These people here are like people a thousand years ago.<br />
<br />
I don’t think the people back in DC where I’m from know they’re here. I think the people in DC think everyone out here’s dead, that the farms are run by AIs, the robomachines and robotrains take care of all of it, produce sorghum, X-milo.<br />
<br />
We don’t have lights on at night. We have kerosene lamps in the day, no cars or trucks on the roads. Drones, though. Weird stuff. We eat at noon, sleep at sunset.<br />
<br />
We have stock that talk. They have a lot of opinions, don’t know anything. Like cows, but bigger, they’re hairy, have humps, beards, big eyes. Their breath smells sweet. The dire wolves eat the stock if they can catch any, usually a calf; the stock kill the dire wolves if they can catch any, stomp them to death. I’ve seen bones of dead calves, smashed bodies of dead wolves out on the flat prairie. The wind sings over them. Oglala words the people here say. Storm words.<br />
<br />
I’m Jesebeel Hanson, hiding out here with what might be my relatives--except they’re so strange--so no one from DC can catch me. I got a couple of questioners killed, probably. Back home. There’s war back home. DC was burning. I don’t know if these people here know it. I haven’t told them. I said someone wanted to hurt me, and they took me in.<br />
<br />
I asked one of the people if the dire wolves might have cell phones, because I’m sure they’re after me. The woman, whose eyes are the same color as mine but look a thousand years old, said nothing.<br />
<br />
One of our buildings says “Prairie Green” in faded old letters. When I asked the old lady why, she said, “The land is worth everything. Everything. None of them understand that.”<br />
<br />
I don’t understand it either. It’s just mud or dirt under a broken cookie Moon, where the wind says crazy things. <br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>I have been published by Farther Stars Than These, 365 Tomorrows, Vestal Review, decomP, FRIGG, Grey Sparrow and many others, nominated for the Pushcart Prize, included in a collection of short works with Joyce Carol Oates. I am an attorney.</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-10789010951549366652019-10-10T00:00:00.000-07:002019-10-10T00:00:09.402-07:0010/10/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Shiny Spheres</b></span> <br />
<i>By <a href="http://rollintgentry.com/">Rollin T. Gentry</a></i> <br />
<br />
<br />
You smack the alarm clock and roll out of bed like any other day.<br />
<br />
In the bathroom, you notice a golf-ball-sized, chrome sphere hovering inches above your head. You brush your teeth, standing beside your spouse, and realize that both of you have the same shiny sphere overhead. Neither of you says a word about them.<br />
<br />
At breakfast, you notice that your children have spheres, and they also seem unaware. You turn on the news, and the anchorwoman has a sphere floating above her head. The co-anchor and the weatherman have them, too. The kids grab their lunches and backpacks. You grab your laptop, and the family heads out for the day after saying, “I love you,” all around. While dropping the kids off at school, you notice that the crossing guard has one, and a sphere accompanies all the other children, as well. You wonder if you are going mad. While this would be an odd thing to hallucinate, seeing odd things is a part of madness, isn’t it?<br />
<br />
Alone in the car at a traffic light, you look around. All the other motorists have the same spheres pressed between the roof of their vehicle and their heads. You check yourself in the rearview mirror. You still have yours. Should you try to touch it? Definitely not while driving, but perhaps when you get to work.<br />
<br />
Every person you pass on the way to your office has a sphere overhead, gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. Everyone acts normal, though. Everyone is ignoring the spheres.<br />
<br />
In your office, you close the door and reach above your head -- nothing. But not having a mirror, you wonder if the thing is simply moving out of the way when you reach for it. Down the hall, a family restroom complete with a diaper-changing table is the only place you can go that has both a mirror and privacy. You quickly dash inside and confirm your suspicions. The sphere is very adept at avoiding your grasp. After several attempts, you give up and stroll to the break room.<br />
<br />
In the break room, you find one of your colleagues, with a sphere, toasting a bagel. You wonder how you should approach the subject?<br />
<br />
"Good morning," you say, trying to maintain eye contact. You wonder, if you tackled this person, could you grab their sphere. Terrible idea. A sure trip to the loony bin. So you end up saying nothing, just filling a Styrofoam cup with coffee. Finally, your co-worker speaks.<br />
<br />
"Care for a bagel?"<br />
<br />
You've already eaten breakfast and don't even like bagels, but you say, "Yes, thank you." Your answer feels very natural. A bit of your anxiety fades. You wonder if the spheres have something to do with it. Are they from outer space or another dimension, perhaps? A collective consciousness, maybe? As you fill your mouth with bagel and cream cheese, you dismiss those strange notions and nod appreciatively to your colleague.<br />
<br />
Your schedule for the day is filled with meetings. In every meeting, everyone has a chrome sphere positioned overhead. Remarkably, in every meeting, there is complete agreement among the attendees, not a single detractor all day.<br />
<br />
At home that evening, the family sits around the dinner table and carries on pleasant conversation. Later, the family agrees to watch the same show on television in the living room, which is strange because the kids have TVs in their bedrooms, and their tastes vary greatly from you and your spouse.<br />
<br />
In bed, the sphere repositions itself so that it floats above your forehead. You feel more peace and tranquility than you have in a long time. Slowly the sphere descends, until it rests on your forehead. You hear a humming. Listening closer, you make out the thoughts of what could be the entire human race. The sphere sinks even lower, slipping into your brain as if your skull were made of gelatin. The voices become clearer now. You make out the thoughts of a college professor halfway around the globe. You listen to his last independent thought:<br />
<br />
"So, this is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but a..."<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>Rollin T. Gentry lives in Birmingham, Alabama where he works as a software engineer for a Fortune 500 company. He can be found reading and writing lots of speculative fiction during his spare time. He’s had stories appear in Everyday Fiction, Liquid Imagination, 365 Tomorrows, and others.</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-73066263055520635952019-10-03T00:00:00.000-07:002019-10-03T00:00:00.644-07:0010/3/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>The Rebellion of the Earth</b></span> <br />
<i>By Deisy Toussaint, translated by Toshiya Kamei</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
It wasn’t the Apocalypse caused by the wrath of God. Nor was it an advanced civilization from outer space, much less the folly of humans who sometimes were on the verge of destroying it all.<br />
<br />
It had to do with the determination of the depleted planet, already fed up with humiliations. It had to be haggard, parched skin that would one day scream sulfur blood and sprout rage through its pustules from its core.<br />
<br />
With their memories and guilt as their only luggage, humans departed without looking back. Without knowing the destination. Without knowing why, but with the terrible conviction that they would never return.<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>Born in 1987 in Santo Domingo, Deisy Toussaint is a Dominican journalist of Haitian descent. Her work has appeared in anthologies and journals such as Mujer en pocas palabras, El fondo del iceberg, and miNatura. She is co-author with Óscar Zazo of Operación Azabache: La invasión (2017).</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-48538592977759102832019-09-26T00:00:00.000-07:002019-09-26T00:00:04.511-07:009/26/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Illuminated Pixels, Like Lotus Leaves</b></span> <br />
<i>By Hillary Lyon</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
trying to lift ourselves<br />
out of the encroaching darkness<br />
a rectangular blue light in hand<br />
<br />
reveals the placement of constellations <br />
while the loading wheel spins--<br />
in heaven stars become signs <br />
<br />
that tell us a story about ascendant fire--<br />
a warning meme--about the conviction <br />
everyone had fifty years ago<br />
<br />
now it's all backwards<br />
people shake theirs heads yes<br />
people nod their heads no <br />
<br />
civilized people can't be bothered<br />
with the shadows on the cave wall<br />
instead preferring electric fields of multi-petaled dreams<br />
<br />
which will fade even as the ocher-halo'd hand prints remain<br />
the true artifacts of history--the virtual signifiers--destined someday <br />
to again spur the white horse to take wing<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>Hillary Lyon is founder of and editor for the Arizona-based small press poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. The author of more than 20 poetry chapbooks, her poems have appeared in journals such as Black Petals, Bloodbond, Dreams & Nightmares, Scifaikuest, Illumen, and Jellyfish Whispers, as well as numerous anthologies. <a href="http://hillarylyon.wordpress.com/">hillarylyon.wordpress.com</a></i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-81120693627329408692019-09-19T00:00:00.000-07:002019-09-19T00:00:05.566-07:009/19/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>The Artificial Men</b></span> <br />
<i>By David Barber</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
It was now dinner time and they were all sitting in the shade of the dining tent, pretending that nothing had happened.<br />
<br />
Curtis made his living from hunting trips, and studied the behaviour of his clients as if they were big game themselves. Take this Brooks-Bryant couple for instance. Madame had poked her head into their living quarters when they arrived and found it spartan and clean. She shrugged and busied herself with her gun.<br />
<br />
Hubby had toured the camp complaining; there was no signal, no air-con, the toilet was outdoors and they were expected to perch on canvas stools.<br />
<br />
Madame Brooks-Bryant had quizzed Curtis about the hunt. There were plenty of rogue mechanoids in these wastelands, and artificial men too, if you knew where to look.<br />
<br />
Curtis always started with an easy shoot because you never knew the capabilities of your people.<br />
<br />
“Have you hunted before?” he asked Madame, watching her in the driving mirror. He jolted the rover along a gully towards the herd of mechanoids he’d located by satellite.<br />
<br />
“Not for some years,” Madame Brooks-Bryant said distantly. There was never any time now.<br />
<br />
She gazed at the landscape with fine green eyes; probably not the ones she was born with, Curtis thought. Her hair was caught up in a careless bandanna and she looked poised and cool even in this heat.<br />
<br />
“And you, Monsieur?”<br />
<br />
“On the practice range. Under the circumstances you may call me François. And this is Héloise.”<br />
<br />
“I am capable of speaking for myself,” Madame Brooks-Bryant said. She stared back at Curtis, daring him to use her name.<br />
<br />
Rounding a bend, they had come across the mechanoids. Herding was an emergent behaviour, Curtis explained. He pointed out an autonomic digger that had once been yellow. Its solar array meant it was safer to hunt than those with nuclear power cells.<br />
<br />
Hubby began booting up his weapon. In smart mode it could bring down targets a mile away without his help.<br />
<br />
Curtis put a hand on his arm. “We shoot on manual.”<br />
<br />
Madame Brooks-Bryant turned on her husband. “Perhaps you’d prefer an air strike.”<br />
<br />
They approached on foot, with Curtis to one side, so he had a clear shot if needed. In a low voice he listed the mechanoid’s vulnerable spots.<br />
<br />
François hit tyres, headlamps and the front grill before the mechanoid raised its bucket and charged. It bounced towards them at surprising speed, raising clouds of dust. The man emptied his magazine before dropping the weapon and bolting.<br />
<br />
Curtis thumbed his safety off just as Madame, a statue with gun to shoulder, put one, two, three AP rounds into the mechanoid’s sensor cluster. Blinded, it slewed to a halt, engine still revving like a panting beast.<br />
<br />
“Good shooting,” Curtis said as he walked past to finish it off.<br />
<br />
So they sat through dinner pretending nothing had happened. Hubby was drinking. Curtis felt sorry for the fellow at first, but it soon turned to contempt. Still, it wouldn’t stop him drinking the man’s whiskey. He’d read that somewhere.<br />
<br />
“You should stay in camp tomorrow,” remarked Madame Brooks-Bryant.<br />
<br />
“Alright, I messed up,” began hubby, thickly.<br />
<br />
Madame spoke over him; she wanted to know about the artificial men.<br />
<br />
The man appealed to Curtis as if his wife were not present. “About that business today..."<br />
<br />
“Don’t think about it. Could have happened to anyone on his first hunt.” But he pictured the man’s wife, coolly taking three good shots.<br />
<br />
“Curtis, d’you think we'll find one of those artificial chaps tomorrow?”<br />
<br />
“A good chance, yes.”<br />
<br />
“Then I’ll show you.”<br />
<br />
“Let us hope they’re not as frightening as that digger,” said Madame.<br />
<br />
Curtis was bored with marital discord. She must have had her reasons for marrying the man. “Going for a smoke,” he said.<br />
<br />
A little later she joined him, as he guessed she would. Curtis knew women of her sort, rich and unhappy. They watched a lurid red sun setting behind the cliffs.<br />
<br />
She waved away a cigarette. “Used to. Cost me a new lung, but you carry on.”<br />
<br />
“He wasn’t always like this,” she said, and began a rambling tale about a marriage arranged between families. Curtis listened with half an ear. That night she came to his tent. Next morning they all set out after artificial men.<br />
<br />
They drove in silence. Curtis supposed the couple had some arrangement; still, he should have shown her the door. Stupid of him.<br />
<br />
On previous trips he’d seen signs and had a notion where they might be. They liked caves, he said. It showed how smart they were. He’d never seen it himself, but they survived on parts, fluids and power cells from the mechanoids.<br />
<br />
He was talking too much; out of awkwardness perhaps, or because the husband sitting behind him had a gun.<br />
<br />
It was just an overhang of rock, but enough to shield from surveillance. At first Curtis thought there was only one of them, until they emerged from the shadows, one supporting another that limped and stumbled. One each then, no need for more arguments.<br />
<br />
Hubby stepped forward and took aim.<br />
<br />
The artificial man put itself in front of its damaged fellow. Their metal faces had been fashioned to crudely resemble people. It raised its free hand and made noises that might once have been speech.<br />
<br />
Madame’s patience snapped. “What are you waiting for?”<br />
<br />
Hubby lowered his gun. “Let’s just go back.”<br />
<br />
“You really are a useless man.” Madame Brooks-Bryant shoved her husband aside and raised her own weapon.<br />
<br />
Curtis saw it all from where he stood, off to one side so he had a clear shot if needed. He recalled it all later; the push and the man's awkward fall, the single shot, the AP round blasting through his wife.<br />
<br />
Definitely an accident, Curtis confirmed. A tragic accident.<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-45170992219854425492019-09-12T00:00:00.000-07:002019-09-12T00:00:06.348-07:009/12/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Benny’s Bad</b></span> <br />
<i>By <a href="http://www.davidsjournal.com/">David Castlewitz</a></i> <br />
<br />
<br />
Benny's transgression didn't rank high on the list of "bads" published in the legal app he'd leased. That gave him hope that his eventual trial would be more nuisance than trouble. He was a first-timer. He shouldn't warrant time at a work camp.<br />
<br />
But the app had some dire warnings. Considering how far he'd fallen in his Personal Social Account, Benny feared he'd never get back to where he'd been five years earlier. That was a lifetime ago, those heady days immediately after he finished his doctorate degree in social dynamics. That was back when he thought he'd used his education to his advantage. In fact, soon after he'd finished his seven year curriculum, he had gigs ranging from writing an original thesis to talks at virtual conferences and even a one-week stay in the Adirondacks as a seminar leader.<br />
<br />
But none of that would matter when a judicial type got hold of his case. Those algorithms were fierce. They weighed. They assessed. They measured. Transgressions were evaluated and applied against his Personal Social Account, which were as significant as his IQ or GPA.<br />
<br />
When he was a student, Benny found his Social nearly unchanged from day to day. He went to class. He turned in assignments. He earned points and lost them, all without much effort, it seemed.<br />
<br />
Then life happened. A slip in attention and he earned a "dig" by crossing the street against a traffic signal. He got caught not exercising "expected politeness" when boarding a tram. There were many ways to earn demerits. They piled up.<br />
<br />
Somehow, he'd ventured into forbidden social territory and made a terrible mistake.<br />
<br />
He didn't know what cues he'd missed with Gloria Deel. They'd had a virtual date and he thought she'd enjoyed it as much as he. His avatar reported back with glowing recommendations about what to do next. Possibly a dinner via holo-plane, he in his apartment and she in hers. Maybe followed by a meet-up. The avatar presented a bright green future since they belonged to the same peer group.<br />
<br />
They both worked at the State Street Emporium, a shopping mall of pop-ups, some holographic and some material, four stories deep under Chicago's downtown streets and another four stories tall above. Benny often admired Gloria zipping through the aisles on some mercantile mission. Once, they worked together setting up display cases. It was that experience that led to the virtual date during which their avatars exchanged viewpoints.<br />
<br />
Its success prompted Benny to craft a media clip recounting the date. Tinkling glasses and catchy music provided aural highlights. The lighting was soft and dreamy, but not seductive. It wasn't meant to entice Gloria to be open to suggestion.<br />
<br />
Where had he made his mistake? Benny wondered. How could he escape punishment? Most of the tube-pods that whisked commuters in and out of the city were liberally swept by robotic monitors. He'd be scanned when he boarded. If he evaded that trap, he'd have to deal with iris readers in the ceiling at the stations along the route. If he could tube-it north, he'd hire a self-driving car to traverse the interstate and get out of Illinois. How many dozens of electric eyes would he need to duck under to get that far?<br />
<br />
What if he did make it to the Milwaukee Collective, he mused as he pondered his situation. They might not mind the demerits in his account. Outside of Chicago, transgressions such as the one he committed weren't considered crimes. They were just mistakes that could be chalked up to enthusiasm, excused as an excess of youth.<br />
<br />
Lingering at Union Station, head down to avoid sensors in the walls or ceiling, an old time Cubs baseball cap pulled down so it partially obscured his eyes, Benny took stock of the situation for the umpteenth time. If he ran, he might attract attention and be tackled by some do-gooder type who needed the Samaritan points. If he walked like he had nothing to hide, he'd certainly run into a cop on the beat scanning for a quick arrest. No matter what he did, he was bound to be caught trying to board a northbound pod, and considering that his residence was on the Near South Side, he'd raise suspicion.<br />
<br />
He knew what his dad would have told him. He should turn himself in and deal with the consequences. Dad would tell him he'd get some points for that and, who knows, he might whittle his punishment down to a long weekend pulling weeds along the highway.<br />
<br />
Benny wandered Union Station's cavernous lobby. He knew he should find a police kiosk, pull up his record and plead guilty. He'd failed to follow protocol. Eager to pursue Gloria and capitalize on their virtual date, he'd approached her in person, exhibiting his best boyish grin, and asked her to dinner.<br />
<br />
He'd used words. He'd spoken.<br />
<br />
You should've sent an avatar," Gloria said, her large dark eyes blazing like fired-up coals. "Don't you even know your account balance? You don't have enough points to ask me out. Not like this."<br />
<br />
She turned her back on Benny. She walked away, fuming over the insult and muttering that she had no choice but to file a complaint.<br />
<br />
Benny found a kiosk in a dark corner of Union Station's marble-floored lobby. A private guard glanced sideways at him and he quickly looked into the kiosk's scanner. He didn't want that guard getting credit for collaring him.<br />
<br />
With a sigh, Benny answered the requisite questions, took ownership of Gloria's grievance, and then waited for a uniformed cop to arrest him. Maybe, he mused, Gloria will want to have a real-time date after he finished serving his sentence, though he worried that he'd have no way of asking. His account balance wouldn't be high enough for even an avatar-sent missive.<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>After a long and successful career as a software developer and technical architect, David has turned to a first love: writing fiction of all sorts, especially SF and fantasy.<br />
He's published stories in Phase 2, Farther Stars Than These, SciFan, Martian Wave, Flash Fiction Press , Bonfires and Vanities (an anthology) and other online as well as print magazines.<br />
Visit his web site: <a href="http://www.davidsjournal.com/">http://www.davidsjournal.com</a> to learn more and for links to his Kindle books on Amazon.</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-28130166727273627682019-09-05T00:00:00.000-07:002019-09-05T00:00:02.162-07:009/5/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Silent Memories</b></span> <br />
<i>By Bruce Mundhenke</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
I woke in the night<br />
To look at a star,<br />
Through slats in the window blind,<br />
It's blue-white light had found me,<br />
From a far, far place in space,<br />
And set my mind in motion,<br />
To think of many things.<br />
I wondered if it still was there,<br />
And if its fires still raged,<br />
And did it warm a creature once,<br />
That circled it in space,<br />
And often pondered questions,<br />
When answers never came.<br />
Lived its life and perished,<br />
Was joined to other silent memories,<br />
That were quiet as they grew.<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>Bruce Mundhenke writes poetry and short fiction. He lives in a small town in Illinois.</i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11776875056115596.post-44495387407247786692019-08-29T00:00:00.000-07:002019-08-29T00:00:04.692-07:008/29/19<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Seed to Root</b></span> <br />
<i>By <a href="https://phoebe-wagner.com/">Phoebe Wagner</a></i> <br />
<br />
<br />
On the day you are born, beneath the shade of drought-dead leaves, the families wait, singing and sewing, sawing and painting, as we build your first solar panel, your first solar blanket. The panel is small, light enough on found aluminum cans cut open, folded together, edges softened with bark and moss, for you to carry on your back, a husk like the cicada’s shell that you will shed and expand and learn how sunlight leads to life.<br />
<br />
Like all young ones, the weight of the battery will annoy you. You will want to leave it behind, to run the fields free. We will smile and understand and remember how even laws couldn’t make us change. Now, we teach the word necessity; we teach the story of small things, small changes.<br />
<br />
As your blood parent births, we stain shards with life colors—river brown, juniper blue, mushroom white. We spell what the families will call you until you decide differently. An idea you will see half-consumed in dirt, cloaked in bark, an underthing. A reminder to you and us of the finite. A reminder it is not up to you alone, but as part of a whole.<br />
<br />
Cambium, we taste the word as we stitch and stick the solar shards—cool dark, slow breaths, a hum at the tip of the tongue. Will you go by Cam, or Bi? Cambi, one says. Perhaps.<br />
<br />
For many days, it will be a nonsense word among the languages you construct to name yourself and the world. When you begin to walk, your solar blanket glittering and clinking like chimes, we will take you to a fallen tree and poke into the split trunk.<br />
<br />
Cambium once held this tree high. Cambium helped it grow and green. It’s so small you can’t see it, but combined with sun and water and soil, see what the invisible can do.<br />
<br />
When we walk and tell the story of your name, you will be so young, unable to know summer never ends, the strangeness of hot dark instead of breezy evenings. Only the old ones will tell tales of a different time and you will not understand why they are sad. They will tell how you help them breathe.<br />
<br />
Oh, Cambium, Cambium, we hear you crying, we hear you taking root. Welcome.<br />
<br />
<br />
- - - <br />
<i>Phoebe Wagner holds an MFA in Creative Writing and Environment and currently pursues a PhD from University of Nevada, Reno. Her work has appeared in Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, Nonbinary Review, and 365Tomorrows. </i>E.S. Wynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15003644333290442160noreply@blogger.com0