by David Nell
The sound of gluttonous feasting.
He is coming, upward, ever upward.
The light above, blinding.
I stagger.
Fall.
He is coming, ever upward.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Chris White is a writer (obviously.) He seems to specialise in speculative fiction and sci-fi, although this may be accidental. He pours out flurries of flash fiction and short stories on his blog:http://chriswhitewrites.com.
Leidenfrost’s Portal
Lance Manion
The portal was ready.
The people were lined up.
The people at the controls sat ready.
“Don’t let the fact that it appears that you are walking off a ledge into a vat of molten lead dissuade you.”
The volunteers shuffled forward.
They were told a paradise awaited on the other side. The only catch? Only the most gullible people would make it to the other side. The lucky ones.
“Once you arrive on the other side there will be people to show you where to begin your new life.”
What kind of an idiot would believe that?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lance Manion is the author of four short story collection; Merciful Flush, Results May Vary, The Ball Washer his latest one Homosayswhaticus. He contributes to many online flash fiction sites and blogs daily on his website www.lancemanion.com . He finds the na at the end of banana as annoying as you would if it were bananana.
Shattered Dreams
Schevus Osborne
A welcoming world filled the void outside the ship. Its verdant forests and pale oceans beckoned to Surran. An indescribable numbness filled his heart as the world slipped past, its potential unrealized, and his fate all but sealed.
While he was in stasis, the ship had passed through a freak asteroid cloud. The damage was too severe to perform the aerobraking necessary to stop the ship. Surran entered his commands and returned to his stasis pod. Hopefully someone or something would find them before the ship lost power. If not, Surran made sure his would be the last pod terminated.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Schevus is an aspiring writer trying to find his way while desperately beating back the demands of real life.
Red Moons
Joel Blumenau
Beldo’s hearts both beat in sync with the pulse of the dual red moons in the porthole. He landed the craft with gentle precision. The hope of the journey away from their doomed planet was the last gift he could offer.
He stepped out. The strange plants crunched beneath his boot.
“It’s beautiful,” Felsha said. He looked back at her.
The ink black sea shifted deeply. A massive wave, like Beldo had seen in the satellite images, formed in the distance.
There was a stirring behind his wife. Only he knew that this was the end, not a beginning.
“Momma?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Joel Blumenau has been writing, drawing and shooting photos for decades to great self-acclaim. He only recently began showing his work to other people, reactions be damned, and self-published a novel he wrote 25 years ago called Jerzey. He lives in the suburbs of Chicago with his wife, two daughters and a nervous dog.
Barbarian At The Gate
Chuck Von Nordheim
The barbarian limped to the rampart around Time Gate city. A stolen thumb tricked its checkpoint. He dragged two caskets.
Even in their refuge, the air stank. The barbarian chuckled at the persistent hum of their machines.
The embarkation center telltales blinked green for go. Scavenged eyes tricked its checkpoints.
He centered the caskets beneath the Time Gate lenses. Each contained enough barbarian DNA to clone many tribes.
He dialed back the target year. City-dwellers never turned off their tech. But his people would greet them in the past and teach them better. The air would stay sweet this time.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Chuck lives outside of Dayton, Ohio, but spends his summers taking courses at the Center for the Study of Science Fiction in Lawrence, Kansas. His work has appeared in Daily Science Fiction and Tales of the Talisman, among other venues.
Reset
Jessica Alden
The dune shifted and the last grains sloughed off.
Not magic, sunlight; after centuries, sunlight was better.
Clutching a tattered pouch in one hand, I climbed from the tunnel. Wind shushed crashing waves. Clouds collected rain. The detritus of life was gone, eaten away or buried deep. Earth had carried on after everything died.
Somehow, of everything that had lived, I was what crawled from the ooze to begin again.
I’d survived on magic, but now I cast it off; it wasn’t Earth’s burden to bear. I took the first seed from my pouch and pressed it into the soil.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: A graduate of the University of Florida and Johns Hopkins University, Jessica Alden has lived in many places along the eastern seaboard. Currently, she lives and writes in Maryland. When she’s not writing, Jessica hunts down adventure. From hiking to scuba diving to traveling the world, if it’s new or exciting, she’s up for it.
Judgment Day
Nick Johns
“We must control them, take responsibility for what our latest creations have done.”
“But these latest ones are different. They’re so close. They may yet succeed.”
“We’ve waited overlong, at your bidding.”
“They’ve created things of beauty, of power; they stand on the cusp of infinity.”
“They’re dangerous. Unchecked, they’ll poison the whole system; they can no longer share our world.”
“Their culture will surely soon mature. Then they’ll live in balance with their environment, as we do.”
“Enough! The pods have communed and decided. We’ll purge the Earth of men, as we did of dinosaurs. Prepare another asteroid strike.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Nick Johns lives in Wellingborough UK. Since retiring from a life of crime, he has turned to writing flash fiction. Some of his work appears in Blink Ink, Ether Books, Burrst.com and onAmazon. Some of his tiny tales can be found at on his blog at http://talesfromatightrope.blogspot.co.uk He sometimes tweets @nickjohns999. He is definitely not working on a novel – his or anyone else’s.
Library Day
Cheryl A. Warner
The old woman bends over a decaying palm frond, sweeping the dry earth with its crackling fingers. The edges of a red cross are revealed with each tired sweep.
Just beyond the red stained ground gathers a horde of dusty bodies. Most clutch a worn book in their fingers, sweat staining the bindings. The woman sweeps faster as the air begins to stir around her. She ducks away just as the ship lowers its belly onto the makeshift landing pad. Casting aside the palm frond, she pulls a book faded by the sun from her tunic.
Today is library day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Cheryl A. Warner lives and writes in Silicon Valley with her husband and two super-dogs, Lois and Clark. She has been published in Swamp Biscuits and Tea and Luna Station Quarterly among others and is also a slush reader for Clarkesworld Magazine. She blogs about her writing and reading habits at http://cherylawarner.com.
Twinkles
John Rathbone Taylor
Bonerath gazed into the mirror and thought, “I’m surely an Eternal Reflectionist. How miraculous that this before me started as a twinkle! Then that twinkle became a sperm. But that sperm, with an egg, became a foetus. Then that foetus became a child. Then that child became a man. Then this man beheld a woman. But that beholding begat another twinkle, and then another Bonerath.”
He stared skywards, musing, “Maybe I’m more of a Then-Buttist?”
“Or a twinkle to come, in the cosmos,” the Stars contested.
The mirror had the last word: “Reflect. Man’s merely a Thrice Upon a Time-ist!”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Over the years John Rathbone Taylor travelled, off the beaten track, around many parts of the planet - with a rucksack, a camera, curiosity and a smile. In pa
rallel, he has made a living by journeying through life with social purpose, education and hard graft (working mainly as a senior manager in charities and local government). He has interests varying from Communist politics to Ancient Indian chanting. He has recently made a transition from writing business plans to writing fiction. He is a member of ‘The Garret’ - a Sheffield-based writers’ group led by the author Simon Crump. Over the last 18 months he has written a number of 100 word drabbles, mostly in a philosophical and humourous style. He is interested in comedic-absurdist writing and has had a short-story in this genre published on ‘Beat the Dust’, a website for new and experimental writing (and he has been asked to produce a second one). He is also working on a (non-absurdist) novel, which is based around the idea of a meeting and gesture between two strangers having extraordinary consequences for a number of people 20 years later.
Jury Rig
Dave Elsensohn
He’ll find us! she yelps, hopping to keep the swarm of amber ants from devouring her exposed feet. She keeps the binocs glued to her brow with one arm, hugs herself with the other despite the sun.
I know. Shut up, he growls around the wrench in his teeth. The ants dislike the scent of the steely fluid dripping into the sand, so leave him alone. Angry clanks sound from the aged skimmer. Try it now.
She jabs the starter. The cell whines, wheezes, roars alive; he scurries out from the billowing undercloak.
They leap in; salvation lies somewhere ahead.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: David Elsensohn tries daily to coax language into pleasing arrangements. He makes fairly good sandwiches, however, and his chili recipe brings appreciative nods from friends. He lives in Los Angeles with an inspirational wife and a curmudgeonly black cat.
The Quiet Moments
Robert Lowell Russell
“You want to get married?” DeSilva’s voice crackled through her helmet’s comm. “We share a bunk now and then, Foley. That doesn’t make it love.”
“But when I wake and you’re there, I feel warm,” said Foley.
“It’ll never work.”
“When it’s time to do the job, we do the job. I’m only asking for the quiet moments.”
Outside the viewport, the atmosphere glowed orange. A roar built around the dropship’s hull.
“There’s more hostiles waiting for us down there than Tactical told us,” said DeSilva. “Foley…” She squeezed her armored hand around his gauntlet. “Ask me again after, OK?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Robert Lowell Russell, a native Texan, lives with his family in southeastern Ohio. He is a former librarian and current nursing student. He once aspired to be a history professor, but found writing about the real world too constraining. Rob likes to write about all sorts of things but frequently includes action and humor in his work. Not satisfied with writing stories of questionable content for adults, he’s also started work on series of middle-grade books incorporating his love of not-so-super-heroes and toilet-humor. For links to more of Rob’s stories (or to see him dressed like a ninja) visit: robertlowellrussell.blogspot.com.
The Baggage Handler
Andrew Patch
He booted back in, the Tourist having checked out earlier than expected. An unfamiliar weight made him look down to a handgun in his grip. Screams of passers-by assailed him, undoubtedly caused by the three bodies lying on the pavement before him.
Each killed by a single gunshot to the head.
What the hell? Tourists couldn’t use Baggage Handlers for anything criminal. Christ, even the desire to do something illegal forced an immediate eject.
Yet here he was, stood over three dead men in the centre of London.
Sirens pierced the screams, getting closer.
He dropped the gun and fled.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Andrew Patch originates from the UK, but currently finds himself living in Brisbane. A Lover of film, philosophy and The The, Andrew spends his non-writing time collecting vague impulses and desires. You can follow him on Twitter @imageronin.
The Umbran City
D.L. Smith-Lee
By way of an interdimensional portal, the sorceress Amina accessed our world from Nostras, her world. Five days passed since she flooded the metropolis called Chicago in darkness and erected her mountainous tower at the city’s core. Commanding minions of the flesh and bones of the fallen, she was unstoppable. Distracted in her glory, Kai, the holy sage, unleashed his army and challenged her unexpectedly. Kai and Amina fought for days but in the end Amina beheaded Kai and his army lost their power. She held his head high for the world to see, giving birth to the Umbran City.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: D.L. Smith-Lee was born in a suburb of Chicago called Harvey, Illinois. Since the age of nine he has been an insatiable writer, reader, and video gamer. Hoping to flood the Earth in the dreamworlds of fantasy, he writes for escape from reality and the love of writing. He currently resides in Virginia, where he serves in the US Navy.
Preferences
Caitlin Sinead Jennings
My toes curl over the edge of the wooden plank. Splinters snuggle. I wish for any other breed of execution. Give me the elves’ fatal pinpricks. Let my brain rattle into madness from the fearsome fairies’ devious conundrums. Please, hang me by the great spiders’ sinewy threads. Grant me the privilege of seeing the giants’ grins before their fists pummel me.
I want anything but this.
They know that.
That is why a vat of vindictive vermin broils below. That is why hot droplets spew and slap my feet. That is why fingertips rest on my back, ready to push.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Caitlin Sinead Jennings has a master’s degree in writing from Johns Hopkins University. She lives in Alexandria, Virginia with her husband and tweets about writing, reading, and whatnot at @CaitlinSineadJ.
Sleeping Beauty
Berti Walker
“If I cannot have your love, neither shall he,” the scientist promised.
He could never spill her blood. This would have to do. The cryoprotectants were in order, to prevent the forming of ice on her tantalizing skin. He set the date on the cryonic chamber. “100 years, you’ll sleep.” He stole the kiss that she would never give him and stayed by her side until the temperature reached 77.15 Kelvin.
“When you awaken, everything you loved shall be gone. You’ve stolen my hope. And now I take yours.” He opened his mouth, inserted the muzzle, and pulled the trigger.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Berti Walker is an author and artist; a creator of unusual things. She is not yet arrogant enough to write a pretentious bio, but will be when she grows up. Stalk her on twitter @BertiWalker. Maybe she’ll stalk you back.
Enclosure
Theodore Kanbe
For the most part, the aliens were nice. They let us roam in enclosed pastures and they gave us almost enough cloths to split between us. I was put in an enclosure with 99 other people, none of which I knew. None of them spoke English except me. Well, there was a baby who might have but he couldn’t talk; he just cried and pooped a lot. There were diapers but he didn’t get any. When the clothes were dropped, I fought for and won a pair of women’s panties. It was the greatest and happiest day of my life.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Theodore Kanbe is a graduate of the CSSF Speculative Writer’s Workshop at the University of Kansas and has work forthcoming from Strange Horizons.
Envy
Regan W.H. Macaulay
She heaves a sigh, and clutches a cricket between her finger and her thumb. It wriggles for its life, which will end shortly.
She is the woman at the end of the universe and her time will never come. They are the creatures she looks after: the last Moca salamander, a pair of Bumble Frungit toads, a Royal Fish from New Siam, and three nameless mammals. They eat all that’s left to eat – crickets.
A Frungit toad laps the cricket from her fingers. Squish. He gulps. The cricket is gone. The woman’s envy swells inside her like an angry flame.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Regan is an art-fart and an animal-ent
husiast who loves New Zealand, Winnie-the-Pooh, horror movies and a few select individuals. Writing is her passion, but she’s also into producing and directing theatre, film, and television. When she’s not writing or spending time with her husband, writer Kevin Risk, she spends quality time with her pets (a Chihuahua, two Siamese cats and a few frogs and toads). Regan is also a Certified Canine Massage Therapist. For previous writing credits, please visit her website at reganwhmacaulay.weebly.com.
PWNED
Christina Scholz
You’re all slaves to technology, 10n said.
He dropped his bag (spilling cables) on my desk.
What are you doing?
Dunno. Going into the woods. Th0re4u like.
He hugged me, didn’t meet my eyes, stormed out. My head was spinning. My best friend, whom I’d always emulated, and without whom I’d be lost – he’d get lost himself. I couldn’t tell him how I knew. I’d never told him my real name, which didn‘t contain any numbers. I pressed my eyes shut (tears would corrode my implants), fingering the datajack in my left wrist whose fitting I’d dug with broken glass.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Christina Scholz taught herself to read at the age of three and has never really stopped since. She reads everything from science fiction to cereal boxes, some of which ends up influencing her own stories. Christina lives in Graz, Austria, where she is currently working on her PhD thesis on China Miévilles fiction and spending her free time touring alien event sites. She has written articles for Alluvium and Infinite Earths. Once she conducted a successful spring faerie exorcism via Twitter. You can take a look at her view of the world at phoenixdreaming.wordpress.com.
Found In Space
