by David Nell
Robin de Voh
I expected many things after I’d been chosen to be the first human to test FTL travel. Hardships, unplanned miscalculations, dying. What I hadn’t expected was this. Scientists of the best pedigree had instructed me on the specifics of FTL travel. None of them had seemed to consider this a possibility, there had been no mention of it. Yet here I was. And so was I. Staring at one another.
“So, you broke through the dimensional rift in that thing?” I said.
“I guess I did.” I said to myself, glancing sideways to the now burning FTL drive.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Robin de Voh is a young writer from the Netherlands, working mostly in
science fiction and contemporary fiction. Specializes in feeling unworthy compared to his favorite authors.
Gingerbread
Lindsey McLeod
She peeks shyly at him over her control panel. He fumbles innocent, pudgy envelopes, dropped onto her tray, delivered from his squeaking trolley. The ragged sleeves of his sweater dangle over his hands, red hood pushed up to hide his face. After a couple of weeks, she begins to lay a trail of crumbed compliments. He trips awkwardly past her desk, cherub-cheeked, striped and candied. Wholesome. Late at night, she practices her fangless smile in the mirror. Patience. The saccharine smell of success drips from every syllable he stutters. She can’t wait to taste it. Coiled. Before. The. Final.
Strike.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lindsey has been published on several websites including Postcard Shorts and One Forty Fiction. She won the Cazart Short Story prize in February 2012 and was a Runner Up for the Flashbang Crime Fiction 2012 competition. One of her flash fiction stories was featured in Raging Aardvarks ebook anthology for National Flash Fiction Day 2012, and this piece as well as two others are available as a download on the Ether Books mobile app. Recently she was longlisted in the Fish Publishing 2013 Short Story competition. She also has a story on Linguistic Erosion’s website, which was published mid-July.
Accretion
David W. Blackstone
“I can hear it.”
He’d been at it all day, ever since we put him in restraints. Doc said, gently, conversationally, “What’s it saying? We’d like to know too, Eric.”
You don’t see the black hole, you see the dust falling into it. You certainly don’t hear the black hole. Eric stared past us, through us, through the skin of the ship, straight down the throat of the thing. “I’m not supposed to tell you. You’ll think I’m lying.”
“Now, Eric—”
“I have to show you.”
I had the sudden urge to shut down the main drive, just in case.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: David W. Blackstone is a writer and musician from Gaithersburg, Maryland. He is currently working on his fifth collection of flashfiction and drabbles, and can be found tweeting at @DavidWriting.
Judy And The Dream Of Horses
Mike Stasko
The Kool-Aid tickled the back of my throat, and soon the church pew didn’t feel as uncomfortable against my back. The Father finished what was left in the challis, then loosened his grip. My head began to swim and rested on mother’s lap. Darkness came to my eyes but my imagination swept me away to what my new home might look like. A spaceship, inside a comet! Everyone I love would be there, and the Father promised me a pony of my very own. I hope they will have food for my pony up there. I hadn’t thought of that.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Born in Windsor, Ontario, Canada. Holds 3 degrees including an MFA from Columbia University. Currently a Film and Communications professor at The University of Ottawa, Ryerson University and The University of Western. His 3rd feature film entitled “The Birder” is being released in theatres this Fall, starring Tom Cavanagh, Graham Greene and Fred Willard. 2 dogs, Hooch and Nali.
Countdown
Frederic Himebaugh
TEN
I gotta be the luckiest man alive. Hundreds
NINE
applied for this mission, for the privilege of spending
EIGHT
eight whole months in space, alone with the most
SEVEN
beautiful – oh wait! I feel her eyes on me,
SIX
those spooky pale eyes drilling right into me,
FIVE
and she is smiling at me now, the sweetest smile
FOUR
in all of Space Patrol (it is sweet, yet confident,
THREE
almost predatory) and now her lips part, her canines
TWO
extend, mouth wide, jaw unhinged, that cannot be human –
ONE
Stop the launch! Abort! Abort! Abort! Abort! Abo-
BLASTOFF
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Fred Himebaugh spends his days immersed in classic fiction from the pulp era, which explains everything. He edits the Protecting Project Pulp Podcast and has contributed to its sister podcast, the Hugo Award-winning StarShipSofa, as an author, reviewer, songwriter, and narrator. His latest SF song “Abraham Lincoln Was an Invader from Space” can be heard on Youtube, and his story “Fingers” will appear in issue #20 of Fusion Fragment.
The Statue
Steve Newton
I should have known better. It’s easy to say that, but this was one of those times when I really should not have opened a box delivered to my house by a company I had never heard of. The return address was Romania, from a place with so many consonants in its name that it twisted my tongue just to read it. But I made the classic blunder of the curious and opened the box. I then unwrapped the little statue that was inside. What happened after that? It doesn’t really matter, does it? It will all be over soon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Steve Newton is Associate Professor of English at William PatersonUniversity in Wayne, New Jersey. He was a Fulbright Scholar in 2005-06 at the Institute for American Studies at the University of Graz in Austria. As a younger man he pumped gas in Alamosa, Colorado, drove a fork lift in a cement factory in Cleveland, was a nightshift janitor a the Grand Ole Opry, and one memorable Christmas was Santa Claus in a shopping mall outside Nashville.
When I Get You Alone
Lena Smoot
The monster awoke, wings soggy with amniotic fluid and blood. It raised itself and looked around, not wanting to be alone.
“I’ll find my mother,” it decided, leaving its cave.
“Are you my mother?” it asked a tree. The tree was silent.
It saw a farmer. “Are you my mother?” The farmer screamed then fled.
The monster saw a bird, admiring its wings. “Are you my mother?”
“No, but I can be.” The bird taught the monster to fly. They flew for hours until the monster got hungry.
Then the monster was alone again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lena Smoot is an aspiring writer and avid television watcher who works in book publishing.
The Thought Process
Mary Berman
The Researchers had built a computer that mimicked the human brain.
It loomed, and the Board Members stared blankly at it. A fierce delicate spark snapped. Someone jumped.
Begrudgingly, the Chairman asked how it worked, aware that the information would be as incomprehensible as high school algebra.
The Department Head explained, “We used nanoprocessors and circuits as neurons and synapses, forcing the computer to think in parallels instead of sequences.”
“What does it think?”
“What we tell it to.”
“But how does it work differently from a human brain?”
The Department Head smiled. “It doesn’t.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mary Berman studies Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University and attended the 26th Annual Rutgers-Camden Writers Conference in 2012. My work has been published in eFantasy Magazine and Thoroughfare.
A Star Isn’t Born
Carly Berg
I thumbed to Tijuana, to the doctor who stuffed that woman with octuplets. “More than eight. I want a TV show.”
<
br /> “Problemas! No mas humanitos.”
I rummaged through vials. Eels. Watermelon. “Cats, then.”
He paused un momento, measured my hips with his hands. “Calf.”
“E-I-E-I-Okay!”
Nine months later, Cow-Ann was produced. She called me and everything else “Moo.”
A newslady came.
I showed our pasture and how my kid gave milk.
“Breeding shows are overdone,” she said.
I only got a quick spot, sponsored by Prairie Farms, titled “Don’t Have a Cow.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Carly Berg is a dark cloud hovering over sunny Houston. Her stories appear in several dozen journals and anthologies, including Stupefying Stories, Word Riot, Bartleby Snopes, and PANK. She can be found here:http://www.carlyberg.com/index.html
So
John Harrower
So. It’s here. The Zombie Apocalypse. We’re ready for it. We’ve been ready for ages. A million stories prepared us well. When the news came in, we rejoiced. Then we gathered up our shotguns and machetes. We donned hockey masks and black camo painted eyes. And we took to the streets, revelling in the carnage. We forgot the rules of society and let loose. Roaming bands of vigilantes hacked them apart gleefully. Each one was a hero to himself. We beheaded and incinerated them all. Then went back to life. Like it hadn’t happened. And we’re heroes. Aren’t we? Forgotten.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: John Harrower lives in Glasgow, drudging up bad vibes from the Clyde and the sectarianism. He’d quite like something to happen soon, ideally the end of the world. It could be Revelation or Ragnarok, he isn’t fussy. Just once he’d like to see some honest to God immolation.
Object Lesson
Jennifer Wardell
She was the type fools wrote poems about. Waverly, no fool, offered a handkerchief for her tears. “Of course I’ll help you.”
“Oh, thank you, kind sir.” She batted her lashes. “However can I repay you?”
“Monetarily, I’m afraid.”
“Fine.” She reached for her purse. “I have gold.”
“I know.” He flicked back her ringlet, revealing a pointed ear. “Faerie gold is legendary.”
“It’s the only coin I have.”
“I prefer knowledge.” Waverly smiled. “Give me a way to make my own faerie gold.”
Her delighted laugh was inhuman.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jenniffer Wardell is a journalist and fantasy novelist. Her first book, “Fairy Godmothers, Inc.,” is out now. Her second book, “Beast Charming,” will be released by Jolly Fish Press in Fall 2014.
The Replacements
Mike Epifani
He was on a motorcycle, losing control, skidding towards a highway safety rail, then gagged and bound, being lowered into a vat of bubbling acid. They put him in front of a beautiful woman leaning into a kiss, then on the sidewalk while a car barrels toward a stroller, then at his mother’s funeral.
They stood around him, a dozen hairless sapiens, all staring, unblinking, registering, computing, rationalizing. They were gauging instincts, first reactions, emotions, loyalty, and importance. They were studying a human being, flushing him through a hyperrealistic and dreamlike cerebral strain until he broke, snapped, shattered, and was replaced.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mike Epifani moved from Syracuse, NY to Chicago to attend Columbia College with a focus in Creative Writing. He currently lives in Chicago writing, doing stand-up comedy, and waiting tables. He has been published in Pure Slush, Smashed Cat, Flashes in the Dark, and others. He is also the winner of Press 53’s 53 Word Story Contest. His largest inspirations are Bradbury, Scorsese, Vonnegut, and C.K.
The Franchise
Ross Baxter
With a yawn Gabriel rose stiffly from his couch at the rear of the flight-deck and commenced his approach checks. An image of a planet flickered on the screen. He peered closely but did not recognise it.
The scanners filtered the multitude of requests, leaving just the worthy appeals. Half a dozen simple “miracles” were all he needed to do, and he completed this task quickly. His job done, Gabriel set course for the long journey to the next planet, wondering what it would take to transfer this blue and mottled world to the franchise of his friend Lucifer.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Ross Baxter has been published in print and Kindle by a number of publishing houses in the United States and the UK. After thirty years at sea he now lives in Derby, England. Ross’s author page can be found at www.amazon.co.uk.
Before You Squash That Fly, Consider The Following
Herman Sanchez
John found himself stuck against some sort of canvas. He glanced around, realising he was upside-down. He couldn’t be in the correct place, given he was supposed to be with Abraham Lincoln, changing history; he had set his time machine for 1865. Of course, it was an experimental time machine, but it was supposed to work.
Clearly not, he pondered.
To his shock, a giant human was waving a hand upward, towards him.
John tried frantically to stop the giant. “Buzzzzzz,” was all he could say, however.
Indeed, he was a fly.
That being the case, he got squished.
Look, Look!
Timmy Jones
Watch this. Did you see it? Watch carefully this time.
There, I did it again. See anything? No?
Will I tell you what I’m doing?
I’m teleporting.
Hence why I have your watch right now in my possession. Special, aren’t I?
Well, the people on the Internet say so, people who have similar powers. They say we’re all special. One guy said he managed to steal a billion dollars from the Federal Reserve. He says that’s why America is in debt, because he keeps stealing from them. But that’s bullcrap.
There, I just did it again! Did you see it?
Taking Control
Elizabeth Archer
At five p.m., Captain Thomas relinquished his command and blew out his brains with his blaster in the elevation portal. Red brain matter dripped, forming an abstract mural of grief.
Lieutenant Jones assumed his new challenge. No escaping the yellow sphere that filled the viewing shield. Battleship Victory was hurtling toward it, engines whining as they approached their functional limits. Twenty seconds to certain death. Nineteen seconds to certain death. Jones stood before the control deck, frozen. His mind raced for an answer.
“Dinner’s ready,” said Jones’s mother, switching off the internet. “You can finish your game later.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Elizabeth Archer has published some flash, and short stories and poetry. She lives in Texas.
Homecoming
E. Thomas Petrie
White arches stand in mute glory above my head, but grass peeks through the once perfect stone path. Moss grows on statues and in crevices of columns. The air, once sweet with incense, smells like mud.
Mother told me they abandoned the temple during wartime. I came anyway, treading in standard issue boots down paths where once I wore sandals.
I reach to touch the slick green hands of a saint, recalling the day I received conscription papers. I’d longed for action and adventure – to see the galaxy.
Now I long for the quiet peace of my old home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: E. Thomas Petrie has been reading and writing science fiction and fantasy since childhood. She has not previously been published.
To The Victor, History
Ray Yanek
Among the stone and scent of books can he cry.
Here can he press the point of his sword into the hollow of his throat and consider ending a line of kings.
A book tumbles to the floor, landing pages up. Vapors of ink waft to the ceiling and congeal into a majestic spirit. Here is a true king, he thinks, drawn with smooth lines and shaded with majesty, not with blood and brutality.
The ink spirit turns and he sees his own face hovering in the air.
He lowers his sword, entranced now by the
power of the pen.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Ray Yanek has taught English on the high school and college level for the past 18 years. He’s published in Sorcerous Signals and blogs at the Writing the Rails, which can be found at www.rayyanek.wordpress.com. He is currently working on creating an impressive list of publication credits he will someday put right here.
Baking A Storm
Rachel Green
A purse of waves, flotsam from a drowned galley and the vapour of a boiled sea. Hera stirred the ingredients together, blowing across the mixture as it turned the colour of beaten steel. She reached to the shelves above her stove, selecting an eye from basilisk jar and a memory of the kraken.
She carried the bowl to the map room where her husband pored over the game in progress and upended the contents over the Aegean. The mixture dropped through the surface of the playing board.
Zeus frowned as the sea began to roil. “Hera? What have you done?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Rachel Green is a forty-something writer from Derbyshire, England. She lives with her two partners and three dogs. She has written a succession of novels in the mythic town of Laverstone. www.leatherdyke.co.uk is a portal site to her books and blogs. She can also be found on Facebook (Rachel Green) and Twitter (@leatherdykeuk).
Portal
Erik R. Van Asch
A crackle of electricity preceded a pinhole of magenta that formed and floated in midair before me. Through the ancient ritual I continued to chant the long lost mathematical formulas. Within moments the pinhole grew into a ring of energy, which then grew to the size of a doorway. A doorway I was unprepared for and dared not step through, just yet. The days that followed, my peers treated me with outrage and disdain. They claimed I had forsaken true science for cheap parlor tricks worthy of Vegas. Ignoring their jealous denials, I didn’t hesitate the second time. What wonders!
