THE BIG SWAP
By Michael A. Kechula
In January, 2011, ten thousand UFO sightings were reported in the United States. The same month, over twenty thousand Americans reported they’d been abducted by Martians. After several days of captivity, all were returned to Earth. When questioned by the FBI, they claimed they were examined by strange looking creatures, then shown to the Emperor of Mars. They said the Emperor spoke to them through translating machines. The Emperor boasted he would soon conquer Earth.
Considering the seriousness of the abductees’ statements, the government insisted they take lie detector tests. Results showed all had spoken the truth. Consequently, President Kirk was convinced that Martians would soon invade Earth.
During an emergency cabinet meeting, Kirk said, "I’m preparing a message for transmission to Mars to arrange a meeting with the Emperor. We’ve must find a way to prevent interplanetary war.”
Kirk conferred with leaders of the Amalgamated Nations. All agreed with his conclusion and the content of the message he wanted to transmit to the Emperor. They selected Kirk to represent the interests of every nation on Earth.
Two hours after Kirk’s message was transmitted to Mars, he received a reply. The Emperor agreed to meet him in Roswell, New Mexico, site of the first Martian landing in America.
They met on the field where a Martian flying saucer crashed in 1947, killing its occupants. After an Army band played the national anthems of both planets, the Emperor laid a wreath to honor the aliens who died on that very spot.
“Let’s get down to business,” Kirk said. “I understand you intend to invade our planet. Why would you do such a thing?”
“I have no choice,” said the Emperor. “My astronomers discovered a comet twice the size of the Sun heading toward my planet. It will strike us and destroy everything. I must relocate all my subjects. Our surveys indicate that your planet would be best for us. I suggest you surrender now.”
“And if we do, what will happen to the billions that inhabit this planet?”
The Emperor didn’t answer.
A shaken but poker-faced President said, “Surrender is not an option. When will the collision occur?”
“In one hundred years, three months, two weeks, and five days. You can understand the need for us to occupy your planet very soon when you consider the logistical nightmare I’m faced with.”
“Instead of invading us, which would cause extensive bloodshed on both sides, let’s compromise.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Suppose we trade planets?” asked Kirk. “Relocate all your subjects to Earth, and we’ll move our entire population to your planet.”
“You’d do that, knowing that my planet will be destroyed?”
“Yes. We’d have to borrow lots of your flying saucers to transport our people to your planet. To sweeten the deal, I’ll ensure that every building on Earth is left intact when we leave. That way, your subjects could move right in when they arrive. Think of the savings you’ll realize by avoiding construction costs. What do you have to lose? You’ll gain Earth, a planet that has a bright future, while we’ll face a dismal future and certain annihilation.”
“It’s a deal,” said the Emperor.
The Emperor became a hero to his subjects for obtaining such a fabulous concession from Earth. They snickered, calling Earthlings weak and stupid for giving up their beautiful planet without a fight.
In contrast, Kirk’s popularity plummeted 95%. Many around the globe said he’d made a lousy deal. Several attempts were made on his life.
Kirk appeared on TV to assure the world’s masses. “It’s not all that bad. True, we'll have to live in caves formerly occupied by Martians. That will take a bit of adjustment, considering their stench. And we'll have a hundred years to find a way to save our new home planet from destruction. With our intelligence and ingenuity, I’m sure we’ll find a way and live happily ever after.”
During the rest of 2011 and most of 2012, both planets undertook the massive project of swapping their entire populations.
On December 20, 2012, ceremonies were held on Mars and Earth to celebrate the successful end of the project.
The next day, President Kirk spoke on TV to all Earthlings now living on Mars.
“I’d like to thank all of you for your cooperation. The tremendously complex relocation project has been completed on schedule, on budget, and without casualties. On behalf of the Relocated Amalgamated Nations, I’d like to offer my profound thanks to the Emperor for his cooperation and for lending us thousands of flying saucers to transport our population to Mars. The leaders of the Relocated Amalgamated Nations and I wish to invite you to participate in a ceremony tonight, when we will salute our former planet for the last time. If you’ll participate in this historical event, please leave your caves at 7:45 and face in the direction of Earth. At exactly 8:00 PM, we’ll wave goodbye. Afterward, all government agencies will begin brainstorming sessions to figure out how we can save our new planet from destruction.”
At 7:45, Earthlings all across Mars left their caves to assemble for the ceremony.
A few minutes before 8:00, Kirk transmitted a final message to the Emperor, thanking him for avoiding war and conducting a peaceful swap. The last line of Kirk’s message said, “Your Highness, on this the twenty-first day of December, in the year 2012, I wonder if you ever heard of the Mayans and their prophecy about this very day?”
“Who were the Mayans?” asked the Emperor, as Earthlings waved goodbye to Earth.
Suddenly, Earth exploded with a tremendous roar that was heard throughout the entire Solar System.
Raising his middle finger in a gesture of defiance, Kirk said, “Well, as you just found out, the Mayans were a helluva lot smarter than you and your freakin’ astronomers.”
- - -
Michael A. Kechula’s fiction has been published by 128 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s authored 3 books: "A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales,” “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
By Michael A. Kechula
In January, 2011, ten thousand UFO sightings were reported in the United States. The same month, over twenty thousand Americans reported they’d been abducted by Martians. After several days of captivity, all were returned to Earth. When questioned by the FBI, they claimed they were examined by strange looking creatures, then shown to the Emperor of Mars. They said the Emperor spoke to them through translating machines. The Emperor boasted he would soon conquer Earth.
Considering the seriousness of the abductees’ statements, the government insisted they take lie detector tests. Results showed all had spoken the truth. Consequently, President Kirk was convinced that Martians would soon invade Earth.
During an emergency cabinet meeting, Kirk said, "I’m preparing a message for transmission to Mars to arrange a meeting with the Emperor. We’ve must find a way to prevent interplanetary war.”
Kirk conferred with leaders of the Amalgamated Nations. All agreed with his conclusion and the content of the message he wanted to transmit to the Emperor. They selected Kirk to represent the interests of every nation on Earth.
Two hours after Kirk’s message was transmitted to Mars, he received a reply. The Emperor agreed to meet him in Roswell, New Mexico, site of the first Martian landing in America.
They met on the field where a Martian flying saucer crashed in 1947, killing its occupants. After an Army band played the national anthems of both planets, the Emperor laid a wreath to honor the aliens who died on that very spot.
“Let’s get down to business,” Kirk said. “I understand you intend to invade our planet. Why would you do such a thing?”
“I have no choice,” said the Emperor. “My astronomers discovered a comet twice the size of the Sun heading toward my planet. It will strike us and destroy everything. I must relocate all my subjects. Our surveys indicate that your planet would be best for us. I suggest you surrender now.”
“And if we do, what will happen to the billions that inhabit this planet?”
The Emperor didn’t answer.
A shaken but poker-faced President said, “Surrender is not an option. When will the collision occur?”
“In one hundred years, three months, two weeks, and five days. You can understand the need for us to occupy your planet very soon when you consider the logistical nightmare I’m faced with.”
“Instead of invading us, which would cause extensive bloodshed on both sides, let’s compromise.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Suppose we trade planets?” asked Kirk. “Relocate all your subjects to Earth, and we’ll move our entire population to your planet.”
“You’d do that, knowing that my planet will be destroyed?”
“Yes. We’d have to borrow lots of your flying saucers to transport our people to your planet. To sweeten the deal, I’ll ensure that every building on Earth is left intact when we leave. That way, your subjects could move right in when they arrive. Think of the savings you’ll realize by avoiding construction costs. What do you have to lose? You’ll gain Earth, a planet that has a bright future, while we’ll face a dismal future and certain annihilation.”
“It’s a deal,” said the Emperor.
The Emperor became a hero to his subjects for obtaining such a fabulous concession from Earth. They snickered, calling Earthlings weak and stupid for giving up their beautiful planet without a fight.
In contrast, Kirk’s popularity plummeted 95%. Many around the globe said he’d made a lousy deal. Several attempts were made on his life.
Kirk appeared on TV to assure the world’s masses. “It’s not all that bad. True, we'll have to live in caves formerly occupied by Martians. That will take a bit of adjustment, considering their stench. And we'll have a hundred years to find a way to save our new home planet from destruction. With our intelligence and ingenuity, I’m sure we’ll find a way and live happily ever after.”
During the rest of 2011 and most of 2012, both planets undertook the massive project of swapping their entire populations.
On December 20, 2012, ceremonies were held on Mars and Earth to celebrate the successful end of the project.
The next day, President Kirk spoke on TV to all Earthlings now living on Mars.
“I’d like to thank all of you for your cooperation. The tremendously complex relocation project has been completed on schedule, on budget, and without casualties. On behalf of the Relocated Amalgamated Nations, I’d like to offer my profound thanks to the Emperor for his cooperation and for lending us thousands of flying saucers to transport our population to Mars. The leaders of the Relocated Amalgamated Nations and I wish to invite you to participate in a ceremony tonight, when we will salute our former planet for the last time. If you’ll participate in this historical event, please leave your caves at 7:45 and face in the direction of Earth. At exactly 8:00 PM, we’ll wave goodbye. Afterward, all government agencies will begin brainstorming sessions to figure out how we can save our new planet from destruction.”
At 7:45, Earthlings all across Mars left their caves to assemble for the ceremony.
A few minutes before 8:00, Kirk transmitted a final message to the Emperor, thanking him for avoiding war and conducting a peaceful swap. The last line of Kirk’s message said, “Your Highness, on this the twenty-first day of December, in the year 2012, I wonder if you ever heard of the Mayans and their prophecy about this very day?”
“Who were the Mayans?” asked the Emperor, as Earthlings waved goodbye to Earth.
Suddenly, Earth exploded with a tremendous roar that was heard throughout the entire Solar System.
Raising his middle finger in a gesture of defiance, Kirk said, “Well, as you just found out, the Mayans were a helluva lot smarter than you and your freakin’ astronomers.”
- - -
Michael A. Kechula’s fiction has been published by 128 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s authored 3 books: "A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales,” “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
The Fool
By Glenda Grande
Trapped in a cage of chains inside my mind
Tightening in each direction slowly, steadily;
A test of endurance against pain, suffering -
Don’t look down on me! I’m stronger than that.
You, the joker, who jests in my hardships in life,
I can hear your laughter resonate with an eerie air.
Come what may, the joker who slanders my efforts;
The sick pleasure you gain from heartbreak and disorder.
I pity you, who cannot face the truth and light with courage.
You misunderstand the power that can save you from hell.
Even if you trap and encase me in rose thorns,
My blood is proof of my existance. Bleed me dry
I’ll never give up; never back down from a fight.
Go ahead and mock me – you could never understand
Even if I lie to keep the peace, inside I know I’m right.
For you, cannot escape the truth. It will haunt you until you break.
- - -
Emotions written from the heart, this young woman writes a collection of literature by telling the tales of life with artful words. Her aim is to make people remember that being emotion-filled is only human. You can find more of her literary works on her website www.angellusion.com
By Glenda Grande
Trapped in a cage of chains inside my mind
Tightening in each direction slowly, steadily;
A test of endurance against pain, suffering -
Don’t look down on me! I’m stronger than that.
You, the joker, who jests in my hardships in life,
I can hear your laughter resonate with an eerie air.
Come what may, the joker who slanders my efforts;
The sick pleasure you gain from heartbreak and disorder.
I pity you, who cannot face the truth and light with courage.
You misunderstand the power that can save you from hell.
Even if you trap and encase me in rose thorns,
My blood is proof of my existance. Bleed me dry
I’ll never give up; never back down from a fight.
Go ahead and mock me – you could never understand
Even if I lie to keep the peace, inside I know I’m right.
For you, cannot escape the truth. It will haunt you until you break.
- - -
Emotions written from the heart, this young woman writes a collection of literature by telling the tales of life with artful words. Her aim is to make people remember that being emotion-filled is only human. You can find more of her literary works on her website www.angellusion.com
The Customer is always rot
Brian Rosenberger
The day after any holiday was always department store hell. It was expected, like customer complaints. He had suffered enough moaning and groaning. Thank goodness for the sporting goods section. The smell of gunsmoke lingered. The ceiling, the walls, this week’s ad were stained with Zombie brains. But like the sign said, "Absolutely no returns."
- - -
Bio: Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is a member of People for the Ethical Treatment of Werewolves and a staunch supporter for equal rights for the Undead.
Brian Rosenberger
The day after any holiday was always department store hell. It was expected, like customer complaints. He had suffered enough moaning and groaning. Thank goodness for the sporting goods section. The smell of gunsmoke lingered. The ceiling, the walls, this week’s ad were stained with Zombie brains. But like the sign said, "Absolutely no returns."
- - -
Bio: Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is a member of People for the Ethical Treatment of Werewolves and a staunch supporter for equal rights for the Undead.
THE BOX
by Matt Rosen
Ernest arrived in a peculiar metal box. He opened a tiny hatch and crawled out in his yellow bodysuit, which was standard attire for time travelers where he came from.
The yellow suit covered his entire body, with the exclusion of his face, which was entirely devoid of hair. Ernest reached into the box and pulled out a bag.
He opened the bag and took out an overcoat, a brown derby, and an old rifle. He put on the coat and derby and concealed the rifle in an inside pocket. Then he walked into the woods.
In the busy park, where children were running and laughing in droves, Ernest set up his shot. He lay hidden in the trees of the woods, overlooking the park. His rifle scanned the area for his target.
He spotted Douglas sitting on a bench, reading a newspaper. “There you are.”
A little boy with a train ran by. Close. Too close.
Ernest aimed his rifle at Douglas. “You’re getting off easy. You don’t even know the terror you would have caused, and you aren’t gonna find out.”
Douglas’s head exploded. Children and parents screamed and ran in horror. Ernest was already gone, running through the woods toward his box.
Reaching the clearing, Ernest threw the rifle in the bag. He tore off his coat and derby and stuffed them into the bag as well. He entered a code on the box and the hatch popped opened.
“52252,” a voice behind him said.
Ernest turned in shock and saw two men standing before him. One of them had a knife. The other had a bat. Ernest scowled at them. He looked them both in the eyes, then turned and started climbing into his box.
The two men pulled him down, stabbing him again and again and beating him savagely. Ernest lay on the ground dying.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“We were about to kill Douglas ourselves,” one of the men said.
“So that someone like you would come back to study it,” the other one said, “except it seems you came for a reason of your own. Guess that makes this our lucky day.”
Ernest watched as the two men entered the box. The hatch closed, and the box disappeared in a brilliant flash. Then he died.
In a stale desert, the box sat on a rocky hill.
“Mark, you are a genius,” Eric said.
“I couldn’t have done it without you, man,” Mark replied.
“How long has it been do you think?” Eric asked.
“Dunno. Its hard to tell time when you’re riding it like a mechanical bull,” Mark said, “It’s at least been a couple months I reckon.”
“We have to figure out how to get more specific with our jumps. I don’t even know where we landed this time,” Eric said.
Mark scanned the horizon. “I don’t see anything.”
“Me either. Wanna get out of here or should be check it out?” Eric said.
Mark’s eyes gleamed.
Near a stony cliff, Eric took a glorious pee. He heard odd noises behind him, but thought Mark was screwing around. He didn’t realize it wasn’t his friend until he had been pushed off the cliff and saw the face of his pusher looking down at him as he fell.
The grimy, wild face stared back at him until he hit on the ground.
Night had fallen. Mark stood on the box, calling for Eric. The moon was full, but Mark couldn’t see far. “Eric! I can’t wait forever, man.”
And Mark didn’t wait forever. He didn’t even wait fifteen minutes.
As he climbed down from the box, he heard footsteps behind him.
“Eric you asshole,” Mark said as he turned. He fell to the ground in fear when he saw the grimy, wild man holding a large rock. Mark screamed in terror until the stranger shut him up with the rock.
The man stared at the box until the sun came up. He entered the open hatch. He looked at the buttons, panels, switches, knobs, and he grew angry. He pressed every button he saw. He turned every knob, flipped every switch, pulled wires and smashed panels.
The box exploded in a magnificent fireball.
- - -
Matt Rosen was born in Upstate New York. He currently resides in Southern California, where he spends his time looking for time travelers.
by Matt Rosen
Ernest arrived in a peculiar metal box. He opened a tiny hatch and crawled out in his yellow bodysuit, which was standard attire for time travelers where he came from.
The yellow suit covered his entire body, with the exclusion of his face, which was entirely devoid of hair. Ernest reached into the box and pulled out a bag.
He opened the bag and took out an overcoat, a brown derby, and an old rifle. He put on the coat and derby and concealed the rifle in an inside pocket. Then he walked into the woods.
In the busy park, where children were running and laughing in droves, Ernest set up his shot. He lay hidden in the trees of the woods, overlooking the park. His rifle scanned the area for his target.
He spotted Douglas sitting on a bench, reading a newspaper. “There you are.”
A little boy with a train ran by. Close. Too close.
Ernest aimed his rifle at Douglas. “You’re getting off easy. You don’t even know the terror you would have caused, and you aren’t gonna find out.”
Douglas’s head exploded. Children and parents screamed and ran in horror. Ernest was already gone, running through the woods toward his box.
Reaching the clearing, Ernest threw the rifle in the bag. He tore off his coat and derby and stuffed them into the bag as well. He entered a code on the box and the hatch popped opened.
“52252,” a voice behind him said.
Ernest turned in shock and saw two men standing before him. One of them had a knife. The other had a bat. Ernest scowled at them. He looked them both in the eyes, then turned and started climbing into his box.
The two men pulled him down, stabbing him again and again and beating him savagely. Ernest lay on the ground dying.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“We were about to kill Douglas ourselves,” one of the men said.
“So that someone like you would come back to study it,” the other one said, “except it seems you came for a reason of your own. Guess that makes this our lucky day.”
Ernest watched as the two men entered the box. The hatch closed, and the box disappeared in a brilliant flash. Then he died.
In a stale desert, the box sat on a rocky hill.
“Mark, you are a genius,” Eric said.
“I couldn’t have done it without you, man,” Mark replied.
“How long has it been do you think?” Eric asked.
“Dunno. Its hard to tell time when you’re riding it like a mechanical bull,” Mark said, “It’s at least been a couple months I reckon.”
“We have to figure out how to get more specific with our jumps. I don’t even know where we landed this time,” Eric said.
Mark scanned the horizon. “I don’t see anything.”
“Me either. Wanna get out of here or should be check it out?” Eric said.
Mark’s eyes gleamed.
Near a stony cliff, Eric took a glorious pee. He heard odd noises behind him, but thought Mark was screwing around. He didn’t realize it wasn’t his friend until he had been pushed off the cliff and saw the face of his pusher looking down at him as he fell.
The grimy, wild face stared back at him until he hit on the ground.
Night had fallen. Mark stood on the box, calling for Eric. The moon was full, but Mark couldn’t see far. “Eric! I can’t wait forever, man.”
And Mark didn’t wait forever. He didn’t even wait fifteen minutes.
As he climbed down from the box, he heard footsteps behind him.
“Eric you asshole,” Mark said as he turned. He fell to the ground in fear when he saw the grimy, wild man holding a large rock. Mark screamed in terror until the stranger shut him up with the rock.
The man stared at the box until the sun came up. He entered the open hatch. He looked at the buttons, panels, switches, knobs, and he grew angry. He pressed every button he saw. He turned every knob, flipped every switch, pulled wires and smashed panels.
The box exploded in a magnificent fireball.
- - -
Matt Rosen was born in Upstate New York. He currently resides in Southern California, where he spends his time looking for time travelers.
Sweet Songs
Ron Koppelberger
- - -
I have been writing since I was eight years old. I have published in a variety of magazines and I love to see my work in print, especially if i can influence the reader to a moment in time, a thought, a feeling, perhaps a distant memory of something pleasant or inspiring. I hope you enjoy my work.
Ron Koppelberger
The center of a revolving carousel,
With throbbing hearts and sweet whispering
Passion, the gentle embrace of a
Beauty in bond with the warm eyes of affection,
A love unparalleled by the wont of dreaming babes
And ancient, uttermost in paper tigers and sweet songs of
Desire.
With throbbing hearts and sweet whispering
Passion, the gentle embrace of a
Beauty in bond with the warm eyes of affection,
A love unparalleled by the wont of dreaming babes
And ancient, uttermost in paper tigers and sweet songs of
Desire.
- - -
I have been writing since I was eight years old. I have published in a variety of magazines and I love to see my work in print, especially if i can influence the reader to a moment in time, a thought, a feeling, perhaps a distant memory of something pleasant or inspiring. I hope you enjoy my work.
Raaronga
by JB Willey
Let me tell you of a solar system and things past it. At its heart is fire and over that fire orbit tubes of compressed meat, lakes of beer marinade evaporating off their hot surfaces. The next system of worlds is a ring of eyes, the reflective surfaces of orange-faced planets tilted to their energy source. Bigger worlds of meat. In addition to these stable bodies is a satellite on an irregular orbit, a creature propelled on four legs that sucks down bottles held to it as if weaning at its mother’s tat, the filthy beer hound. Further out still from our campfire star are the animals we can’t see, eerie wailing sounds like nightmare babies drifted in on goat’s breath from light-years away, dark stars.
Back to the second orbit where two of the eyes are mine, a second pair belongs to my associate Nellis, and the remaining four I don’t trust. I don’t even trust their dog, not with the amount of lager they’ve been feeding it. An interstellar dusting of bitter sap rains down on us from the pine canopy.
Nellis and I find ourselves camped out in shield woodlands this fine evening with a pair of lifeforms named Skyles and Cutberto, halfway between our respective cities. Under the employ of the renegade chemist Dr. Wolfgang LeVram, acclaimed drug innovator, our work often places us in such exotic locales as Lake Raaronga as we are willing to go the distance for clients. Dr. LeVram is known for offering the epicurean user a unique pharmacopoeia based around his knowledge of tryptamines and his ability to modify their effects by blinging out molecules with extra functional groups. In fronting the delivery end, I navigate and act as frontman while Nellis mainly drives.
On today’s menu is something I’ve never heard of before called cinematol, or cin for short. On the drive up Nellis said he heard the narcotic supposedly combined the head-swelling ego-surging power of cocaine with the psychedelic effects of mushrooms. I couldn’t imagine. “You take that stuff and you’re starring in your own epic fantasy movie” Nellis told me, “the plot turning at your every thought.”
I simply have to hand Skyles and Cutberto a package and collect payment. But we’re always on guard as you just never know when a client is legit. The two joined us at our site right after dark and accepted our offer of beer and hotdogs. In the glowing darkness on the far side of the log-fueled sun these two characters are a pair of tongue-wagging dogs eager for the treats in my pocket. “No middlemen involved” I tell them, “this is straight from LeVram’s private lab.” “This is cinematol?” says Skyles, eyeballing the gummy extract removed from the package. “Certified.” He gives me a look and then asks if I’ve tried it. “No but I can vouch for its quality.” He scoffs. “You’re a mule that doesn’t even know what’s on its back!” Incredulous he twists off a little chunk. “Here’s a pinch for you. Don’t try that here though, wait till you’re chained down somewhere safe.” He laugh wheezes, “that’s some crazy shit.” “Listen” says Cutberto, “hear that? I just saw something in the bushes.” “Shut up.” “Seriously man.” Skyles gets up for a look but sees nothing. “Stop being fucking paranoid.”
Earlier that day and further out in the galaxy Nellis and I canoed to some glyphs. They didn’t make any sense, just lines and squiggles of faded ochre. Continuing on we came across a man in a lifejacket lowering himself down a precipice with a rope, the fool. Two of his friends were nervously watching him from the water. Lake Raaronga carried us past forlorn woodland before we reached church groups picnicking on segregated beaches. Being idiots we couldn’t help shout warnings at them. “Look out for the Boston steamer!” On past multiple Canadian-looking families of the same general appearance, the usual configuration being a middle-aged man at stern, younger wife at bow and small child between them. Dutifully friendly hellos. Sometimes a grandpa and grandma with grandchild in the middle, their expressions turning to horror when they saw the red of our eyes or was it just me?
Skyles and Marvo finally leave us for their own campsite, their dog stumbling after them. Maybe three hours later I’m startled out of a dream by screaming. Confusion as to what’s going on as Nellis is awake too and we zip down the tent fly and peer out. Blood curdling yells and a dog barking and the sound of stamping through leaves getting louder and then we see a body flying through the underbrush, a streaking comet of human anguish. We catch a dull flash of Cutberto, naked and shouting incomprehensible syllables and running at what must be his absolute top speed. Lights appear around us like stars blinking on as other campers are awoken to the disturbance. “It’s the cin” says Nellis. “Sin?” “The cinematol.” Observing the deranged asteroid I brace for a possible impact. “Two more satisfied space walkers. Let’s launch.” Hurriedly packing things up we are compelled to an early start to our day, a day bearing an uncanny resemblance to night.
- - -
JBW was guided by the mind's eye from a young age: fantasies and daydreams, art and music. Then he was institutionalized, granted education and disciplined in hard science. Thankfully he recovered years later to rediscover the thrills of creativity, making music, attempting art, and succumbing to the word plague.
by JB Willey
Let me tell you of a solar system and things past it. At its heart is fire and over that fire orbit tubes of compressed meat, lakes of beer marinade evaporating off their hot surfaces. The next system of worlds is a ring of eyes, the reflective surfaces of orange-faced planets tilted to their energy source. Bigger worlds of meat. In addition to these stable bodies is a satellite on an irregular orbit, a creature propelled on four legs that sucks down bottles held to it as if weaning at its mother’s tat, the filthy beer hound. Further out still from our campfire star are the animals we can’t see, eerie wailing sounds like nightmare babies drifted in on goat’s breath from light-years away, dark stars.
Back to the second orbit where two of the eyes are mine, a second pair belongs to my associate Nellis, and the remaining four I don’t trust. I don’t even trust their dog, not with the amount of lager they’ve been feeding it. An interstellar dusting of bitter sap rains down on us from the pine canopy.
Nellis and I find ourselves camped out in shield woodlands this fine evening with a pair of lifeforms named Skyles and Cutberto, halfway between our respective cities. Under the employ of the renegade chemist Dr. Wolfgang LeVram, acclaimed drug innovator, our work often places us in such exotic locales as Lake Raaronga as we are willing to go the distance for clients. Dr. LeVram is known for offering the epicurean user a unique pharmacopoeia based around his knowledge of tryptamines and his ability to modify their effects by blinging out molecules with extra functional groups. In fronting the delivery end, I navigate and act as frontman while Nellis mainly drives.
On today’s menu is something I’ve never heard of before called cinematol, or cin for short. On the drive up Nellis said he heard the narcotic supposedly combined the head-swelling ego-surging power of cocaine with the psychedelic effects of mushrooms. I couldn’t imagine. “You take that stuff and you’re starring in your own epic fantasy movie” Nellis told me, “the plot turning at your every thought.”
I simply have to hand Skyles and Cutberto a package and collect payment. But we’re always on guard as you just never know when a client is legit. The two joined us at our site right after dark and accepted our offer of beer and hotdogs. In the glowing darkness on the far side of the log-fueled sun these two characters are a pair of tongue-wagging dogs eager for the treats in my pocket. “No middlemen involved” I tell them, “this is straight from LeVram’s private lab.” “This is cinematol?” says Skyles, eyeballing the gummy extract removed from the package. “Certified.” He gives me a look and then asks if I’ve tried it. “No but I can vouch for its quality.” He scoffs. “You’re a mule that doesn’t even know what’s on its back!” Incredulous he twists off a little chunk. “Here’s a pinch for you. Don’t try that here though, wait till you’re chained down somewhere safe.” He laugh wheezes, “that’s some crazy shit.” “Listen” says Cutberto, “hear that? I just saw something in the bushes.” “Shut up.” “Seriously man.” Skyles gets up for a look but sees nothing. “Stop being fucking paranoid.”
Earlier that day and further out in the galaxy Nellis and I canoed to some glyphs. They didn’t make any sense, just lines and squiggles of faded ochre. Continuing on we came across a man in a lifejacket lowering himself down a precipice with a rope, the fool. Two of his friends were nervously watching him from the water. Lake Raaronga carried us past forlorn woodland before we reached church groups picnicking on segregated beaches. Being idiots we couldn’t help shout warnings at them. “Look out for the Boston steamer!” On past multiple Canadian-looking families of the same general appearance, the usual configuration being a middle-aged man at stern, younger wife at bow and small child between them. Dutifully friendly hellos. Sometimes a grandpa and grandma with grandchild in the middle, their expressions turning to horror when they saw the red of our eyes or was it just me?
Skyles and Marvo finally leave us for their own campsite, their dog stumbling after them. Maybe three hours later I’m startled out of a dream by screaming. Confusion as to what’s going on as Nellis is awake too and we zip down the tent fly and peer out. Blood curdling yells and a dog barking and the sound of stamping through leaves getting louder and then we see a body flying through the underbrush, a streaking comet of human anguish. We catch a dull flash of Cutberto, naked and shouting incomprehensible syllables and running at what must be his absolute top speed. Lights appear around us like stars blinking on as other campers are awoken to the disturbance. “It’s the cin” says Nellis. “Sin?” “The cinematol.” Observing the deranged asteroid I brace for a possible impact. “Two more satisfied space walkers. Let’s launch.” Hurriedly packing things up we are compelled to an early start to our day, a day bearing an uncanny resemblance to night.
- - -
JBW was guided by the mind's eye from a young age: fantasies and daydreams, art and music. Then he was institutionalized, granted education and disciplined in hard science. Thankfully he recovered years later to rediscover the thrills of creativity, making music, attempting art, and succumbing to the word plague.
39
By Victoria Davison Feistner
I'm writing this by the window. Every so often, through the rain
trails thick on the corporate glass, I fancy that I see a light. A
light parallel to me, or from above—-of course not from below.
They say—-or perhaps I merely read it somewhere—-that a person must
do something twenty-nine times for it to become a habit. If that's the
case then the sound of rain to me--on glass, on the roof, once on
trees and on my skin--is a habit: something I will never be fully free
of, a response always lingering, even if never fufilled.
A bank of lights! The building opposite, slightly higher, 8th floor
perhaps? Oh, now it's gone again; all I see is my own lamp, reflecting
in those tiny glittering trails.
Twenty-nine. Why twenty-nine? Why not just thirty? Perhaps thirty is
too round, too unscientific. Still, I wonder how they reach that
number. Scientifically.
Scientifically, thanks to a calendar next to my purloined desk, I
know that it should be a waning quarter moon tonight. I have no way to
verify this; no one, after all, has seen the moon for weeks.
I watch one droplet trace its way, wending down the window, colliding
and dragging others down with it. It's hypnotic and hateful.
The smell of this Sharpie is giving me a headache behind my eyes.
Will anyone care to read that? I care to write it, and so it is my
choice. I filled the other pieces of cracked plastic—-no longer useful
in repairs—-that Christy found with our official story, our collected
memoirs, our hopes and goodbyes. I wrote for hours. 3 Sharpies later,
one small piece was left and I am being selfish. I want some truthful
part of me to remain behind, unedited, not to be dredged up only to
reveal half-omissions and statistics.
The lamp hesitates, crackling; it flickers. Perhaps the battery is
going, or the wiring. Then I will be left in this blue-gray dark, with
only myself fragmented in the droplets.
There was a time before the rain. There was sun, and sky, and stars,
and ground. There was an earth.
When the light goes I'll join the others upstairs, closer to the
roof, better to hear the helicopters that John says are coming. We
must only believe in them. I only believe in being close to the
generators, a grinding, smoky noise that means I will no longer hear
the plinks and the drips, although my ears will remember. My eardrums
will have ghostly reverberations.
Twenty-nine times to form a habit. More than enough days and nights
of constant, never-relenting rain. We are on thirty-nine nights now,
as I see the lights in the distance flicker into life once more. I
should tell the others.
Thirty-nine. It is almost a round number.
- - -
Victoria Davison Feistner is a writer, a graphic designer and an
artisan, in equal parts, although some parts are more equal than
others. She resides in Toronto.
By Victoria Davison Feistner
I'm writing this by the window. Every so often, through the rain
trails thick on the corporate glass, I fancy that I see a light. A
light parallel to me, or from above—-of course not from below.
They say—-or perhaps I merely read it somewhere—-that a person must
do something twenty-nine times for it to become a habit. If that's the
case then the sound of rain to me--on glass, on the roof, once on
trees and on my skin--is a habit: something I will never be fully free
of, a response always lingering, even if never fufilled.
A bank of lights! The building opposite, slightly higher, 8th floor
perhaps? Oh, now it's gone again; all I see is my own lamp, reflecting
in those tiny glittering trails.
Twenty-nine. Why twenty-nine? Why not just thirty? Perhaps thirty is
too round, too unscientific. Still, I wonder how they reach that
number. Scientifically.
Scientifically, thanks to a calendar next to my purloined desk, I
know that it should be a waning quarter moon tonight. I have no way to
verify this; no one, after all, has seen the moon for weeks.
I watch one droplet trace its way, wending down the window, colliding
and dragging others down with it. It's hypnotic and hateful.
The smell of this Sharpie is giving me a headache behind my eyes.
Will anyone care to read that? I care to write it, and so it is my
choice. I filled the other pieces of cracked plastic—-no longer useful
in repairs—-that Christy found with our official story, our collected
memoirs, our hopes and goodbyes. I wrote for hours. 3 Sharpies later,
one small piece was left and I am being selfish. I want some truthful
part of me to remain behind, unedited, not to be dredged up only to
reveal half-omissions and statistics.
The lamp hesitates, crackling; it flickers. Perhaps the battery is
going, or the wiring. Then I will be left in this blue-gray dark, with
only myself fragmented in the droplets.
There was a time before the rain. There was sun, and sky, and stars,
and ground. There was an earth.
When the light goes I'll join the others upstairs, closer to the
roof, better to hear the helicopters that John says are coming. We
must only believe in them. I only believe in being close to the
generators, a grinding, smoky noise that means I will no longer hear
the plinks and the drips, although my ears will remember. My eardrums
will have ghostly reverberations.
Twenty-nine times to form a habit. More than enough days and nights
of constant, never-relenting rain. We are on thirty-nine nights now,
as I see the lights in the distance flicker into life once more. I
should tell the others.
Thirty-nine. It is almost a round number.
- - -
Victoria Davison Feistner is a writer, a graphic designer and an
artisan, in equal parts, although some parts are more equal than
others. She resides in Toronto.
