You didn’t consider the darkness.
Now, here you are, laying on your back with your arms stretched out. You feel like you’re floating, like you could rise into the sky.
You could be laid flat on the black ice of Devil’s Spit, an asteroid in the dark side of the Kuiper Belt. Or you could be home on Earth, crocked from space lag, night swimming in Lake Pontchartrain.
There’s no sound but your own breath, coming in short bursts. Maybe you’re wheezy because your rebreather crapped out in the middle of nowhere, 7.5 billion klicks from Earth. Or maybe it’s because you’re doing the polar bear thing, going for a chilled dip in December.
The cold bits scraping your skin, yanking on your hair could be the viscous ice that slimes every surface of Devil’s Spit. Or they could be mangrove leaves floating in the water.
Only one thing is certain. You’re lying there, trying to answer the question that’s vexed you your whole life. Can a living organism be in two places at the same time?
If you opened your eyes you’d have the answer, but a voice in your head is telling you to keep those eyes shut.
That voice is me.
From “Devil’s Spit”, part of the Visions III, Inside the Kuiper Belt anthology.
You should have been here an hour ago. All of MamaSan’s friends in Pirate’s Cove were there for her funeral. We were all cleaned up, for once, in proper black. Palm trees were swaying over her freshly-dug grave. The suns were shining. I’d done a new tattoo for the occasion, drawn from a photo of her hammering the shelf over the bar. She was in her overalls, her short-cropped hair sticking out at all angles, cigar clenched between her teeth. I’d put the tattoo on my left shoulder, the last patch of my skin that was bare. It had sensors that could feel the mood in the air. I didn’t need it to tell me, the mood was sad.
I was at the podium, giving a eulogy for her when the thin, leathery Police Chief Ponseca, (a.k.a. ‘Loco Pete,’ a.k.a. the former Vice President of Charon), stormed in with his battered robocops. He got behind the podium, cuffed me and declared that I, Elizabeth Aguilar (a.k.a. ‘Lady Inked’) was a suspect in the murder of my guardian, Nicole Santos (a.k.a. ‘MamaSan’, proprietor of the High Dive Bar). I was also a ‘person of interest’ in the murders of twenty people who had been crushed to death by a serial killer appropriately known as ‘The Crusher.’
“Who is accusing me?” I cried as he twisted my arms behind my back.
“I am” Ami Watanabe, our head waitress, shouted. She peeked out from behind the robocops, black hair streaming in the wind, her slender frame hidden behind their rusty, dented bodies.
“You jerk!” I said. “I saved your life.” I don’t know why Ami was out to get me. Maybe it was the bad tattoo I gave her. Or the pink shirt I borrowed and never returned.
Read more of “Sari Sari” and many other futuristic tales in Visions IV: Space Between Stars.
Did you ever read what they call Science Fiction? It’s a scream. It’s written like this: ‘I checked out with K19 on Adabaran III, and stepped out through the crummaliote hatch on my 22 Model Sirus Hardtop. I cocked the timeprojector in secondary and waded through the bright blue manda grass… I had exactly four seconds to hot up the disintegrator and Google had told me it wasn’t enough.’
“Live the Martian adventure” the ads said. “Mars has jobs.” Amy said. So Joe packed their bags and they left their hometown in Northern Great Lakestan, convinced that this new life would be better.
It wasn’t. There were jobs and the pay was good, but they were mostly desk jobs–the kind of work that you learn in an hour and wash/rinse/repeat for the rest of your life.
In every other way, Mars was the same as Wisconsin –eleven months of winter and one month of black flies.
Read more “For Better or Worse”, a short story published by Liberty Island Magazine.
“Washington DC, 2084:
Jerry leaned out the Aerocar window. With the kind of breathless amazement that only seven year-olds can muster, he shouted “Mom, Dad, look! Two apes are fighting in front of the Lincoln Memorial.”
Bill glanced down, but at 600 meters above ground level it was hard to see very much. He put the flying car into a slight bank and circled around to get a better look.
“That’s terrible,” Sharon said. “They should have more respect.”
“They’re gorillas, Mom,” said Jerry. “They’re allowed to misbehave”
“Those aren’t apes. They’re men,” Sharon said.
“You’re kidding…” Bill said as he adjusted the focus of his Google Glass Retinas for long distance. They were indeed men, but with hair so unkempt and suits so ragged, they appeared to be covered with fur.
“It’s a Bumfight,” Bill said.
“Disgusting,” Sharon said.
“Why did they let them into the Safari park?” Jerry asked.
“They must be some of Washington DC’s original inhabitants.”
Read more of the short story “Welcome to the Jungle” [Liberty Island Magazine]