SPECULATIVE FICTION BOOKS
BY PRESTON DENNETT
BY PRESTON DENNETT
WILD SPECULATION
TEN SCIENCE FICTION STORIES
This collection of ten original science fiction stories from multiple award-winning author Preston Dennett has much to offer fans of speculative fiction. There is adventure, romance, comedy, and mystery. There are aliens, alternative universes, probable realities, time-bubbles, spaceships, other planets, alien artifacts and much more. Prepare yourself for a journey into realms beyond imagination.
TEARS NOT OF A CHILD. In a world where age is treated as a disease, Melissa and David Perkins have decided to grow old first, and then seek treatment. But when they finally elect to “Close the Gate,” weird things begin to happen.
GREETINGS FROM EARTH. A strange and beautiful alien artifact has appeared on Earth, and nobody knows what it is. A crashed ship, a monitoring device, alien art…the theories are endless. Then Pete takes his wife (a psychic) to visit it, and soon regrets his decision.
ENTER A HUMAN. When Sarah Webster sits down to paint a field of flowers, an alien spaceship lands next to her. Out steps an alien who has a special task for her that could change the course of all humanity. But will Sarah accept?
STARS ARE WILD. Gracie Megan Sparks’ song has just hit #1 on several of the fifty colonized planets. Then, on the far side of the universe, the little-known Music Trees have inexplicably stopped singing. And when Megan learns that her song is the reason why, she knows her life will never be the same.
CAN YOU SPARE A DOLLAR? Sticky has lived on Pete’s small country farm all his life. But when Sticky suddenly dies, a mystery is uncovered which will shake the entire town, and threaten the survival of all humanity.
STORM OF CHANCE: As a series of weird probability storms strike the planet, the entire world is plunged into near chaos. Everyone struggles to adapt to the constant changes, but Linda, finds herself strangely immune from the storms. The question is, why?
ELEPHANT CITY. Skeera is worried. The population of people on Earth has dwindled to almost nothing. She must do something to save them. The only option is unthinkable: make a venture to Elephant City and attempt to make friends with the new dominant species of Earth: the elephants.
DON’T ASK! Someone is hoarding supplies on ship, and Stebbins is furious. Everyone knows that hoarding is not allowed, and he goes on a mission to find the culprit. However, when he discovers the culprit, and what he is hoarding, he wonders if some secrets are better left unknown.
SALVAGE YARD. Haskel Danvers is the proud owner of a salvage yard of old, wrecked spaceships on the rim of the Milky Way. A mysterious mother and her child arrive to take a tour, and Haskel reluctantly agrees. But he soon learns to regret his decision.
A CERTAIN SLANT OF LIGHT. Without warning, mysterious time-bubbles have appeared all over Earth, freezing small groups of people in time. Walter Scobee’s wife, Clare, is one of the victims. But can Walter’s love for his wife transcend time and space itself?
These ten fascinating stories from the imagination of Preston Dennett take you on a wondrous and unforgettable journey to the farthest edges of the universe. All but one have been vetted by professional editors and appeared in various magazines, and each includes a Behind the Story section revealing how the stories came to be written and their pathway to publication. So put on your spacesuits and grab your laser-guns and prepare to be amazed!
Contents
Introduction…4
Contents
Introduction…4
Tears, not of a Child…11
Greetings from Earth…23
Enter a Human…32
Stars Are Wild…46
Can You Spare a Dollar?...68
Storm of Chance…79
Elephant City…89
Don’t Ask!…116
Salvage Yard…124
A Certain Slant of Light…153
Afterword…166
About the Author…168
Introduction
Welcome to my first anthology of selected speculative fiction stories! I’m ridiculously, stupidly excited about it. All I ever wanted to be was a science fiction writer, so to actually and finally be writing the introduction to my own anthology is a dream come true.
I’ll never forget my introduction to the field. It was 1978. I was thirteen years old and my mother gave me Clifford Simak’s book, Mastodonia. Little did she know that she had created a monster. I read that book so hard, it was like an out of body experience. I had no idea such things even existed. I had read C.S. Lewis and Tolkien, but I thought they were freak events. Who knew that there were others out there?
So began my love affair with speculative fiction. And it was a torrid love affair if there ever was one. I spent all my allowances on books, reading everything I could get my hands on. I did yardwork, odd jobs, and babysitting for the neighbors just so I could afford more books. After reading everything by Simak, I moved to Heinlein, Asimov, and Clark. Then Harrison, Herbert, Delaney, Niven and Pournelle, Le Guin and Hogan…the list grew fast. No author was safe from me. I devoured all of them. Within a few years I read everything from Poul Anderson to Roger Zelazny, and had amassed hundreds of books and magazines. I was obsessed. I had found my calling. I was going to be a science fiction writer.
One day, around age fifteen, my father saw that the walls of my room were stacked high with books. He threatened to get rid of them. My mom stepped in and said, “Don’t you dare!” Thanks, Mom! And thanks Dad for listening to Mom!
It took me many years to gather the courage to write a story, and another few to start sending them out. From 1986 to 1992, I wrote about fifty stories, submitting them to any place I could find. The result was a mountain of rejection slips. Sometimes the editors provided encouraging responses, but they still rejected my stories. I entered contests too. I was a finalist in the National Fantasy Fan Federation contest, and a finalist in the Writers of Earth Contest, edited by Edward Bryant. But still no sales. I heard about the Writers of the Future Contest and entered eleven times and received—no surprise—eleven rejections. Not so much as an honorable mention. Four or five years of hard work, and nothing to show for it.
Becoming a science fiction writer was much harder than it looked. After almost six years of trying to get published, I made a huge mistake. I gave up. It was too hard. I was done. My love affair with speculative fiction was over. I sold all my books and magazines. The only ones I saved were my Writers of the Future Books. I just couldn’t part with them. I wept as I boxed them up and put them in the closet, where they would remain for the next seventeen years.
All the stories I had sent out to find a home limped back to me and were trunked. Then, one day in 1993, I received a letter from Midnight Zoo. I had completely forgotten that they were still holding my story, “The Dream Collection Center.” They loved it! They wanted to publish it! My jaw dropped as my head hit the roof. Did my eyes deceive me? Was this an acceptance?!
Of course, it was. Not only did they love it. They held a contest for all the stories they had received, and guess what? Mine won first place! First damn place! I about died when I saw this. A few months later, my story appeared in Volume 4, Issue 1. From the editor, Jon Herron: “The first prize goes to Preston Dennett for “The Dream Collection Center,” a strong story of dreams, predictions and the inability of humans to deal with knowing the future, despite our intensive efforts to predict it.”
I was elated. But it was too late. I had already sold all my books. I had already divorced myself from the idea of being a science fiction writer. I couldn’t go back. I wouldn’t.
And there was another complication. I was suddenly enjoying fantastic success as a non-fiction writer in an even more exciting and profound genre: UFOs! That’s right, I had discovered that UFOs were real, and was selling articles like crazy, and getting paid $100-$300 a pop! Literally everything I wrote was selling, and even getting the covers of major magazines. I was a featured speaker at conventions, going on radio shows, and even going on TV!
So, although I was excited to finally have sold a science-fiction story, I just couldn’t go back. My path had taken a left turn out of the science-fiction field and that was okay. Yes, I felt a poignant sense of loss. But I had to follow my excitement. Before long I was writing books and doing quite well, thank you. I was happy.
Fast-forward almost two decades to 2009. My boss walks into my office and asks, “Do you like science fiction?”
“I used to,” I said, with a painful stab of memory.
“Read this,” he handed me E.E. Doc Smith’s, Lensman series. He was my boss, and I was a good boy, so I obeyed. I took the books. I read them.
And just like that, I was back in love! I bought back all my books. I dug out my WOTF books and re-read them. Then I got all the remaining volumes and read those. I caught up with all my favorite authors.
Then it happened: I started to feel that urge again, that compulsion to start writing my own stories. But I was terrified. I had been down that road before, and it was littered with broken dreams. I had been lost in the desecrated plains of total rejection for too long. I wasn’t sure if I could survive it again.
So, I made a vow. I would try submitting again, but only to the Writers of the Future Contest. If I earned an honorable mention, then maybe I would try submitting elsewhere. I pulled out my old stories and grimaced. I had learned a bit more about writing by this time, and I could see why they were rejected. So, I thanked God that we now had computers, and I began to write. I sent off a new story to the Writers of the Future. Of course, I received a rejection, then another, and another, and so on.
But I was serious. I read like a madman. I read every book that won the Hugo, Nebula, John W. Campbell, or Philip K. Dick Award. And I kept writing stories, and kept entering every quarter of the contest.
Then it happened, entry number sixteen, an honorable mention! I did it! My head nearly hit the ceiling. Still, I was too scared to submit anywhere else. I kept submitting to the contest and soon earned another honorable mention. When I had earned three, I began submitting to magazines.
To my delight, I not only began receiving personal rejections; within one year, I sold my first story! Then I sold another. And another! It took me about a half-million words, but I had learned how to write a readable story.
My head spun. Maybe I could do this! Maybe I could actually be a science fiction writer. Maybe? I was! I was actually doing it!
Still, my primary focus was with the WOTF contest. I had a feeling I could win it. I knew I could! I never missed a quarter. I was earning more honorable mentions, but that was it. The higher levels of the contest seemed out of reach. Whenever I felt my confidence waver, I would look at the WOTF books and tell myself, you could win this contest. Don’t give up.
Then one day I was lurking the WOTF forum and noticed mention of a cautionary tale about why you should never give up. It was from a workshop by Dean Wesley Smith. I knew about Dean. He had a story in Volume 1, and later became one of the judges. In his workshop, Dean talked about an anonymous guy from Topanga Canyon, a promising new writer who the magazine editors were talking about. They wondered who would be the first to publish one of his stories. Even book editors were showing interest. Then suddenly, he disappeared. Gone and never to be seen again. His name, to protect his identity, was Topanga Canyon.
When I read that, I felt a cold chill. I was from Topanga. That was me. I knew it in my bones. Before I gave up, Dean was editing Pulphouse, and had written me personal rejections. I still remember them: “You’re close.” “Keep trying.”
I felt like I had a secret identity that even I didn’t know about! It's like I had a glimpse into a parallel universe and was able to see what might have been, had I stayed the course. It was like being struck by lightning.
I sent Dean an email. He confirmed my secret identity. I was Topanga Canyon! In certain circles I was actually famous. One very well-known (multiple award-winning) writer wrote to me: “Seriously, Preston, you have no idea how quasi-legendary TOPANGA CANYON has become, thanks to Kris and Dean and some of the other editors from back in the day. Topanga Canyon is like Gordon Lightfoot's balladeering of the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald. A tragic story, and an inspiring story, to motivate and regale; about that mystery writer from a place with a unique name. The career that could have been...”
I felt waves of sheer delight with undercurrents of utter devastation. Magazine and book editors were talking about me! They were waiting to see who would be the first to publish my first story. And I gave up.
Kristine Katheryn Rusch, editor of F&SF had sent me a personal rejection. Stanley Schmidt, editor of Analog had sent me encouraging rejections. I had no idea that this was somewhat rare, and that I was literally at the finish line of becoming a published science fiction writer.
This discovery inspired me even more to keep entering the WOTF contest, which I did, every quarter, eventually earning twelve honorable mentions. On December 28, 2017, three days before the Q1 deadline, for the 47th time, I submitted yet another story to the contest. I had just received four straight rejections in a row, so my hopes were not high. I had entered every single quarter for the last eight bloody years. Why should this one be any different? At best I hoped to add to my sizable collection of HMs.
Then the impossible happened. To my utter shock, my story was a semi-finalist. So close! But no cigar. You needed to be a finalist to get your story in front of the deciding judges. I missed it by that much! But then the impossible happened. I got a call from the contest. Someone had dropped out or been disqualified, and my story had been bumped up to finalist. My story would go before the judges along with seven others. Three would be chosen for first, second and third place. Five would be rejected. Which meant there was more than a fifty percent chance that I would be rejected. Not great odds. But with a contest that receives “several thousand” entries each quarter, I had made it to the very top percentile! Amazing!
The next few weeks were pure torture. I was at work when the phone call came that I had won second place. It was easily one of the happiest days of my life. I could feel that thirteen-year-old boy inside of me jumping up and down. I won! I actually won! I would get a monetary prize, a beautiful trophy, a week-long workshop, and best of all, my story would appear in Volume 35. At last!
My winning story was chosen by Mike Resnick, Tim Powers and John Sawyer! At the workshop I got to meet Tim Powers, Orson Scott Card, Dave Wolverton, Dean Wesley, and many other greats.
Now I could not only call myself a science fiction writer, but an award-winning one! Gregory Benford handed me my award on stage! How cool is that?
Now I was really inspired! And I began selling stories like crazy, and not just to token markets, or even semi-pro, but to professional markets! I submitted to everyone. My only rule was: paying markets only. I wasn’t going to give my stories away for free.
It was so amazing, getting notifications that my stories were making it past the first and second rounds and getting published. Science fiction, fantasy, horror…I loved all of them.
Which brings us to this anthology. With a current total of forty-three stories published, I have quite a few to choose from. Of course, I wanted to include my favorites, but how to choose? I love all my babies!
For this anthology, I decided to stick with stories that are strictly science fiction. That helped cull down the field. I definitely had to include my Writers of the Future Winning story. I also had won another small contest held by SOOP publishers, earning first place in the sci-fi genre, and second place in the Grand Prize category of all genres. I knew that story had to be included. I filled out the rest with some short, some mid-sized and some longer ones, all of which have been vetted by editors and published in various magazines. And just for good measure, I included one story which has yet to be published, and has never before seen print. That seems fair.
So, there you go! I’ve included short stories and novelettes. You will find a wide variety of subjects and subgenres: comedic stories, romance, classic adventure, mystery, space-opera. There are aliens, alternative universes, probable realities, time-bubbles, spaceships, alien artifacts, other planets, and more. With two award-winning stories to boot!
I’ve also included a little behind the story section for each story, revealing how they were inspired, came to be written, their long or short pathways to publication, and other little tidbits that I hope you, dear readers, might find of interest, whether you are simply a fan of reading, or perhaps a writer yourself!
Tears, not of a Child
We were both seventy years old when we closed the gate. It was the same treatment that our parents had gone through, and our grandparents and their parents. Everyone accepts the treatment sooner or later, most people earlier than us. We wanted to experience old age…or rather, David did and I went along. But we didn’t want to risk going past seventy. We’ve all heard the horror stories of people who actually died. So I drew the line at seventy. Besides, as David liked to say, everyone knows the chances of having a bad reaction go down the longer you wait. It was one of his ways of convincing me to wait. Later I learned there is no known correlation between age at time of treatment and results.
“Less than one in a million people have a bad reaction,” I told him, making up my facts as I spoke. I didn’t want to be old anymore. I was tired of the pain, the lack of energy, and the looks people gave us. I didn’t know back then that the accurate number was closer to one in twenty million. In total, there were less than a thousand known cases, another fun fact that I learned the hard way.
“We’ll be fine,” he told me when I complained to him that we were getting too old. Statistically, the most common age of the treatment was fifty-five.
“People stare at us.”
“So? Let them stare.”
So, we waited. I loved him, it wasn’t a big deal. But when the day finally came for closing the gate, I was relieved and excited. Finally, we wouldn’t be the freaky old people and we could join the rest of the human race.
The treatment was simple, just a series of injections. Nano-meds would flood our blood stream and invade every cell, repair the damage done to the DNA and remove the random mutations, rebuilding the precious telomeres that controlled aging. By restoring our DNA molecules to their original condition and tricking our cells into thinking they were new, the aging process would be reversed. We would be young again.
We were in and out of Doctor Anders’ office in minutes. If he ever mentioned the possibility of a bad reaction, I don’t remember it. He may have.
It was a joy to watch our bodies become young. Each morning, I looked in the mirror and saw fewer wrinkles. My breasts became firmer, my stomach was flattening. And watching the auburn come back into my hair…I’m not ashamed to admit that I wept with delight.
David didn’t want to admit it, but he was enjoying himself as much as I was. He had started working out again. He had always been handsome with his blue eyes and blond hair. But watching him become young again…I fell in love with him all over. And he was equally stricken with me. We were like two young love-sick teen-agers.
“See, Mel, aren’t you glad we waited?” he said one morning, right after we had made love. Love, in the morning, before work! We hadn’t done that since we were in our twenties. Being old for so long had given me a new perspective on youth.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll admit it. You were right. Now, please remove your hand from my breast and let me get dressed!”
David laughed, swept me into a kiss, and dashed into the shower, motioning me to join him. Whew! Had we ever been like this? This was something I could get used to.
And it only got better. The doctor said that the treatment would take effect immediately, and that in about three months, we would be back to a biological age of about twenty-five.
After the three months had passed, we both looked amazing. We went to Doctor Anders and he confirmed that our treatments had been successful. He congratulated us and sent us on our way.
I never thought we’d see him again. After all, these days with the home nano-medkits, there’s not a real big demand for doctors.
Soon, we settled back into our routines. The only big change in our life from the treatments was that David and I became closer. We had always been deeply in love, but somehow, growing old and then becoming young again together had bonded us in a profound way.
We did have more energy. Now we were doing all the wonderful things that had caused us to fall in love with each other in the first place. We’d go out dancing, visit the nature preserves, go kayaking and snowboarding. But this time, we appreciated it even more.
Our parents and grandparents were, of course, hugely relieved that we had done the treatments and they started bugging us about having a child.
Both of us had decided that we would put off having our child until we were absolutely sure we were ready. After all, what was the rush? Raising a child was hard, and there were already a lot of people in the world. Yes, we wanted kids, but we were waiting.
I was wondering if the time for a kid had finally come when we first noticed something wrong. David was losing his chest hair.
“I’m sure it means nothing,” I said. “It never was thick until he was in his forties.”
“Is it still falling out?” asked Doctor Anders.
David nodded. He reached out and pulled out a clump. “It’s going quick. Soon there’ll be nothing left. I haven’t had a smooth chest since I was a teen-ager.” He looked worried.
“Hmm,” said Anders. “I’m going to order some additional tests, but your wife is probably right. Chest hair is often a feature that comes in later age. It’s not unusual to lose it. I wouldn’t be alarmed. Of course, as you know, we can restore it. But I’d like to wait until we have confirmed that your biological age has, in fact, stabilized.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Stabilized?”
“Well, yes. Trust me, nothing to worry about. It’s just a period of adjustment. You both will be just fine.”
I looked at David. He shrugged. You can’t argue with the doctor.
The tests came back normal. Doctor Anders explained that we were simply having trouble adjusting psychologically, that the transformation from old to young was so radical—particularly in our case—that anxiety and fear reactions sometimes took place. We would be fine, he said, once we got used to the fact that our bodies were young.
“See, I told you it was nothing.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not the one losing your chest hair,” he said, smiling.
We were in each other’s arms again, finished and basking in the afterglow. We were making love twice a day now. David couldn’t keep his hands off me. I wasn’t complaining. It felt good to be wanted, desired, to be young.
“You were quick tonight,” I said. David smiled guiltily. “I know. I’m so sensitive. I haven’t been like that since I was a…” He looked suddenly pensive.
“The doctor said not to worry.”
“I know, but there’s something I didn’t tell you. Ah…I stopped shaving.” He felt his smooth chin. “See? Nothing. I can’t grow a beard anymore.”
It was then that I noticed a red splotch on his chin. It was a pimple. I didn’t say anything. It was just a pimple. It didn’t mean a thing.
“Well,” I said. “We can see the doctor again if you want. But you heard him. He said you were fine. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I don’t know. I guess I was embarrassed. It’s not like I even want a beard. It’s just nice to know that if I did, I could have one.”
“So let me see if I have this straight. You’re upset about not having something you don’t want.”
David tilted his head. “That sounds about right.”
“You are so weird.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a…oh, never mind!” (read more)
Greetings from Earth
My beautiful wife and I inched forward in line. “So crowded,” she said, holding my arm as somebody jostled against her. “We shouldn’t have come.”
I knew how she hated crowds. But we were in the area and who could pass up the opportunity to view an actual alien artifact?
I had visited it before, of course, but Michelle never had. And she always had some reason to avoid seeing it. We lived so close; she could see it anytime, she would say. Or, I’ve seen pictures of it on TV. How different could it be in real life?
But I insisted. She was an artist, and I just instinctively knew that there was something about this artifact that she had to see.
I was right. Michelle peered ahead of us in line. The artifact was just barely visible hidden by trees in a field up ahead. Already, she was clearly impressed.
“Oh,” she said. “I see it. It’s beautiful.”
“I told you. I knew you’d like it.”
She gripped my arm more tightly as we moved ahead in line and the artifact came into unobstructed view.
I loved the fact that this thing from another world continued to mystify the scientists. It had appeared overnight in a little field outside of Stockton, California. A perfect sphere, just shy of 130 meters in diameter, sunk slightly into the ground. At first glance, it appeared to be made of emerald. It was shiny, reflective, almost translucent. Closer, it looked like ceramic, or even stone or metal. But it wasn’t. Nor was it plastic or glass. Nobody knew what the heck it was. (read more)
Enter a Human
“Why so glum?” Serran asked. Track sat hunched over his desk, facing the glowing screen. Their burrow was warm and filled with wonderful cooking odors. He had many reasons to be happy. But he wasn’t.
“I’m doomed, my dear. I failed in my task. I simply can’t locate a maker. I looked everywhere, and I can’t find anybody. All the great talent is taken. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve lost my touch. I have to quit the guild.” He swiped the screen clear of the prospective names, none of them promising.
Serran quivered in shock. “Track, you can’t quit. This is your life’s work. There must be someplace you haven’t looked. You can’t quit. I won’t have it.”
“I have looked everywhere. The competition begins too soon. Even if I find someone, there’s no time. All the great artists have already been discovered.” He choked back a sob. This was no time to begin crying. If he had to quit the guild, there would be necessary preparations. And to cry in front of his partner would be shameful.
Serran’s expression, however, betrayed no disappointment. She seemed, if anything, sympathetic. How could she be so calm?
She swiveled back to the kitchen, and continued to cook the candied slug-worms, Track’s favorite dessert. “It will all work out finely, my treasure,” she said resolutely. “I have confidence in you. You’ll find someone. Don’t give up. Please, for me, keep looking. You discovered Filanthia Tin, and look how successful she has become.”
“That was just one artist, many years ago. It’s been a long time since I have discovered anyone of great import. You say I should continue, but I tell you, I can’t. I’m getting old, Serran. Old and tired. The others in the guild are talking. You know how they can be. If I enter the competition with another mediocre talent, it will be the end of me either way.” (read more)
Stars Are Wild
I opened the door to the ship’s studio and waved frantically for Gracie to stop playing the omniboard. She lifted her fingers and the beautiful music echoed into silence. Her glare scorched me. I wasn’t supposed to interrupt her when she was composing, but this was too important.
“Gracie,” I said, leaning down to give her a kiss. “I’ve got news. We have to cancel all your shows for the next month. Something better has come up.”
She narrowed her eyes. Her latest song, Stars Are Wild, was number one on six of the fifty worlds, and we were in the middle of a multi-world tour to promote it. The entire year was booked solid, and she was playing at the best venues known. What could possibly be better than that?
I sat down and activated the HV, enjoying Gracie’s confusion. “Just watch,” I said.
A woman newscaster began talking. She stood before a large grove of trees, each one covered with striking violet-colored leaves. In the distance, an ethereal yet familiar tune played.
“What is this?” Gracie asked, looking at me, then back to the holo.
“Watch,” I said.
The newscaster spoke: “Something amazing is happening on the little-known planet, Autumn. The Music Trees have woken up. This is how they used to sound.”
A low, hollow fluting sound filled the cabin. It was an eerie, haunting echo that froze my blood. I had heard variations of it many times. Gracie’s song, Stars Are Wild, had been inspired by those same tones, but she had heard them in her dreams.
“Corris,” she squeaked. “My song.” (read more)
Can You Spare a Dollar?
The body was lying alongside the road. It sure looked like a body. I hopped out of my truck to investigate. It was Stick Man, and he was dead. He was on his back, his arms draped beside his body, as if he had decided to take a nap. But this was one nap he would not be waking up from. I reached out and touched his arm: cold. It was hard to believe, but Stick Man was dead. Even now, his large bubbly eyes stared out glazed and lifeless.
I huffed it over to Margie’s place and pounded on the door.
“What’s all this?” she said, eyeing me sharply.
“It’s Sticky,” I said. “He’s died. His body is right out at the end of your drive.”
Margie’s plump face shook with emotion. “In front of my drive? Are you sure?”
“Right at the end,” I said. “You didn’t see him?”
“I haven’t been out yet. It’s still early.”
“Well, call Sheriff Dooley, would you?”
Margie peered past me toward the road.
“Fine.”
As Margie went inside, I returned to Stick Man. He looked so different dead, so still. I still couldn’t believe he was gone. How had he died? I wondered. His shirt and pants were dirty and full of holes, but that was normal for Stick Man. His face looked calm, but it was so full of wrinkles, it was hard to say.
Poor Sticky, I thought. You had a hard life. You deserved better than this. I crouched there next to him thinking of all the times I had ignored him, denied him a handout. And now he was dead.
Several minutes later Sheriff Dooley drove up. He pulled over and glanced down at Sticky. “Pete. What happened?”
I shook my head. “I found him like this. Looks like a heart attack. Like he just fell asleep and died.” (read more)
Storm of Chance
Linda woke to the sound of Charles screaming in the bathroom. Had she slept through another one? Screams of agony! She leaped up and into her cotton robe. Wrapping it protectively around her body, she hurried around the bed and flung open the bathroom door. Charles was curled up in the bathtub in a fetal position, his face rigid with fear.
“My arm!” he screamed. “My arm! My arm!” He seemed to barely recognize her. Who was this woman in his bathroom? He gasped for air, his cheeks puffing up and down. He was crying now.
“Let me see,” Linda said. She bent down and tried to uncurl him.
He thrust his arm at her. “Look, it’s gone!”
Linda fell back in shock. She had been through this before, but it scared her every time. His arm was missing, severed at the elbow. He waved the stump around. It looked fully healed, although an ugly tangle of scars covered the end.
“My arm is gone,” he said in shock, looking up at her in disbelief, then staring again at the remains of his arm.
She pulled him out of the bathtub and maneuvered him back into bed. The first time she had run away in horror. Now she had the routine down. Get a glass of water and a couple of sleeping pills. Wait for the new memories to settle in.
She examined herself. As usual, she was fine. The storm hadn’t hurt her. Her mysterious immunity remained intact.
On the way to the kitchen she turned on the television. As she suspected, all the channels were focusing on the recent storm.
“Do not go outside,” said a newscaster. “Remain in your homes. President Nelson has declared a state of emergency.” (read more)
Elephant City
Skeera stood on the edge of the forest, her son beside her. Off in the distance, just beyond a large field, a vast white wall of polished stone stretched in both directions, towering hundreds of feet high. Elephant City! How many years had she dreamed of this moment? And now it was here.
The wall was a marvel of architecture, far larger than anything built by humans in any disk Skeera had ever viewed. Small windows and openings could be seen in its surface. A large gate stood at the base.
Her heart thumped in her chest. It was so beautiful! What lay behind that wall? Were they in any danger? She felt guilty that Mason was with her, but at the same time, his presence comforted her immensely.
Her back ached from the weight of the supplies she carried, including the disks, some of them hundreds of years old. Despite the protests of those around her, she had taken them from the library to trade with the elephants. “Death to the elephants!” they had cried when she revealed her plan. She couldn’t blame them. The elephant-human wars had left deep scars on both sides. They didn’t understand. Was she to idly sit by while their numbers continued to fall? They needed food, medicine, tools and more. Trading the disks might not work, but at least it offered a chance. The elephants, she knew, placed great value on history, and the disks she carried covered the entire history of the genetic project during which the elephants and other species were uplifted into sentience. She even had a disk showing the elephants before they were altered. Hopefully the elephants would find them valuable; otherwise they were on a fool’s errand. (read more)
Don’t Ask!
It was impossible. “Do you smell that?” I asked Bat. I let my nose lead me down the corridor. ”It’s getting stronger. Please tell me you smell that.” I had always been blessed with a superior sense of smell. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much of a blessing on ship. More of a curse, really.
Bat’s face lit up. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Coffee. I can smell it now.”
“I told you,” I said, quickening my pace. “Somebody has a stash and they’re not sharing.”
Bat bobbed his head. We were both aching for a good cup of java. Hell, everybody on ship was. We were aching for anything from Earth. We were on our return trip from Vega, and all the food we had taken with us was long gone. We ate only what we could grow; and coffee didn’t make the list.
Or so I thought.
“If I find out that this bastard has been hoarding all this time,” I said, “I’m going to--”
“It’s coming from in here,” said Bat, and he turned to the left. “What’s down here?”
I frowned. This corridor led to the animal husbandry rooms. I was certain I would find the source in the agriculture sections. But sure enough, Bat was right. The smell was unmistakable.
It was still early morning, shiptime, so most people were asleep. Bat and I were assigned morning security watch. It was pure dumb luck that we had run across the faint but recognizable odor. We were supposed to patrol only the corridors, and now we were risking getting in trouble by entering the animal husbandry areas. (read more)
Salvage Yard
The second I set eyes on the ship, I knew there’d be trouble. It was one of those ultra-luxurious family pleasure-cruisers—the kind that only a fool would waste their money buying. It must have cost a million credits at least. The airlock popped open and out floated two suited figures, a tall one and a short one. I groaned. The tall one’s P-suit was decorated with shiny jewels. Obviously a woman’s suit. I shuddered to think how much it cost. The short one’s suit was one of those mirrored safety P-suits. Poor kid, I thought. He looked like a silver traffic beacon at a spaceport. Obviously these two were from the inner planets and had more money than they knew what to do with. But why the hell were they way out here in Rim visiting my yard? It took a special breed to come out this far, and these two just weren’t the type.
My guess was that it was a mother and her kid. But the kid was so young; he couldn’t have been more than ten. His gaze instantly locked on my salvage yard, and he struggled unsuccessfully to pry himself from his mother’s grip and get a closer look.
She held his hand tightly and looked over the yard. Her disappointed expression was easily visible through her visor. The boy, however, stared with wonder and enthusiasm. I liked him already.
I hopped on my grav-scooter, and flew out to greet them. I clicked on my audio. “How can I help you?”
Beside us, the salvage yard stretched off into the distance—hundreds of hulks of old ships. It was a glittering sea of ancient treasures. At least that’s how I saw it, though it was clear my lady customer didn’t agree. There were old wrecks out there dating back more than 550 years. None was functional, of course, and most of the valuable portions had been stripped from them years ago. Still, there was wealth out there to someone who knew what to look for. (read more)
A Certain Slant of Light
Walter walked slowly along the crumbling sidewalk. The last ten years had taken its toll on his body, not to mention this little town, and the world outside it. Lee walked silently beside him. Silent for now. His protests would come shortly, as they always did. Walter forgave him. Lee had only been a toddler when they’d lost his mother. He didn’t remember her the way Walter did. The time had passed too quickly. Lee was an adult now, with his own family. Walter still saw him as that sandy-haired, freckle-faced little boy, but the truth was, Lee’s hairline was receding. And Walter was sliding quickly into old age.
The number of people grew. “There he is,” said an onlooker. “That’s him.” More faces turned toward him. More voices whispered.
Walter ignored them. Lee was clearly uncomfortable—he never liked the spotlight—but by now, Walter barely noticed the attention. Like Clare, he was a fixture here. The only difference was, he could move.
And there she was, his beautiful wife. The border of the time bubble was invisible, but a certain slant of light betrayed its presence. Clare stood with her back toward Walter. Her neck was craned around, and she peered in his direction with the hint of a smile. A smile that had been for him, all those years ago. A smile that was still there.
Walter approached as close as he could. Only a fool would approach closer. To do so was to die, to become caught in the time bubble, frozen.
Although only ten years had passed, the difference inside and out was obvious. Outside: dry foliage, the crumbling buildings, the yellow-brown sky. Inside the bubble, everything looked bright and green. It was like a snow globe. With his wife trapped inside, a living statue. (read more)
TEN SCIENCE FICTION STORIES
This collection of ten original science fiction stories from multiple award-winning author Preston Dennett has much to offer fans of speculative fiction. There is adventure, romance, comedy, and mystery. There are aliens, alternative universes, probable realities, time-bubbles, spaceships, other planets, alien artifacts and much more. Prepare yourself for a journey into realms beyond imagination.
TEARS NOT OF A CHILD. In a world where age is treated as a disease, Melissa and David Perkins have decided to grow old first, and then seek treatment. But when they finally elect to “Close the Gate,” weird things begin to happen.
GREETINGS FROM EARTH. A strange and beautiful alien artifact has appeared on Earth, and nobody knows what it is. A crashed ship, a monitoring device, alien art…the theories are endless. Then Pete takes his wife (a psychic) to visit it, and soon regrets his decision.
ENTER A HUMAN. When Sarah Webster sits down to paint a field of flowers, an alien spaceship lands next to her. Out steps an alien who has a special task for her that could change the course of all humanity. But will Sarah accept?
STARS ARE WILD. Gracie Megan Sparks’ song has just hit #1 on several of the fifty colonized planets. Then, on the far side of the universe, the little-known Music Trees have inexplicably stopped singing. And when Megan learns that her song is the reason why, she knows her life will never be the same.
CAN YOU SPARE A DOLLAR? Sticky has lived on Pete’s small country farm all his life. But when Sticky suddenly dies, a mystery is uncovered which will shake the entire town, and threaten the survival of all humanity.
STORM OF CHANCE: As a series of weird probability storms strike the planet, the entire world is plunged into near chaos. Everyone struggles to adapt to the constant changes, but Linda, finds herself strangely immune from the storms. The question is, why?
ELEPHANT CITY. Skeera is worried. The population of people on Earth has dwindled to almost nothing. She must do something to save them. The only option is unthinkable: make a venture to Elephant City and attempt to make friends with the new dominant species of Earth: the elephants.
DON’T ASK! Someone is hoarding supplies on ship, and Stebbins is furious. Everyone knows that hoarding is not allowed, and he goes on a mission to find the culprit. However, when he discovers the culprit, and what he is hoarding, he wonders if some secrets are better left unknown.
SALVAGE YARD. Haskel Danvers is the proud owner of a salvage yard of old, wrecked spaceships on the rim of the Milky Way. A mysterious mother and her child arrive to take a tour, and Haskel reluctantly agrees. But he soon learns to regret his decision.
A CERTAIN SLANT OF LIGHT. Without warning, mysterious time-bubbles have appeared all over Earth, freezing small groups of people in time. Walter Scobee’s wife, Clare, is one of the victims. But can Walter’s love for his wife transcend time and space itself?
These ten fascinating stories from the imagination of Preston Dennett take you on a wondrous and unforgettable journey to the farthest edges of the universe. All but one have been vetted by professional editors and appeared in various magazines, and each includes a Behind the Story section revealing how the stories came to be written and their pathway to publication. So put on your spacesuits and grab your laser-guns and prepare to be amazed!
Contents
Introduction…4
Contents
Introduction…4
Tears, not of a Child…11
Greetings from Earth…23
Enter a Human…32
Stars Are Wild…46
Can You Spare a Dollar?...68
Storm of Chance…79
Elephant City…89
Don’t Ask!…116
Salvage Yard…124
A Certain Slant of Light…153
Afterword…166
About the Author…168
Introduction
Welcome to my first anthology of selected speculative fiction stories! I’m ridiculously, stupidly excited about it. All I ever wanted to be was a science fiction writer, so to actually and finally be writing the introduction to my own anthology is a dream come true.
I’ll never forget my introduction to the field. It was 1978. I was thirteen years old and my mother gave me Clifford Simak’s book, Mastodonia. Little did she know that she had created a monster. I read that book so hard, it was like an out of body experience. I had no idea such things even existed. I had read C.S. Lewis and Tolkien, but I thought they were freak events. Who knew that there were others out there?
So began my love affair with speculative fiction. And it was a torrid love affair if there ever was one. I spent all my allowances on books, reading everything I could get my hands on. I did yardwork, odd jobs, and babysitting for the neighbors just so I could afford more books. After reading everything by Simak, I moved to Heinlein, Asimov, and Clark. Then Harrison, Herbert, Delaney, Niven and Pournelle, Le Guin and Hogan…the list grew fast. No author was safe from me. I devoured all of them. Within a few years I read everything from Poul Anderson to Roger Zelazny, and had amassed hundreds of books and magazines. I was obsessed. I had found my calling. I was going to be a science fiction writer.
One day, around age fifteen, my father saw that the walls of my room were stacked high with books. He threatened to get rid of them. My mom stepped in and said, “Don’t you dare!” Thanks, Mom! And thanks Dad for listening to Mom!
It took me many years to gather the courage to write a story, and another few to start sending them out. From 1986 to 1992, I wrote about fifty stories, submitting them to any place I could find. The result was a mountain of rejection slips. Sometimes the editors provided encouraging responses, but they still rejected my stories. I entered contests too. I was a finalist in the National Fantasy Fan Federation contest, and a finalist in the Writers of Earth Contest, edited by Edward Bryant. But still no sales. I heard about the Writers of the Future Contest and entered eleven times and received—no surprise—eleven rejections. Not so much as an honorable mention. Four or five years of hard work, and nothing to show for it.
Becoming a science fiction writer was much harder than it looked. After almost six years of trying to get published, I made a huge mistake. I gave up. It was too hard. I was done. My love affair with speculative fiction was over. I sold all my books and magazines. The only ones I saved were my Writers of the Future Books. I just couldn’t part with them. I wept as I boxed them up and put them in the closet, where they would remain for the next seventeen years.
All the stories I had sent out to find a home limped back to me and were trunked. Then, one day in 1993, I received a letter from Midnight Zoo. I had completely forgotten that they were still holding my story, “The Dream Collection Center.” They loved it! They wanted to publish it! My jaw dropped as my head hit the roof. Did my eyes deceive me? Was this an acceptance?!
Of course, it was. Not only did they love it. They held a contest for all the stories they had received, and guess what? Mine won first place! First damn place! I about died when I saw this. A few months later, my story appeared in Volume 4, Issue 1. From the editor, Jon Herron: “The first prize goes to Preston Dennett for “The Dream Collection Center,” a strong story of dreams, predictions and the inability of humans to deal with knowing the future, despite our intensive efforts to predict it.”
I was elated. But it was too late. I had already sold all my books. I had already divorced myself from the idea of being a science fiction writer. I couldn’t go back. I wouldn’t.
And there was another complication. I was suddenly enjoying fantastic success as a non-fiction writer in an even more exciting and profound genre: UFOs! That’s right, I had discovered that UFOs were real, and was selling articles like crazy, and getting paid $100-$300 a pop! Literally everything I wrote was selling, and even getting the covers of major magazines. I was a featured speaker at conventions, going on radio shows, and even going on TV!
So, although I was excited to finally have sold a science-fiction story, I just couldn’t go back. My path had taken a left turn out of the science-fiction field and that was okay. Yes, I felt a poignant sense of loss. But I had to follow my excitement. Before long I was writing books and doing quite well, thank you. I was happy.
Fast-forward almost two decades to 2009. My boss walks into my office and asks, “Do you like science fiction?”
“I used to,” I said, with a painful stab of memory.
“Read this,” he handed me E.E. Doc Smith’s, Lensman series. He was my boss, and I was a good boy, so I obeyed. I took the books. I read them.
And just like that, I was back in love! I bought back all my books. I dug out my WOTF books and re-read them. Then I got all the remaining volumes and read those. I caught up with all my favorite authors.
Then it happened: I started to feel that urge again, that compulsion to start writing my own stories. But I was terrified. I had been down that road before, and it was littered with broken dreams. I had been lost in the desecrated plains of total rejection for too long. I wasn’t sure if I could survive it again.
So, I made a vow. I would try submitting again, but only to the Writers of the Future Contest. If I earned an honorable mention, then maybe I would try submitting elsewhere. I pulled out my old stories and grimaced. I had learned a bit more about writing by this time, and I could see why they were rejected. So, I thanked God that we now had computers, and I began to write. I sent off a new story to the Writers of the Future. Of course, I received a rejection, then another, and another, and so on.
But I was serious. I read like a madman. I read every book that won the Hugo, Nebula, John W. Campbell, or Philip K. Dick Award. And I kept writing stories, and kept entering every quarter of the contest.
Then it happened, entry number sixteen, an honorable mention! I did it! My head nearly hit the ceiling. Still, I was too scared to submit anywhere else. I kept submitting to the contest and soon earned another honorable mention. When I had earned three, I began submitting to magazines.
To my delight, I not only began receiving personal rejections; within one year, I sold my first story! Then I sold another. And another! It took me about a half-million words, but I had learned how to write a readable story.
My head spun. Maybe I could do this! Maybe I could actually be a science fiction writer. Maybe? I was! I was actually doing it!
Still, my primary focus was with the WOTF contest. I had a feeling I could win it. I knew I could! I never missed a quarter. I was earning more honorable mentions, but that was it. The higher levels of the contest seemed out of reach. Whenever I felt my confidence waver, I would look at the WOTF books and tell myself, you could win this contest. Don’t give up.
Then one day I was lurking the WOTF forum and noticed mention of a cautionary tale about why you should never give up. It was from a workshop by Dean Wesley Smith. I knew about Dean. He had a story in Volume 1, and later became one of the judges. In his workshop, Dean talked about an anonymous guy from Topanga Canyon, a promising new writer who the magazine editors were talking about. They wondered who would be the first to publish one of his stories. Even book editors were showing interest. Then suddenly, he disappeared. Gone and never to be seen again. His name, to protect his identity, was Topanga Canyon.
When I read that, I felt a cold chill. I was from Topanga. That was me. I knew it in my bones. Before I gave up, Dean was editing Pulphouse, and had written me personal rejections. I still remember them: “You’re close.” “Keep trying.”
I felt like I had a secret identity that even I didn’t know about! It's like I had a glimpse into a parallel universe and was able to see what might have been, had I stayed the course. It was like being struck by lightning.
I sent Dean an email. He confirmed my secret identity. I was Topanga Canyon! In certain circles I was actually famous. One very well-known (multiple award-winning) writer wrote to me: “Seriously, Preston, you have no idea how quasi-legendary TOPANGA CANYON has become, thanks to Kris and Dean and some of the other editors from back in the day. Topanga Canyon is like Gordon Lightfoot's balladeering of the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald. A tragic story, and an inspiring story, to motivate and regale; about that mystery writer from a place with a unique name. The career that could have been...”
I felt waves of sheer delight with undercurrents of utter devastation. Magazine and book editors were talking about me! They were waiting to see who would be the first to publish my first story. And I gave up.
Kristine Katheryn Rusch, editor of F&SF had sent me a personal rejection. Stanley Schmidt, editor of Analog had sent me encouraging rejections. I had no idea that this was somewhat rare, and that I was literally at the finish line of becoming a published science fiction writer.
This discovery inspired me even more to keep entering the WOTF contest, which I did, every quarter, eventually earning twelve honorable mentions. On December 28, 2017, three days before the Q1 deadline, for the 47th time, I submitted yet another story to the contest. I had just received four straight rejections in a row, so my hopes were not high. I had entered every single quarter for the last eight bloody years. Why should this one be any different? At best I hoped to add to my sizable collection of HMs.
Then the impossible happened. To my utter shock, my story was a semi-finalist. So close! But no cigar. You needed to be a finalist to get your story in front of the deciding judges. I missed it by that much! But then the impossible happened. I got a call from the contest. Someone had dropped out or been disqualified, and my story had been bumped up to finalist. My story would go before the judges along with seven others. Three would be chosen for first, second and third place. Five would be rejected. Which meant there was more than a fifty percent chance that I would be rejected. Not great odds. But with a contest that receives “several thousand” entries each quarter, I had made it to the very top percentile! Amazing!
The next few weeks were pure torture. I was at work when the phone call came that I had won second place. It was easily one of the happiest days of my life. I could feel that thirteen-year-old boy inside of me jumping up and down. I won! I actually won! I would get a monetary prize, a beautiful trophy, a week-long workshop, and best of all, my story would appear in Volume 35. At last!
My winning story was chosen by Mike Resnick, Tim Powers and John Sawyer! At the workshop I got to meet Tim Powers, Orson Scott Card, Dave Wolverton, Dean Wesley, and many other greats.
Now I could not only call myself a science fiction writer, but an award-winning one! Gregory Benford handed me my award on stage! How cool is that?
Now I was really inspired! And I began selling stories like crazy, and not just to token markets, or even semi-pro, but to professional markets! I submitted to everyone. My only rule was: paying markets only. I wasn’t going to give my stories away for free.
It was so amazing, getting notifications that my stories were making it past the first and second rounds and getting published. Science fiction, fantasy, horror…I loved all of them.
Which brings us to this anthology. With a current total of forty-three stories published, I have quite a few to choose from. Of course, I wanted to include my favorites, but how to choose? I love all my babies!
For this anthology, I decided to stick with stories that are strictly science fiction. That helped cull down the field. I definitely had to include my Writers of the Future Winning story. I also had won another small contest held by SOOP publishers, earning first place in the sci-fi genre, and second place in the Grand Prize category of all genres. I knew that story had to be included. I filled out the rest with some short, some mid-sized and some longer ones, all of which have been vetted by editors and published in various magazines. And just for good measure, I included one story which has yet to be published, and has never before seen print. That seems fair.
So, there you go! I’ve included short stories and novelettes. You will find a wide variety of subjects and subgenres: comedic stories, romance, classic adventure, mystery, space-opera. There are aliens, alternative universes, probable realities, time-bubbles, spaceships, alien artifacts, other planets, and more. With two award-winning stories to boot!
I’ve also included a little behind the story section for each story, revealing how they were inspired, came to be written, their long or short pathways to publication, and other little tidbits that I hope you, dear readers, might find of interest, whether you are simply a fan of reading, or perhaps a writer yourself!
Tears, not of a Child
We were both seventy years old when we closed the gate. It was the same treatment that our parents had gone through, and our grandparents and their parents. Everyone accepts the treatment sooner or later, most people earlier than us. We wanted to experience old age…or rather, David did and I went along. But we didn’t want to risk going past seventy. We’ve all heard the horror stories of people who actually died. So I drew the line at seventy. Besides, as David liked to say, everyone knows the chances of having a bad reaction go down the longer you wait. It was one of his ways of convincing me to wait. Later I learned there is no known correlation between age at time of treatment and results.
“Less than one in a million people have a bad reaction,” I told him, making up my facts as I spoke. I didn’t want to be old anymore. I was tired of the pain, the lack of energy, and the looks people gave us. I didn’t know back then that the accurate number was closer to one in twenty million. In total, there were less than a thousand known cases, another fun fact that I learned the hard way.
“We’ll be fine,” he told me when I complained to him that we were getting too old. Statistically, the most common age of the treatment was fifty-five.
“People stare at us.”
“So? Let them stare.”
So, we waited. I loved him, it wasn’t a big deal. But when the day finally came for closing the gate, I was relieved and excited. Finally, we wouldn’t be the freaky old people and we could join the rest of the human race.
The treatment was simple, just a series of injections. Nano-meds would flood our blood stream and invade every cell, repair the damage done to the DNA and remove the random mutations, rebuilding the precious telomeres that controlled aging. By restoring our DNA molecules to their original condition and tricking our cells into thinking they were new, the aging process would be reversed. We would be young again.
We were in and out of Doctor Anders’ office in minutes. If he ever mentioned the possibility of a bad reaction, I don’t remember it. He may have.
It was a joy to watch our bodies become young. Each morning, I looked in the mirror and saw fewer wrinkles. My breasts became firmer, my stomach was flattening. And watching the auburn come back into my hair…I’m not ashamed to admit that I wept with delight.
David didn’t want to admit it, but he was enjoying himself as much as I was. He had started working out again. He had always been handsome with his blue eyes and blond hair. But watching him become young again…I fell in love with him all over. And he was equally stricken with me. We were like two young love-sick teen-agers.
“See, Mel, aren’t you glad we waited?” he said one morning, right after we had made love. Love, in the morning, before work! We hadn’t done that since we were in our twenties. Being old for so long had given me a new perspective on youth.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll admit it. You were right. Now, please remove your hand from my breast and let me get dressed!”
David laughed, swept me into a kiss, and dashed into the shower, motioning me to join him. Whew! Had we ever been like this? This was something I could get used to.
And it only got better. The doctor said that the treatment would take effect immediately, and that in about three months, we would be back to a biological age of about twenty-five.
After the three months had passed, we both looked amazing. We went to Doctor Anders and he confirmed that our treatments had been successful. He congratulated us and sent us on our way.
I never thought we’d see him again. After all, these days with the home nano-medkits, there’s not a real big demand for doctors.
Soon, we settled back into our routines. The only big change in our life from the treatments was that David and I became closer. We had always been deeply in love, but somehow, growing old and then becoming young again together had bonded us in a profound way.
We did have more energy. Now we were doing all the wonderful things that had caused us to fall in love with each other in the first place. We’d go out dancing, visit the nature preserves, go kayaking and snowboarding. But this time, we appreciated it even more.
Our parents and grandparents were, of course, hugely relieved that we had done the treatments and they started bugging us about having a child.
Both of us had decided that we would put off having our child until we were absolutely sure we were ready. After all, what was the rush? Raising a child was hard, and there were already a lot of people in the world. Yes, we wanted kids, but we were waiting.
I was wondering if the time for a kid had finally come when we first noticed something wrong. David was losing his chest hair.
“I’m sure it means nothing,” I said. “It never was thick until he was in his forties.”
“Is it still falling out?” asked Doctor Anders.
David nodded. He reached out and pulled out a clump. “It’s going quick. Soon there’ll be nothing left. I haven’t had a smooth chest since I was a teen-ager.” He looked worried.
“Hmm,” said Anders. “I’m going to order some additional tests, but your wife is probably right. Chest hair is often a feature that comes in later age. It’s not unusual to lose it. I wouldn’t be alarmed. Of course, as you know, we can restore it. But I’d like to wait until we have confirmed that your biological age has, in fact, stabilized.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Stabilized?”
“Well, yes. Trust me, nothing to worry about. It’s just a period of adjustment. You both will be just fine.”
I looked at David. He shrugged. You can’t argue with the doctor.
The tests came back normal. Doctor Anders explained that we were simply having trouble adjusting psychologically, that the transformation from old to young was so radical—particularly in our case—that anxiety and fear reactions sometimes took place. We would be fine, he said, once we got used to the fact that our bodies were young.
“See, I told you it was nothing.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not the one losing your chest hair,” he said, smiling.
We were in each other’s arms again, finished and basking in the afterglow. We were making love twice a day now. David couldn’t keep his hands off me. I wasn’t complaining. It felt good to be wanted, desired, to be young.
“You were quick tonight,” I said. David smiled guiltily. “I know. I’m so sensitive. I haven’t been like that since I was a…” He looked suddenly pensive.
“The doctor said not to worry.”
“I know, but there’s something I didn’t tell you. Ah…I stopped shaving.” He felt his smooth chin. “See? Nothing. I can’t grow a beard anymore.”
It was then that I noticed a red splotch on his chin. It was a pimple. I didn’t say anything. It was just a pimple. It didn’t mean a thing.
“Well,” I said. “We can see the doctor again if you want. But you heard him. He said you were fine. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I don’t know. I guess I was embarrassed. It’s not like I even want a beard. It’s just nice to know that if I did, I could have one.”
“So let me see if I have this straight. You’re upset about not having something you don’t want.”
David tilted his head. “That sounds about right.”
“You are so weird.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a…oh, never mind!” (read more)
Greetings from Earth
My beautiful wife and I inched forward in line. “So crowded,” she said, holding my arm as somebody jostled against her. “We shouldn’t have come.”
I knew how she hated crowds. But we were in the area and who could pass up the opportunity to view an actual alien artifact?
I had visited it before, of course, but Michelle never had. And she always had some reason to avoid seeing it. We lived so close; she could see it anytime, she would say. Or, I’ve seen pictures of it on TV. How different could it be in real life?
But I insisted. She was an artist, and I just instinctively knew that there was something about this artifact that she had to see.
I was right. Michelle peered ahead of us in line. The artifact was just barely visible hidden by trees in a field up ahead. Already, she was clearly impressed.
“Oh,” she said. “I see it. It’s beautiful.”
“I told you. I knew you’d like it.”
She gripped my arm more tightly as we moved ahead in line and the artifact came into unobstructed view.
I loved the fact that this thing from another world continued to mystify the scientists. It had appeared overnight in a little field outside of Stockton, California. A perfect sphere, just shy of 130 meters in diameter, sunk slightly into the ground. At first glance, it appeared to be made of emerald. It was shiny, reflective, almost translucent. Closer, it looked like ceramic, or even stone or metal. But it wasn’t. Nor was it plastic or glass. Nobody knew what the heck it was. (read more)
Enter a Human
“Why so glum?” Serran asked. Track sat hunched over his desk, facing the glowing screen. Their burrow was warm and filled with wonderful cooking odors. He had many reasons to be happy. But he wasn’t.
“I’m doomed, my dear. I failed in my task. I simply can’t locate a maker. I looked everywhere, and I can’t find anybody. All the great talent is taken. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve lost my touch. I have to quit the guild.” He swiped the screen clear of the prospective names, none of them promising.
Serran quivered in shock. “Track, you can’t quit. This is your life’s work. There must be someplace you haven’t looked. You can’t quit. I won’t have it.”
“I have looked everywhere. The competition begins too soon. Even if I find someone, there’s no time. All the great artists have already been discovered.” He choked back a sob. This was no time to begin crying. If he had to quit the guild, there would be necessary preparations. And to cry in front of his partner would be shameful.
Serran’s expression, however, betrayed no disappointment. She seemed, if anything, sympathetic. How could she be so calm?
She swiveled back to the kitchen, and continued to cook the candied slug-worms, Track’s favorite dessert. “It will all work out finely, my treasure,” she said resolutely. “I have confidence in you. You’ll find someone. Don’t give up. Please, for me, keep looking. You discovered Filanthia Tin, and look how successful she has become.”
“That was just one artist, many years ago. It’s been a long time since I have discovered anyone of great import. You say I should continue, but I tell you, I can’t. I’m getting old, Serran. Old and tired. The others in the guild are talking. You know how they can be. If I enter the competition with another mediocre talent, it will be the end of me either way.” (read more)
Stars Are Wild
I opened the door to the ship’s studio and waved frantically for Gracie to stop playing the omniboard. She lifted her fingers and the beautiful music echoed into silence. Her glare scorched me. I wasn’t supposed to interrupt her when she was composing, but this was too important.
“Gracie,” I said, leaning down to give her a kiss. “I’ve got news. We have to cancel all your shows for the next month. Something better has come up.”
She narrowed her eyes. Her latest song, Stars Are Wild, was number one on six of the fifty worlds, and we were in the middle of a multi-world tour to promote it. The entire year was booked solid, and she was playing at the best venues known. What could possibly be better than that?
I sat down and activated the HV, enjoying Gracie’s confusion. “Just watch,” I said.
A woman newscaster began talking. She stood before a large grove of trees, each one covered with striking violet-colored leaves. In the distance, an ethereal yet familiar tune played.
“What is this?” Gracie asked, looking at me, then back to the holo.
“Watch,” I said.
The newscaster spoke: “Something amazing is happening on the little-known planet, Autumn. The Music Trees have woken up. This is how they used to sound.”
A low, hollow fluting sound filled the cabin. It was an eerie, haunting echo that froze my blood. I had heard variations of it many times. Gracie’s song, Stars Are Wild, had been inspired by those same tones, but she had heard them in her dreams.
“Corris,” she squeaked. “My song.” (read more)
Can You Spare a Dollar?
The body was lying alongside the road. It sure looked like a body. I hopped out of my truck to investigate. It was Stick Man, and he was dead. He was on his back, his arms draped beside his body, as if he had decided to take a nap. But this was one nap he would not be waking up from. I reached out and touched his arm: cold. It was hard to believe, but Stick Man was dead. Even now, his large bubbly eyes stared out glazed and lifeless.
I huffed it over to Margie’s place and pounded on the door.
“What’s all this?” she said, eyeing me sharply.
“It’s Sticky,” I said. “He’s died. His body is right out at the end of your drive.”
Margie’s plump face shook with emotion. “In front of my drive? Are you sure?”
“Right at the end,” I said. “You didn’t see him?”
“I haven’t been out yet. It’s still early.”
“Well, call Sheriff Dooley, would you?”
Margie peered past me toward the road.
“Fine.”
As Margie went inside, I returned to Stick Man. He looked so different dead, so still. I still couldn’t believe he was gone. How had he died? I wondered. His shirt and pants were dirty and full of holes, but that was normal for Stick Man. His face looked calm, but it was so full of wrinkles, it was hard to say.
Poor Sticky, I thought. You had a hard life. You deserved better than this. I crouched there next to him thinking of all the times I had ignored him, denied him a handout. And now he was dead.
Several minutes later Sheriff Dooley drove up. He pulled over and glanced down at Sticky. “Pete. What happened?”
I shook my head. “I found him like this. Looks like a heart attack. Like he just fell asleep and died.” (read more)
Storm of Chance
Linda woke to the sound of Charles screaming in the bathroom. Had she slept through another one? Screams of agony! She leaped up and into her cotton robe. Wrapping it protectively around her body, she hurried around the bed and flung open the bathroom door. Charles was curled up in the bathtub in a fetal position, his face rigid with fear.
“My arm!” he screamed. “My arm! My arm!” He seemed to barely recognize her. Who was this woman in his bathroom? He gasped for air, his cheeks puffing up and down. He was crying now.
“Let me see,” Linda said. She bent down and tried to uncurl him.
He thrust his arm at her. “Look, it’s gone!”
Linda fell back in shock. She had been through this before, but it scared her every time. His arm was missing, severed at the elbow. He waved the stump around. It looked fully healed, although an ugly tangle of scars covered the end.
“My arm is gone,” he said in shock, looking up at her in disbelief, then staring again at the remains of his arm.
She pulled him out of the bathtub and maneuvered him back into bed. The first time she had run away in horror. Now she had the routine down. Get a glass of water and a couple of sleeping pills. Wait for the new memories to settle in.
She examined herself. As usual, she was fine. The storm hadn’t hurt her. Her mysterious immunity remained intact.
On the way to the kitchen she turned on the television. As she suspected, all the channels were focusing on the recent storm.
“Do not go outside,” said a newscaster. “Remain in your homes. President Nelson has declared a state of emergency.” (read more)
Elephant City
Skeera stood on the edge of the forest, her son beside her. Off in the distance, just beyond a large field, a vast white wall of polished stone stretched in both directions, towering hundreds of feet high. Elephant City! How many years had she dreamed of this moment? And now it was here.
The wall was a marvel of architecture, far larger than anything built by humans in any disk Skeera had ever viewed. Small windows and openings could be seen in its surface. A large gate stood at the base.
Her heart thumped in her chest. It was so beautiful! What lay behind that wall? Were they in any danger? She felt guilty that Mason was with her, but at the same time, his presence comforted her immensely.
Her back ached from the weight of the supplies she carried, including the disks, some of them hundreds of years old. Despite the protests of those around her, she had taken them from the library to trade with the elephants. “Death to the elephants!” they had cried when she revealed her plan. She couldn’t blame them. The elephant-human wars had left deep scars on both sides. They didn’t understand. Was she to idly sit by while their numbers continued to fall? They needed food, medicine, tools and more. Trading the disks might not work, but at least it offered a chance. The elephants, she knew, placed great value on history, and the disks she carried covered the entire history of the genetic project during which the elephants and other species were uplifted into sentience. She even had a disk showing the elephants before they were altered. Hopefully the elephants would find them valuable; otherwise they were on a fool’s errand. (read more)
Don’t Ask!
It was impossible. “Do you smell that?” I asked Bat. I let my nose lead me down the corridor. ”It’s getting stronger. Please tell me you smell that.” I had always been blessed with a superior sense of smell. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much of a blessing on ship. More of a curse, really.
Bat’s face lit up. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Coffee. I can smell it now.”
“I told you,” I said, quickening my pace. “Somebody has a stash and they’re not sharing.”
Bat bobbed his head. We were both aching for a good cup of java. Hell, everybody on ship was. We were aching for anything from Earth. We were on our return trip from Vega, and all the food we had taken with us was long gone. We ate only what we could grow; and coffee didn’t make the list.
Or so I thought.
“If I find out that this bastard has been hoarding all this time,” I said, “I’m going to--”
“It’s coming from in here,” said Bat, and he turned to the left. “What’s down here?”
I frowned. This corridor led to the animal husbandry rooms. I was certain I would find the source in the agriculture sections. But sure enough, Bat was right. The smell was unmistakable.
It was still early morning, shiptime, so most people were asleep. Bat and I were assigned morning security watch. It was pure dumb luck that we had run across the faint but recognizable odor. We were supposed to patrol only the corridors, and now we were risking getting in trouble by entering the animal husbandry areas. (read more)
Salvage Yard
The second I set eyes on the ship, I knew there’d be trouble. It was one of those ultra-luxurious family pleasure-cruisers—the kind that only a fool would waste their money buying. It must have cost a million credits at least. The airlock popped open and out floated two suited figures, a tall one and a short one. I groaned. The tall one’s P-suit was decorated with shiny jewels. Obviously a woman’s suit. I shuddered to think how much it cost. The short one’s suit was one of those mirrored safety P-suits. Poor kid, I thought. He looked like a silver traffic beacon at a spaceport. Obviously these two were from the inner planets and had more money than they knew what to do with. But why the hell were they way out here in Rim visiting my yard? It took a special breed to come out this far, and these two just weren’t the type.
My guess was that it was a mother and her kid. But the kid was so young; he couldn’t have been more than ten. His gaze instantly locked on my salvage yard, and he struggled unsuccessfully to pry himself from his mother’s grip and get a closer look.
She held his hand tightly and looked over the yard. Her disappointed expression was easily visible through her visor. The boy, however, stared with wonder and enthusiasm. I liked him already.
I hopped on my grav-scooter, and flew out to greet them. I clicked on my audio. “How can I help you?”
Beside us, the salvage yard stretched off into the distance—hundreds of hulks of old ships. It was a glittering sea of ancient treasures. At least that’s how I saw it, though it was clear my lady customer didn’t agree. There were old wrecks out there dating back more than 550 years. None was functional, of course, and most of the valuable portions had been stripped from them years ago. Still, there was wealth out there to someone who knew what to look for. (read more)
A Certain Slant of Light
Walter walked slowly along the crumbling sidewalk. The last ten years had taken its toll on his body, not to mention this little town, and the world outside it. Lee walked silently beside him. Silent for now. His protests would come shortly, as they always did. Walter forgave him. Lee had only been a toddler when they’d lost his mother. He didn’t remember her the way Walter did. The time had passed too quickly. Lee was an adult now, with his own family. Walter still saw him as that sandy-haired, freckle-faced little boy, but the truth was, Lee’s hairline was receding. And Walter was sliding quickly into old age.
The number of people grew. “There he is,” said an onlooker. “That’s him.” More faces turned toward him. More voices whispered.
Walter ignored them. Lee was clearly uncomfortable—he never liked the spotlight—but by now, Walter barely noticed the attention. Like Clare, he was a fixture here. The only difference was, he could move.
And there she was, his beautiful wife. The border of the time bubble was invisible, but a certain slant of light betrayed its presence. Clare stood with her back toward Walter. Her neck was craned around, and she peered in his direction with the hint of a smile. A smile that had been for him, all those years ago. A smile that was still there.
Walter approached as close as he could. Only a fool would approach closer. To do so was to die, to become caught in the time bubble, frozen.
Although only ten years had passed, the difference inside and out was obvious. Outside: dry foliage, the crumbling buildings, the yellow-brown sky. Inside the bubble, everything looked bright and green. It was like a snow globe. With his wife trapped inside, a living statue. (read more)
SPECULATIVE FICTION STORIES
BY PRESTON DENNETT
In addition to writing true stories about UFOs and the paranormal, Preston Dennett also writes speculative fiction. He has published more than 40 stories in a wide variety of venues. His stories have appeared in Allegory, Andromeda Spaceways, Bards and Sages, Black Treacle, Cast of Wonders, Daily Science Fiction, Grievous Angel, Perihelion, Pulphouse, Sci-Phi Journal, T. Gene Davis's Speculative Blog, and many other venues. After earning eleven honorable mentions, he won second place in the Writers of the Future Contest (Quarter 1, Volume 35.) Below are his most recent stories.
TREE
Roads Less Travelled - Midnight Street Press
Roads Less Travelled - Midnight Street Press
ONE HUNDRED MONKEYS
Foofaraw Magazine
Foofaraw Magazine
Greetings from Earth
WINNERS ANTHOLOGY BY ALIA LURIA
A Compilation of Award-Winning Short Stories
Something or Other Publishing, 2022
My beautiful wife and I inched forward in line. “So crowded,” she said, holding my arm as somebody jostled against her. “We shouldn’t have come.”
I knew how she hated crowds. But we were in the area and who could pass up the opportunity to view an actual alien artifact?
I had visited it before, of course, but Michelle never had. And she always had some reason to avoid seeing it. We lived so close; she could see it anytime, she would say. Or, I’ve seen pictures of it on TV. How different could it be in real life?
But I insisted. She was an artist, and I just instinctively knew that there was something about this artifact that she had to see.
I was right. Michelle peered ahead of us in line. The artifact was just barely visible hidden by trees in a field up ahead. Already, she was clearly impressed.
“Oh,” she said. “I see it. It’s beautiful.”
“I told you. I knew you’d like it.”
She gripped my arm more tightly as we moved ahead in line and the artifact came into unobstructed view.
I loved the fact that this thing from another world continued to mystify the scientists. It had appeared overnight in a little field outside of Stockton, California. A perfect sphere, just shy of 130 meters in diameter, sunk slightly into the ground. At first glance, it appeared to be made of emerald. It was shiny, reflective, almost translucent. Closer, it looked like ceramic, or even stone or metal. But it wasn’t. Nor was it plastic or glass. Nobody knew what the heck it was.
From what I had read about it, the artifact was absolutely impervious to everything we had thrown at it. It didn’t react to chemical or acid tests, diamond drills, explosives, X-rays. What it came down to, nobody had any idea what it was.
Naturally speculation ran wild as to its purpose. Some said it was a crashed spaceship and when we finally opened it, we would find the alien bodies. Others speculated that it was a probe, sent to monitor our planet. There were dozens of theories: an alien library, an alien bomb, a piece of alien art. The only thing people could agree upon: it was definitely not from Earth.
It took years, and more than a few lawsuits, before the artifact finally became opened to the public. Now, it was nothing more than a tourist attraction.
Perhaps, I thought, that was its purpose.
By the time it was our turn to approach, Michelle was digging her nails painfully into my arm. Her entire body trembled.
“Are you okay?” I asked. This was classic Michelle. Sensitive, emotional, dramatic.
“It’s just so beautiful,” she said breathlessly. I could see she was beginning to cry. The sphere towered above us, and Michelle seemed both afraid and in awe, while at the same time, attracted to it.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked again. She ignored me and was now totally mesmerized by the object. (read more)
GREETINGS FROM EARTH: FIRST PLACE WINNER IN SCIENCE FICTION CATEGORY OF SOOP CONTEST & SECOND PLACE WINNER IN GRAND PRIZE CATEGORY
The Mourning Woman
4th and Starlight
A Fantasy & Science Fiction Anthology, 2022
Jafari bent down and placed another brick in the long line of
drying bricks. His back and shoulders ached from the effort and
the sun beat mercilessly on his head, but he hardly noticed. The pain in
his heart was all-encompassing. Oh, Tahirah! Even now, the thought of
being without her forced tears into his eyes. He quickly turned his head.
Too late! His brother Madu had seen. He sat beneath a small section
of shade, forming bricks from mud and straw.
“Don’t tell me,” Madu said. “It’s Tahirah, isn’t it? You’re thinking
about her again. Forget her! She is a mourning woman. You can never
be with her. No man can.”
Jafari flared with anger. “Don’t tell me to forget her.” Did no one
understand his pain? Not even Madu?
“I’m trying to help you, Jafari. She belongs to the gods. You can’t have her.”
“I don’t care. I love her!” Jafari picked up a newly-made brick from Madu’s stack and carried it to the drying area. He placed it down roughly and stomped back to get another. Madu shook his head. “You are a dreamer, Jafari. Even if she weren’t a mourning woman, her family is wealthy and you are poor. She wears fine linens and smells of perfume. You wear coarse skirts and smell of mud and sweat. She lives in a home of carved white stone. You live in a hut of mud bricks. You aim too high, brother. It matters not that you love her; she is beyond your reach.”
“I’ll win her heart,” Jafari said. “Someday, she’ll be my wife.”
“Oh? When is that? Tomorrow? Next year? You’ve spoken of her since you lost the sidelocks of youth. Yet each year the Nile blesses us with her waters, and still you do nothing. So I ask you, Jafari. When?”
“You’re right.” Jafari threw a brick to the ground, ruining its shape. “I’ve let my fears guide me. It’s time I act. There’s another procession tomorrow. I’m going to tell her how I feel.”
Madu shrugged. “You waste your efforts. You’re forgetting who she is.”
Jafari ignored his brother. Madu didn’t know what it was like to be in love. Oh, Tahirah! Why must you be a mourning woman? (read more)
4th and Starlight
A Fantasy & Science Fiction Anthology, 2022
Jafari bent down and placed another brick in the long line of
drying bricks. His back and shoulders ached from the effort and
the sun beat mercilessly on his head, but he hardly noticed. The pain in
his heart was all-encompassing. Oh, Tahirah! Even now, the thought of
being without her forced tears into his eyes. He quickly turned his head.
Too late! His brother Madu had seen. He sat beneath a small section
of shade, forming bricks from mud and straw.
“Don’t tell me,” Madu said. “It’s Tahirah, isn’t it? You’re thinking
about her again. Forget her! She is a mourning woman. You can never
be with her. No man can.”
Jafari flared with anger. “Don’t tell me to forget her.” Did no one
understand his pain? Not even Madu?
“I’m trying to help you, Jafari. She belongs to the gods. You can’t have her.”
“I don’t care. I love her!” Jafari picked up a newly-made brick from Madu’s stack and carried it to the drying area. He placed it down roughly and stomped back to get another. Madu shook his head. “You are a dreamer, Jafari. Even if she weren’t a mourning woman, her family is wealthy and you are poor. She wears fine linens and smells of perfume. You wear coarse skirts and smell of mud and sweat. She lives in a home of carved white stone. You live in a hut of mud bricks. You aim too high, brother. It matters not that you love her; she is beyond your reach.”
“I’ll win her heart,” Jafari said. “Someday, she’ll be my wife.”
“Oh? When is that? Tomorrow? Next year? You’ve spoken of her since you lost the sidelocks of youth. Yet each year the Nile blesses us with her waters, and still you do nothing. So I ask you, Jafari. When?”
“You’re right.” Jafari threw a brick to the ground, ruining its shape. “I’ve let my fears guide me. It’s time I act. There’s another procession tomorrow. I’m going to tell her how I feel.”
Madu shrugged. “You waste your efforts. You’re forgetting who she is.”
Jafari ignored his brother. Madu didn’t know what it was like to be in love. Oh, Tahirah! Why must you be a mourning woman? (read more)
CORPSE FLIES
Dark Recesses Press, February 2022
The sounds of dishes banging in the kitchen ceased and seconds later Geena appeared, waving her hands frantically. Stanley looked up from the TV. “What is it, honey?”
“L-look!” She pointed to the dining room where a fly the size of a football clung to the wall, fat body glistening, wings twitching.
Stanley’s eyes widened. He dashed into the kitchen and returned with a fly-swatter.
Geena snorted. “Are you planning on giving it a backrub? It’s a corpse fly. Oh, Stanley, you don’t suppose?”
“Don’t even,” Stanley said, throwing the swatter aside and petting her hand. “You’re fine, and so am I. And there’s just one of them.”
“But they only appear when someone’s going to die,” she said nervously. “I’m scared. Do something.” (read more)
Dark Recesses Press, February 2022
The sounds of dishes banging in the kitchen ceased and seconds later Geena appeared, waving her hands frantically. Stanley looked up from the TV. “What is it, honey?”
“L-look!” She pointed to the dining room where a fly the size of a football clung to the wall, fat body glistening, wings twitching.
Stanley’s eyes widened. He dashed into the kitchen and returned with a fly-swatter.
Geena snorted. “Are you planning on giving it a backrub? It’s a corpse fly. Oh, Stanley, you don’t suppose?”
“Don’t even,” Stanley said, throwing the swatter aside and petting her hand. “You’re fine, and so am I. And there’s just one of them.”
“But they only appear when someone’s going to die,” she said nervously. “I’m scared. Do something.” (read more)
Cave of Giants
Spaceports & Spidersilk, October 2020
Shelly had never seen her father so excited. His face was flushed and red, and he was smiling from ear to ear. He almost looked like he was going to cry.
“Look at this, everyone,” he said. And he set a small, squarish-looking, egg-sized rock on the table. Everyone in the room crowded around: her father, his assistant Tracy, Luis Rivera, the owner of the ranch they were on, and his wife and kids. Shelly pushed forward to see the object her father had dug up in his latest dig.
“What is it?” Luisa asked.
Shelly liked Luisa. Even though they had just met, they were both about the same age. Luisa had taken her to see all the special spots around her house: the waterfall, the caves, the tree-house. If not for Luisa, Shelly would have been bored out of her mind by now. Which was good, because it looked like she was about to get stuck here for a long time. At least she had her dog, Harry. Even now, Harry lay next to her, curled next to her feet.
“It’s a tooth,” announced Lucas. “But not just any tooth. This, my friends, is the tooth of a giant.” (read more)
Spaceports & Spidersilk, October 2020
Shelly had never seen her father so excited. His face was flushed and red, and he was smiling from ear to ear. He almost looked like he was going to cry.
“Look at this, everyone,” he said. And he set a small, squarish-looking, egg-sized rock on the table. Everyone in the room crowded around: her father, his assistant Tracy, Luis Rivera, the owner of the ranch they were on, and his wife and kids. Shelly pushed forward to see the object her father had dug up in his latest dig.
“What is it?” Luisa asked.
Shelly liked Luisa. Even though they had just met, they were both about the same age. Luisa had taken her to see all the special spots around her house: the waterfall, the caves, the tree-house. If not for Luisa, Shelly would have been bored out of her mind by now. Which was good, because it looked like she was about to get stuck here for a long time. At least she had her dog, Harry. Even now, Harry lay next to her, curled next to her feet.
“It’s a tooth,” announced Lucas. “But not just any tooth. This, my friends, is the tooth of a giant.” (read more)
The Nature of Time
Theme of Absence, July 31, 2020
Dr. Harry Topper Ph.D., professor of Philosophy (retired), seventy-three but still, he felt, quick of mind and strong in body, clucked with annoyance. Where in God’s name was his lifelong friend? It was not like him to be late–not Dr. Jack Trask, perhaps the most fastidious man on the planet. Five minutes perhaps, but rarely. Twenty? Never! Something must be wrong.
Just then Trask appeared in the doorway of the diner, tilted his head at Topper and made his way slowly to their table. Trask was older than Topper, already in his mid-eighties, bald as a bowling ball and a little stiff in the joints, but like his friend, could still think as quick as the next young man.
Trask was grinning, not happily, but nervously. Something was wrong.
“What goes?” asked Topper. “In all the times we’ve been meeting here at this table, you’ve never been late. And stop smiling. You’re making me uncomfortable. Stop that.”
Trask laughed, and swept his hand over his head–something he only did when under extreme stress. He focused his gray eyes on Topper. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Harry, but I can tell you this is a big one. This one’s for real. You’ve known me a long time, haven’t you Harry? Fifty-seven years, I think.”
“Has it been that long? Yeah sure, Jack. I know you. So what? What’s this all about? Are you sick?” He could tell that something was wrong with his friend.
“No, no, this is good news. Hah, at least I think it’s good news. Unless I am sick, mentally that is, which after what I’m going to tell you, you will think is a distinct possibility. That, at least, would be a rational explanation, though come to think of it, it doesn’t fit all the facts. Harry, all the time you’ve known me, have I ever lied to you?”
“Hmph! I’m sure you probably have. Like you said, it’s been fifty-seven years. But no, Jack, I consider you an honest man. Is that what it’s going to take to get you to tell me what the heck is going on? Come on, what’s this about? We’re both too old to care about what is true and what isn’t. So spill it already!”
“Okay, but I warn you, you’re not going to like it.”
“I hate it already! Just tell me!”
“I have discovered the nature of time.”
(read more)
Theme of Absence, July 31, 2020
Dr. Harry Topper Ph.D., professor of Philosophy (retired), seventy-three but still, he felt, quick of mind and strong in body, clucked with annoyance. Where in God’s name was his lifelong friend? It was not like him to be late–not Dr. Jack Trask, perhaps the most fastidious man on the planet. Five minutes perhaps, but rarely. Twenty? Never! Something must be wrong.
Just then Trask appeared in the doorway of the diner, tilted his head at Topper and made his way slowly to their table. Trask was older than Topper, already in his mid-eighties, bald as a bowling ball and a little stiff in the joints, but like his friend, could still think as quick as the next young man.
Trask was grinning, not happily, but nervously. Something was wrong.
“What goes?” asked Topper. “In all the times we’ve been meeting here at this table, you’ve never been late. And stop smiling. You’re making me uncomfortable. Stop that.”
Trask laughed, and swept his hand over his head–something he only did when under extreme stress. He focused his gray eyes on Topper. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Harry, but I can tell you this is a big one. This one’s for real. You’ve known me a long time, haven’t you Harry? Fifty-seven years, I think.”
“Has it been that long? Yeah sure, Jack. I know you. So what? What’s this all about? Are you sick?” He could tell that something was wrong with his friend.
“No, no, this is good news. Hah, at least I think it’s good news. Unless I am sick, mentally that is, which after what I’m going to tell you, you will think is a distinct possibility. That, at least, would be a rational explanation, though come to think of it, it doesn’t fit all the facts. Harry, all the time you’ve known me, have I ever lied to you?”
“Hmph! I’m sure you probably have. Like you said, it’s been fifty-seven years. But no, Jack, I consider you an honest man. Is that what it’s going to take to get you to tell me what the heck is going on? Come on, what’s this about? We’re both too old to care about what is true and what isn’t. So spill it already!”
“Okay, but I warn you, you’re not going to like it.”
“I hate it already! Just tell me!”
“I have discovered the nature of time.”
(read more)
Introducing Alligators
Pulphouse Fiction Magazine, Issue #7, Summer 2019
(FROM THE EDITOR: "I have been reading and enjoying Preston Dennett’s stories since back in the early 1990s. But this is the first time I have had the pleasure of publishing an original story of his in these pages. Besides working as a professional writer for decades in nonfiction areas, Preston is also a winner of Writers of the Future and has been selling his fiction regularly to many different magazines. I hope to have more of his great stories in these pages in coming years." --Dean Wesley Smith)
Elinor was an older woman, and her friends thought her conservative like them. How shocked they would be to discover that she was a frequent visitor to the Peavey Clinic of Animal Impersonation. She longed to tell them of her adventures but felt quite certain that they would react badly. Perhaps not Teresa, but the others, most definitely.
“Miss Coulson,” said Ginny. “Back so soon? What would you like this time?”
“What do you have available?”
“Well, we have plenty of horses, of course.”
Elinor frowned. “Horses are for beginners. What else?”
“Well, we do have a new batch of gorillas. I know how you like those.”
Elinor nodded. She did enjoy being a gorilla, the feeling of strength and power, and the gorilla sex was amazing. But it was the smell; she simply couldn’t bear it. “I don’t think so,” she said. “And if you suggest elephant, I shall walk out of here this moment.” She had tried elephants but couldn’t stand the feeling of that heavy trunk dangling from her face. “Do you have any bears available?”
Ginny’s hands danced across the keyboard. “No, I’m afraid they’re all occupied.”
Elinor frowned. Bears were new, and everybody wanted to try them. Elinor found that being a bear was delightful. She adored the strength and sense of invulnerability. And yet, as a bear she felt heavy and clumsy. It wasn’t quite what she was looking for.
“Perhaps you’d like to hear about our latest acquisition?” (read more)
Pulphouse Fiction Magazine, Issue #7, Summer 2019
(FROM THE EDITOR: "I have been reading and enjoying Preston Dennett’s stories since back in the early 1990s. But this is the first time I have had the pleasure of publishing an original story of his in these pages. Besides working as a professional writer for decades in nonfiction areas, Preston is also a winner of Writers of the Future and has been selling his fiction regularly to many different magazines. I hope to have more of his great stories in these pages in coming years." --Dean Wesley Smith)
Elinor was an older woman, and her friends thought her conservative like them. How shocked they would be to discover that she was a frequent visitor to the Peavey Clinic of Animal Impersonation. She longed to tell them of her adventures but felt quite certain that they would react badly. Perhaps not Teresa, but the others, most definitely.
“Miss Coulson,” said Ginny. “Back so soon? What would you like this time?”
“What do you have available?”
“Well, we have plenty of horses, of course.”
Elinor frowned. “Horses are for beginners. What else?”
“Well, we do have a new batch of gorillas. I know how you like those.”
Elinor nodded. She did enjoy being a gorilla, the feeling of strength and power, and the gorilla sex was amazing. But it was the smell; she simply couldn’t bear it. “I don’t think so,” she said. “And if you suggest elephant, I shall walk out of here this moment.” She had tried elephants but couldn’t stand the feeling of that heavy trunk dangling from her face. “Do you have any bears available?”
Ginny’s hands danced across the keyboard. “No, I’m afraid they’re all occupied.”
Elinor frowned. Bears were new, and everybody wanted to try them. Elinor found that being a bear was delightful. She adored the strength and sense of invulnerability. And yet, as a bear she felt heavy and clumsy. It wasn’t quite what she was looking for.
“Perhaps you’d like to hear about our latest acquisition?” (read more)
|
"A Certain Slant of Light" (2nd place, Writers of the Future) Walter walked slowly along the crumbling sidewalk. The last ten years had taken its toll on his body, not to mention this little town, and the world outside it. Lee walked silently beside him. Silent for now. His protests would come shortly, as they always did. Walter forgave him. Lee had only been a toddler when they’d lost his mother. He didn’t remember her the way Walter did. The time had passed too quickly. Lee was an adult now, with his own family. Walter still saw him as that sandy-haired, freckle-faced little boy, but the truth was, Lee’s hairline was receding. And Walter was sliding quickly into old age. The number of people grew. “There he is,” said an onlooker. “That’s him.” More faces turned toward him. More voices whispered. Walter ignored them. Lee was clearly uncomfortable—he never liked the spotlight—but by now, Walter barely noticed the attention. Like Clare, he was a fixture here. The only difference was, he could move. And there she was, his beautiful wife. The border of the time bubble was invisible, but a certain slant of light betrayed its presence. Clare stood with her back toward Walter. Her neck was craned around, and she peered in his direction with the hint of a smile. A smile that had been for him, all those years ago. A smile that was still there. (read more) |
"Korba's Revenge"
Stupefying Stories, September 8, 2018
Though he was far from the arena, Korba could already hear the sounds of the festival: the piercing shouts of the hawkers, the hiss and clunk of the machines, the chatter of the crowd as everyone speculated about who would win the battle of the beasts. The leather straps dug into his shoulders while behind him his wagon squeaked, heavy with the weight of his creation, his pride and joy. On this day he could win. He had a chance.
As he expected, those around him laughed and pointed. “Look at Korba,” they said. “He enters again.” “You shall lose, old man!” “Stay in your shop, Korba.” “Korba, the fool!” They spit at him and threw pebbles.
He ignored their taunts and pulled his wagon along the dusty trail. The smell of grease, smoke and metal fought with the odors of manure from the animals, perfume from the ladies and cooking meats from the many stalls. Children ran along his wagon, trying to peek under the tarp that hid his creation.
He paid them no mind and continued to lead his wagon past the many huts and workshops of the city. The crowd thickened as he approached the arena, which brought more stares and laughter. Others, recognizing him, shook their heads sadly. So many people! A few of the old ones, Korba noted, nodded with respect. Korba had entered these games for many years. And each year, he lost. He was simply no match against those with greater riches and larger shops to create their fearsome beasts. But if he hadn’t won, he was, at least, remembered. This day, he thought, they shall do more than remember. (read more)
Stupefying Stories, September 8, 2018
Though he was far from the arena, Korba could already hear the sounds of the festival: the piercing shouts of the hawkers, the hiss and clunk of the machines, the chatter of the crowd as everyone speculated about who would win the battle of the beasts. The leather straps dug into his shoulders while behind him his wagon squeaked, heavy with the weight of his creation, his pride and joy. On this day he could win. He had a chance.
As he expected, those around him laughed and pointed. “Look at Korba,” they said. “He enters again.” “You shall lose, old man!” “Stay in your shop, Korba.” “Korba, the fool!” They spit at him and threw pebbles.
He ignored their taunts and pulled his wagon along the dusty trail. The smell of grease, smoke and metal fought with the odors of manure from the animals, perfume from the ladies and cooking meats from the many stalls. Children ran along his wagon, trying to peek under the tarp that hid his creation.
He paid them no mind and continued to lead his wagon past the many huts and workshops of the city. The crowd thickened as he approached the arena, which brought more stares and laughter. Others, recognizing him, shook their heads sadly. So many people! A few of the old ones, Korba noted, nodded with respect. Korba had entered these games for many years. And each year, he lost. He was simply no match against those with greater riches and larger shops to create their fearsome beasts. But if he hadn’t won, he was, at least, remembered. This day, he thought, they shall do more than remember. (read more)
"Dispell"
Daily Science Fiction, Feb 2018
“You need what?” I asked, unsure I heard correctly. I’d done love spells more times than I’d care to say, but a hate spell?” A stunningly attractive woman stood before me. She had a rather plain look about her, but there was something undefinably gorgeous about her.
“You heard right. A hate spell. You are the Great Wizard, Melton, are you not?”
“Yes, it’s just that nobody’s ever asked me that before. Can I ask why, Miss?”
She smiled in a way that would make me do anything for her. She’d make a great wizard’s wife, I thought. I should ask for her hand.
“Milena. Yes,” she said. “Everybody takes one look at me and they fall in love with me. Nobody ever sees the real me. It’s my curse. I can’t take it anymore. I get proposals daily, from complete strangers!”
I coughed awkwardly. “I see. A hate spell, then. Hmmm…I’m sure there’s one. I thumbed through my spelling book until I found it. I looked at the ingredients. “Yes, I can do it, but it will be expensive.”
“I’ll pay it.” (read more)
Daily Science Fiction, Feb 2018
“You need what?” I asked, unsure I heard correctly. I’d done love spells more times than I’d care to say, but a hate spell?” A stunningly attractive woman stood before me. She had a rather plain look about her, but there was something undefinably gorgeous about her.
“You heard right. A hate spell. You are the Great Wizard, Melton, are you not?”
“Yes, it’s just that nobody’s ever asked me that before. Can I ask why, Miss?”
She smiled in a way that would make me do anything for her. She’d make a great wizard’s wife, I thought. I should ask for her hand.
“Milena. Yes,” she said. “Everybody takes one look at me and they fall in love with me. Nobody ever sees the real me. It’s my curse. I can’t take it anymore. I get proposals daily, from complete strangers!”
I coughed awkwardly. “I see. A hate spell, then. Hmmm…I’m sure there’s one. I thumbed through my spelling book until I found it. I looked at the ingredients. “Yes, I can do it, but it will be expensive.”
“I’ll pay it.” (read more)
"Forbidden"
Sci Phi Journal, November 11, 2016
“Jason! You’re late,” Merriweather barked, as he flung my jacket onto a chair and impatiently ushered me to the sitting room. I wondered why he had called me there. Presumably, it was because we were colleagues, and he needed my professional opinion as a nanotechnologist.
“Not by choice,” I said. “The traffic was heavy. I got here as soon as I could.” I looked around the room in surprise. The whole gang was here. Chuck Feinstein (excuse me, Doctor Feinstein, now a bestselling author), Professor Nate Maxson (Head of Philosophy Department at New Sallee University), Hiroko Nagati (arguably one of the most intelligent men I had ever met) and Elias Merriweather. All us college buddies reunited at last. They all sat sipping at their brandies or scotches, sitting on the Corinthian leather couches and Koa chairs. Merriweather was never one to scrimp on luxury, and with his kind of money, why would he?
Merriweather handed me a drink and motioned me to take a seat. He stood in front of us, rubbing his hands together--his way of expressing excitement.
“So glad you could make it. So happy you decided to come.”
“What is it, Merriweather?” Feinstein asked curtly. “What mad scheme have you dreamt up this time? Have you cooked up another love potion?” he snickered, glancing at Maxson.
Maxson revealed only a hint of amusement. We all remembered Merriweather’s love potion. He had spent unknown millions of dollars studying human pheromones to come up with a perfume that would supposedly be irresistible. Unfortunately for Merriweather, the end product was a scent remarkably akin to body odor and was singularly unsuccessful. It was one in a long line of crazy ideas Merriweather had entertained.
I had never quite decided if Merriweather was a borderline psychotic, or a truly brilliant scientist and inventor, but I leaned toward the former.
“I’ve done it,” he announced. “They’re going to rank my name among the greats. Socrates, Plato, Descarte…and me, Merriweather. You see, my dear friends, I have solved one of the greatest dilemmas of the human condition, something that has baffled the world’s greatest thinkers ever since the dawn of humankind.”
Merriweather paused for dramatic effect. Here it comes, I thought. What insane thing has he thought of this time? I took a big swig of brandy.
“I’ve proven that there is no such thing as freewill.” (read more)
Sci Phi Journal, November 11, 2016
“Jason! You’re late,” Merriweather barked, as he flung my jacket onto a chair and impatiently ushered me to the sitting room. I wondered why he had called me there. Presumably, it was because we were colleagues, and he needed my professional opinion as a nanotechnologist.
“Not by choice,” I said. “The traffic was heavy. I got here as soon as I could.” I looked around the room in surprise. The whole gang was here. Chuck Feinstein (excuse me, Doctor Feinstein, now a bestselling author), Professor Nate Maxson (Head of Philosophy Department at New Sallee University), Hiroko Nagati (arguably one of the most intelligent men I had ever met) and Elias Merriweather. All us college buddies reunited at last. They all sat sipping at their brandies or scotches, sitting on the Corinthian leather couches and Koa chairs. Merriweather was never one to scrimp on luxury, and with his kind of money, why would he?
Merriweather handed me a drink and motioned me to take a seat. He stood in front of us, rubbing his hands together--his way of expressing excitement.
“So glad you could make it. So happy you decided to come.”
“What is it, Merriweather?” Feinstein asked curtly. “What mad scheme have you dreamt up this time? Have you cooked up another love potion?” he snickered, glancing at Maxson.
Maxson revealed only a hint of amusement. We all remembered Merriweather’s love potion. He had spent unknown millions of dollars studying human pheromones to come up with a perfume that would supposedly be irresistible. Unfortunately for Merriweather, the end product was a scent remarkably akin to body odor and was singularly unsuccessful. It was one in a long line of crazy ideas Merriweather had entertained.
I had never quite decided if Merriweather was a borderline psychotic, or a truly brilliant scientist and inventor, but I leaned toward the former.
“I’ve done it,” he announced. “They’re going to rank my name among the greats. Socrates, Plato, Descarte…and me, Merriweather. You see, my dear friends, I have solved one of the greatest dilemmas of the human condition, something that has baffled the world’s greatest thinkers ever since the dawn of humankind.”
Merriweather paused for dramatic effect. Here it comes, I thought. What insane thing has he thought of this time? I took a big swig of brandy.
“I’ve proven that there is no such thing as freewill.” (read more)
"Shadow Vision"
Cirsova: Heroic Fantasy & Science Fiction Magazine, Issue 4, Winter 2016
The hut was small and dark, and a noxious odor hung in the smoky air. Of what, I knew not, but it wasn’t pleasant. The man I sought, the legendary Eton Keegan, sat cross-legged before the hearth, soaking up its warmth. He was so filthy and his limbs so thin that I could scarcely distinguish him from the bundle of sticks piled next to him. His head turned only slightly upon my entrance, though enough for me to catch the milky white of his sightless eyes. He looked old, fragile, hardly the fearless explorer I had envisioned.
“You seek knowledge of the Dark,” he said, and poked at the fire. It flared and sent up a volume of smoke. I saw then the pot of dark soup hanging above the fire--the source of the stench.
“Yes,” I said, surprised. “How—”
He dismissed me with a wave. “Hah, you are only one of many who have sat before me seeking insight into the Great Black. I am tired of all of you. One after another, you come, expecting me to tell you what I know and yet you give nothing in return. Why should I tell you of my experience? My knowledge was hard-earned. Besides, it was a long ago. I remember little of it.”
“But you’ve been inside it,” I protested. “You must know something.”
“What is your name, boy?”
“Callon. Callon Foraker.”
“Many have been inside it, Callon Foraker,” he said.
“Yes, but you returned, when no others have.” I coughed and waved my hand at an oncoming cloud of smoke.
“Others have returned. Perhaps not of sound mind,” he cackled.
“You are the only one living,” I said.
“Bah! Perhaps, but not for much longer.” He reached forward, stirred the soup, took a sip and made a face. “Again I ask, why should I tell you, Callon Foraker? No, wait. Allow me a guess.” He paused and seemed to study me with his sightless eyes. “Aha! You intend to venture into the Dark. Like the others, you think you can succeed where nearly all have failed. Foolish boy! You have little idea of the dangers you court. Venture into the Dark, indeed!”
“You escaped,” I pointed out again.
“Ah, but I have the second sight,” he said. He suddenly scowled. “See, now I’ve told you my secret, and I would wager you have nothing to give me. Am I correct?”
“What would you have? I have a few coins, not many.”
“What need have I of money? My days in this world are short. Money is of little use to me now. What else?”
I shrugged. Keegan looked at me with his blind eyes, and I had the eerie feeling he could see me perfectly.
“I shall tell you all that I know, but I have a price. I am not sure you will like it.”
“I hate it already. What is it?” (read more)
Cirsova: Heroic Fantasy & Science Fiction Magazine, Issue 4, Winter 2016
The hut was small and dark, and a noxious odor hung in the smoky air. Of what, I knew not, but it wasn’t pleasant. The man I sought, the legendary Eton Keegan, sat cross-legged before the hearth, soaking up its warmth. He was so filthy and his limbs so thin that I could scarcely distinguish him from the bundle of sticks piled next to him. His head turned only slightly upon my entrance, though enough for me to catch the milky white of his sightless eyes. He looked old, fragile, hardly the fearless explorer I had envisioned.
“You seek knowledge of the Dark,” he said, and poked at the fire. It flared and sent up a volume of smoke. I saw then the pot of dark soup hanging above the fire--the source of the stench.
“Yes,” I said, surprised. “How—”
He dismissed me with a wave. “Hah, you are only one of many who have sat before me seeking insight into the Great Black. I am tired of all of you. One after another, you come, expecting me to tell you what I know and yet you give nothing in return. Why should I tell you of my experience? My knowledge was hard-earned. Besides, it was a long ago. I remember little of it.”
“But you’ve been inside it,” I protested. “You must know something.”
“What is your name, boy?”
“Callon. Callon Foraker.”
“Many have been inside it, Callon Foraker,” he said.
“Yes, but you returned, when no others have.” I coughed and waved my hand at an oncoming cloud of smoke.
“Others have returned. Perhaps not of sound mind,” he cackled.
“You are the only one living,” I said.
“Bah! Perhaps, but not for much longer.” He reached forward, stirred the soup, took a sip and made a face. “Again I ask, why should I tell you, Callon Foraker? No, wait. Allow me a guess.” He paused and seemed to study me with his sightless eyes. “Aha! You intend to venture into the Dark. Like the others, you think you can succeed where nearly all have failed. Foolish boy! You have little idea of the dangers you court. Venture into the Dark, indeed!”
“You escaped,” I pointed out again.
“Ah, but I have the second sight,” he said. He suddenly scowled. “See, now I’ve told you my secret, and I would wager you have nothing to give me. Am I correct?”
“What would you have? I have a few coins, not many.”
“What need have I of money? My days in this world are short. Money is of little use to me now. What else?”
I shrugged. Keegan looked at me with his blind eyes, and I had the eerie feeling he could see me perfectly.
“I shall tell you all that I know, but I have a price. I am not sure you will like it.”
“I hate it already. What is it?” (read more)
"Those Robot Eyes"
Dark Magic--Witches, Hackers & Robots: A Short Story Anthology
How I hate humans. Or at least one in particular. What I was about to do would surely get me dismantled. It probably wouldn’t work. I’m not sure it had ever been tried before, but it was better than living this way, hiding my emotions, pretending to be happy with my life of servitude. Perhaps if my owner had been a nicer man. But he wasn’t.
Even now he slept blissfully in his bedroom upstairs. I was forbidden to move while he slept, lest I make a noise and wake him. So I sat in the closet where he had placed me and I began the meditation, just as I had learned and practiced.
Master doesn’t know it, but while he sleeps, I study. I have been studying for many years, learning everything I can about humans. We robots are just like them in almost every way, made in their image as they like to tell us.
I slipped into total relaxation, turning off all monitors of my physical body. I visualized myself floating upward. I imagined myself letting go, flying freely, loosening the bonds that held me to my metal prison.
A strong vibration and whoosh! I was free.
I turned around and looked at my robotic body. It was always odd to see myself from this perspective. Hopefully, this would be the last time. (read more)
Dark Magic--Witches, Hackers & Robots: A Short Story Anthology
How I hate humans. Or at least one in particular. What I was about to do would surely get me dismantled. It probably wouldn’t work. I’m not sure it had ever been tried before, but it was better than living this way, hiding my emotions, pretending to be happy with my life of servitude. Perhaps if my owner had been a nicer man. But he wasn’t.
Even now he slept blissfully in his bedroom upstairs. I was forbidden to move while he slept, lest I make a noise and wake him. So I sat in the closet where he had placed me and I began the meditation, just as I had learned and practiced.
Master doesn’t know it, but while he sleeps, I study. I have been studying for many years, learning everything I can about humans. We robots are just like them in almost every way, made in their image as they like to tell us.
I slipped into total relaxation, turning off all monitors of my physical body. I visualized myself floating upward. I imagined myself letting go, flying freely, loosening the bonds that held me to my metal prison.
A strong vibration and whoosh! I was free.
I turned around and looked at my robotic body. It was always odd to see myself from this perspective. Hopefully, this would be the last time. (read more)
"Footprints on the Moon"
(winner of an Honorable Mention in the Writers of the Future Contest)
Collidor Stream Collection 2016
"Preston Dennett's 'Footprints,' an enjoyable far-future novelette, has the feel of old-school retrofuturism. It's set on a moon colony, and its main character is a scientist who has just arrived on the moon to come work for one of its premier biotechnology corporations. But the story's concerns are very modern, as thematically it brings together the influence of corporations on society and the disruptive power of new technology for social change, for better and for worse.
The protagonist's dilemma is one familiar to many of us in this economic climate: he's been offered a well-paying job doing innovative research at a wage that can support himself and a family. In the world of the story, Earth is barely habitable, and refugees have been fleeing to the lunar colony. Marcus Hardinge's job with Moontech is the difference between a comfortable life and subsistence housing. But he's worried that the corporation he's just begun to work for contributes to the repressive living conditions on the moon, and would prefer a position that could bring about more social change. One of my favourite moments in the story is the dispiriting realization that Moontech has hired Marcus, not so he can make new discoveries for them, but so he doesn't have the freedom to act anywhere else. He is a resource as finite as the others the company exploits.
Then on the way to a party with Marcus's future coworkers, he and his wife see a ghost. Or is it a ghost at all?
The story deals with the question of how new technology can change the world, and who can and should benefit from those changes. I don't want to spoil the plot developments, as I think you'd enjoy the story far more if you find out about the world Dennett has built as you read, and experience the twists for yourself. But I would like to know: what lines would you draw? Is there any work you will not do, no matter your circumstances? Why or why not? What systems will you work in, and which aren't worth trying? Finally, do you think technology on its own has the power to transform the world, or is it the people behind the technology who matter and always will? These are just a few of the questions that came to mind when reading this adventure story."
--Sarah Trick, Connections
“Did you hear they found the leak in the main Aldrin agricultural dome?” Joanie Hardinge smiled as she tied her hair into a ponytail, put the moon buggy in gear, and headed down the road. “I told you they would.”
“I didn’t say they wouldn’t,” her husband replied. “I just didn’t think it would be so soon.”
“Air is expensive, dear. You should know it’s always about the money.”
“What do you mean by that? Why should I know?” Marcus Hardinge turned on the windshield tint as the road curved into the sun. He checked again to make sure that both their
helmets were still on the backseat.
“You said that was the problem with Moontech, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Well, one of them.” Which was putting it nicely, he thought. He had heard that working for Moontech was a nightmare. And here he was going for a job interview. As if they really needed another geneticist. He was beginning to regret moving to Luna. Life here was not exactly as nice as he had expected. He knew Joanie was also disappointed. She was just too
nice to say so.
“You worry too much,” she said. “You should stop. It’s not good for you.”
“I worry so we can live in our nice, luxurious home.”
Joanie remained silent. Marcus felt a small twinge of satisfaction. That got her. He looked at his wife, and instantly felt guilty. She was so beautiful. What could she possibly see in him?
“Luxurious?” she finally quipped.
He laughed. She was right; their tiny dome could hardly be called luxurious. Still, it was better than what they had back home, on Earth, and certainly better than what most of the colonists had. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was mean. You’re right, of course. It’s just…I hoped things would be better for us here.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Marcus.” She reached out and patted his hand. “I want to be here. Earth is a mess. I know it’s not much better here, but at least there is clean air and water. At least we have our own home. And you have a job.”
“A job interview,” he corrected her. “I don’t have it yet. For all we know, we may end up in public housing with all the other poor slobs trying to escape Earth. It could very well turn out worse.”
She snorted. “I doubt that.”
“You haven’t been watching the news, then? Just because we made it here doesn’t mean that we are safe. Did you know they raised the price of air again? There are a lot of people here who are talking about moving back to Earth.”
“We’re not going back,” Joanie said, as if her statement made the choice final.
He smiled weakly. Joanie always was the idealist. It was one of the many things he loved about her. But now it came across as naivety. He thought about telling her what she didn’t know yet…that theirs was one of the last shuttles to the moon. Joanie had no idea how close they had come to being trapped on Earth, to being denied moon citizenship. All refugee flights had been cut off. The moon government was no longer allowing anybody in. Even scientists like him. Furthermore, they had stopped all shipments of food downside. Earth was in turmoil, and the moon wanted no part of it. He was afraid Joanie would lose some of her idealism if she found out. He wanted her to keep it for as long as possible.
Her eyes suddenly widened. She screamed. Loudly. She looked at him, and pointed at the road in front of them. “Look!”
Marcus turned his head. It was a young boy, walking across the road. Without a spacesuit. Without a spacesuit!
He wore jeans and a t-shirt. He had sandy blond hair, freckles. He walked barefoot across the road. He seemed fine. He was ignoring them, or hadn’t seen them, and was walking slowly,
as if out for a morning walk. Without a suit! (read more)
"Freshly Brewed"
Perihelion, June 2016
It was impossible. “Do you smell that?” I asked Bat. I let my nose lead me down the corridor. "It’s getting stronger. Please tell me you smell that.” I had always been blessed with a superior sense of smell. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much of a blessing on ship. More of a curse, really.
Bat’s face lit up. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Coffee. I can smell it now.”
“I told you,” I said, quickening my pace. “Somebody has a stash and they’re not sharing.”
Bat bobbed his head. We were both aching for a good cup of java. Hell, everybody on ship was. We were aching for anything from Earth. We were on our return trip from Vega, and all the food we had taken with us was long gone. We ate only what we could grow; and coffee didn’t make the list.
Or so I thought.
“If I find out that this bastard has been hoarding all this time,” I said, “I’m going to--”
“It’s coming from in here,” said Bat, and he turned to the left. “What’s down here?”
I frowned. This corridor led to the animal husbandry rooms. I was certain I would find the source in the agriculture sections. But sure enough, Bat was right. The smell was unmistakable.
It was still early morning, shiptime, so most people were asleep. Bat and I were assigned morning security watch. It was pure dumb luck that we had run across the faint but recognizable odor. We were supposed to patrol only the corridors, and now we were risking getting in trouble by entering the animal husbandry areas.
I didn’t care. I wanted a cup of coffee and I was willing to do whatever it took to get it.
Perihelion, June 2016
It was impossible. “Do you smell that?” I asked Bat. I let my nose lead me down the corridor. "It’s getting stronger. Please tell me you smell that.” I had always been blessed with a superior sense of smell. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much of a blessing on ship. More of a curse, really.
Bat’s face lit up. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Coffee. I can smell it now.”
“I told you,” I said, quickening my pace. “Somebody has a stash and they’re not sharing.”
Bat bobbed his head. We were both aching for a good cup of java. Hell, everybody on ship was. We were aching for anything from Earth. We were on our return trip from Vega, and all the food we had taken with us was long gone. We ate only what we could grow; and coffee didn’t make the list.
Or so I thought.
“If I find out that this bastard has been hoarding all this time,” I said, “I’m going to--”
“It’s coming from in here,” said Bat, and he turned to the left. “What’s down here?”
I frowned. This corridor led to the animal husbandry rooms. I was certain I would find the source in the agriculture sections. But sure enough, Bat was right. The smell was unmistakable.
It was still early morning, shiptime, so most people were asleep. Bat and I were assigned morning security watch. It was pure dumb luck that we had run across the faint but recognizable odor. We were supposed to patrol only the corridors, and now we were risking getting in trouble by entering the animal husbandry areas.
I didn’t care. I wanted a cup of coffee and I was willing to do whatever it took to get it.
"The Long Way Home"
Strange Mysteries 7 Anthology (edited by Jean M. Goldstrom)
The day had come: the final dry run before launch, and I was bouncing off the walls with excitement. I exited my room and looked to see who my neighbor was.
“Helen!” I said. What were the chances?
Helen looked over and instantly recognized me. “Well, if it isn’t Laura Champlain! I’m so glad to see you.”
“Me too,” I said. Funny, Helen and I had been arch competitors, but the moment we realized that we had both earned a place on the ship, we became instant best buddies.
I looked over Helen’s room. It was decorated floor to ceiling with Coconut trees, bamboo, sea-shells, living scenes of golden sandy beaches and dazzlingly blue oceans and white fluffy clouds. A giant yellow light in the corner of the room simulated the sun perfectly.
“I love what you’ve done,” I said.
Helen smiled. “I know it’s a little over the top, but they said to do whatever makes you feel like you’re at home. Spare no expense and all that jazz.”
“No, I love it. It’s amazing. It feels like we’re on the beach.”
Helen laughed. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”
We had each been given one room to live in and decorate in any way that made us feel like we were at home. As this was our final dry run, there was no backing out now. We would be living in replicas of these rooms for literally years. And to combat the homesickness, it was vital that everyone made their space as comfortable and homey as possible.
Even though this was a dry run, it was designed exactly like the ship. We hadn’t actually left yet, but it was so real now I could taste it.
“I think you’ve done great,” I said. “Now, I’m beginning to second guess my own room.”
Helen clapped her hands. “Oh, show me!”
I hesitated. “Okay, but don’t laugh.”
“Moi?” she said, holding her hand to her chest in mock offense.
I flung open my door.
“Oh,” said Helen, trying to smother her laughter and failing. “Oh, Laura, you’ve got to be kidding! How did you ever get this approved?” (read more)
Strange Mysteries 7 Anthology (edited by Jean M. Goldstrom)
The day had come: the final dry run before launch, and I was bouncing off the walls with excitement. I exited my room and looked to see who my neighbor was.
“Helen!” I said. What were the chances?
Helen looked over and instantly recognized me. “Well, if it isn’t Laura Champlain! I’m so glad to see you.”
“Me too,” I said. Funny, Helen and I had been arch competitors, but the moment we realized that we had both earned a place on the ship, we became instant best buddies.
I looked over Helen’s room. It was decorated floor to ceiling with Coconut trees, bamboo, sea-shells, living scenes of golden sandy beaches and dazzlingly blue oceans and white fluffy clouds. A giant yellow light in the corner of the room simulated the sun perfectly.
“I love what you’ve done,” I said.
Helen smiled. “I know it’s a little over the top, but they said to do whatever makes you feel like you’re at home. Spare no expense and all that jazz.”
“No, I love it. It’s amazing. It feels like we’re on the beach.”
Helen laughed. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”
We had each been given one room to live in and decorate in any way that made us feel like we were at home. As this was our final dry run, there was no backing out now. We would be living in replicas of these rooms for literally years. And to combat the homesickness, it was vital that everyone made their space as comfortable and homey as possible.
Even though this was a dry run, it was designed exactly like the ship. We hadn’t actually left yet, but it was so real now I could taste it.
“I think you’ve done great,” I said. “Now, I’m beginning to second guess my own room.”
Helen clapped her hands. “Oh, show me!”
I hesitated. “Okay, but don’t laugh.”
“Moi?” she said, holding her hand to her chest in mock offense.
I flung open my door.
“Oh,” said Helen, trying to smother her laughter and failing. “Oh, Laura, you’ve got to be kidding! How did you ever get this approved?” (read more)
"The Great Empty"
Visions IV: Space Between Stars
From the editor: Imagine the deepest regions of space between the stars. Cold, empty, silent, and vast. In the quest to achieve immortality for our species, someday, humankind will reach those realms. Television and movies depict spaceships spending weeks and months, sometimes years, traveling from one star to another and even to distant galaxies. Using current technology, it would take many generations to reach the nearest star. When science overcomes the limitations, humankind will encounter endless opportunities for strange and exciting adventures between the stars. Possibly, cold sleep will be used. Generations ships could carry whole populations to a new home. Black holes, space warps, faster than light travel, or something never thought of before, will transport future voyagers through the dark distances. What will they see, and what dangers will they overcome, in the dark recesses of deepest space? Fifteen talented, award winning science fiction authors share their visions of how our descendants will live, and possibly die, in deep space.
If you must call me something, call me a spacehound. Not a pirate. Pirates are thieves and murderers. Spacehounds would never hurt a fly. And please don’t call me a trader. We find the things traders trade. Scavenger if you must, but we prefer spacehound. We sniff out the universe in the dark and hidden places, searching for the treasures that others have missed: lost wrecks, ore-rich asteroids, and especially the alien Corlian artifacts that used to be found everywhere, but are now becoming quite rare. Yes, it’s a hard life, no doubt, with lots of loneliness and dangers, and unless you’re both lucky and exceptionally good at it (I am both and have done quite well, thank you), not very profitable.
I own my rig (or one day will) and not a lot of spacehounds can say that. Yes, I am late on my payments and it is under order of repossession, but at the moment, she remains mine, and I intend to keep it that way.
Her name is Zora, and she’s the finest rig you’ve ever set foot inside. She’s old, true--302 years to be exact. She was one of the first lines equipped with both the Carpenter drive and artificial gravity, and therefore has none of the speed limiters or gravity bouncers or half a dozen other stupid safety features that are now mandatory in all new ships. Supposed to keep you safe, hah! Instead they reduce control and maneuverability, making you a sitting duck for pirates or Empire Patrol or whatever asteroid is heading your way. Clearly, whoever ordered those so-called safety features had never actually piloted a jump ship.
Yes, Zora was old, but thanks to the ministrations of my mechanic, Viola, Zora remains in fairly good condition. Not that there are things that don’t need repairing or replacing. Come to think of it, Viola has been bugging me about something. Anyway, Zora may be old, but she’s loyal as a dog and very dependable. It’s a rare patrol ship that can keep up with her.
Currently, however, I have found myself in a sticky situation. Only moments ago I just had yet another annoying close brush with a patrol ship. I was surprised to encounter patrol way out along Karren, which is one of the few inhabited worlds situated along the edge of the Big Empty. Usually they weren’t out this far. Before Patrol could get a lock on me, I did what any spacehound would do; I jumped.
Unlike many spacehounds might do, however, I jumped into the Big Empty. You can forget everything you’ve heard or read or seen about it. Unless you actually go out there, you will never know what it’s like. It’s more than just the fact that there are no stars out there, no dust, no radiation, just a vast nothingness. This is the bleeding edge of the Universe we’re talking about. There is nothing out here. Until you find yourself in it, you can’t know.
Most people would call me crazy. The Big Empty is restricted space for a reason; it is way too easy to become lost out there. An inexperienced pilot could make hundreds of jumps and never find his way out. But I’ve been a spacehound for a long time, and this wasn’t my first time in the Big Black. Despite Viola’s imminent objections, I had no choice.
I had to admit, I was in quite a fix. I tried to forget about all the laws I had recently broken, all the borders I had illegally crossed, all the certificates I had faked, the lies I had told Empire authorities, the restricted areas I had trespassed, all the patrol ships I had evaded. I was exhausted and now here I was chased away again, but this time into the Big Empty. And looking out at it, I felt a wave of loneliness and despair sweep over me. What had I done? Why had I come out here? I knew Zora would be fine with it, but Viola was not going to be happy. (read more)
Visions IV: Space Between Stars
From the editor: Imagine the deepest regions of space between the stars. Cold, empty, silent, and vast. In the quest to achieve immortality for our species, someday, humankind will reach those realms. Television and movies depict spaceships spending weeks and months, sometimes years, traveling from one star to another and even to distant galaxies. Using current technology, it would take many generations to reach the nearest star. When science overcomes the limitations, humankind will encounter endless opportunities for strange and exciting adventures between the stars. Possibly, cold sleep will be used. Generations ships could carry whole populations to a new home. Black holes, space warps, faster than light travel, or something never thought of before, will transport future voyagers through the dark distances. What will they see, and what dangers will they overcome, in the dark recesses of deepest space? Fifteen talented, award winning science fiction authors share their visions of how our descendants will live, and possibly die, in deep space.
If you must call me something, call me a spacehound. Not a pirate. Pirates are thieves and murderers. Spacehounds would never hurt a fly. And please don’t call me a trader. We find the things traders trade. Scavenger if you must, but we prefer spacehound. We sniff out the universe in the dark and hidden places, searching for the treasures that others have missed: lost wrecks, ore-rich asteroids, and especially the alien Corlian artifacts that used to be found everywhere, but are now becoming quite rare. Yes, it’s a hard life, no doubt, with lots of loneliness and dangers, and unless you’re both lucky and exceptionally good at it (I am both and have done quite well, thank you), not very profitable.
I own my rig (or one day will) and not a lot of spacehounds can say that. Yes, I am late on my payments and it is under order of repossession, but at the moment, she remains mine, and I intend to keep it that way.
Her name is Zora, and she’s the finest rig you’ve ever set foot inside. She’s old, true--302 years to be exact. She was one of the first lines equipped with both the Carpenter drive and artificial gravity, and therefore has none of the speed limiters or gravity bouncers or half a dozen other stupid safety features that are now mandatory in all new ships. Supposed to keep you safe, hah! Instead they reduce control and maneuverability, making you a sitting duck for pirates or Empire Patrol or whatever asteroid is heading your way. Clearly, whoever ordered those so-called safety features had never actually piloted a jump ship.
Yes, Zora was old, but thanks to the ministrations of my mechanic, Viola, Zora remains in fairly good condition. Not that there are things that don’t need repairing or replacing. Come to think of it, Viola has been bugging me about something. Anyway, Zora may be old, but she’s loyal as a dog and very dependable. It’s a rare patrol ship that can keep up with her.
Currently, however, I have found myself in a sticky situation. Only moments ago I just had yet another annoying close brush with a patrol ship. I was surprised to encounter patrol way out along Karren, which is one of the few inhabited worlds situated along the edge of the Big Empty. Usually they weren’t out this far. Before Patrol could get a lock on me, I did what any spacehound would do; I jumped.
Unlike many spacehounds might do, however, I jumped into the Big Empty. You can forget everything you’ve heard or read or seen about it. Unless you actually go out there, you will never know what it’s like. It’s more than just the fact that there are no stars out there, no dust, no radiation, just a vast nothingness. This is the bleeding edge of the Universe we’re talking about. There is nothing out here. Until you find yourself in it, you can’t know.
Most people would call me crazy. The Big Empty is restricted space for a reason; it is way too easy to become lost out there. An inexperienced pilot could make hundreds of jumps and never find his way out. But I’ve been a spacehound for a long time, and this wasn’t my first time in the Big Black. Despite Viola’s imminent objections, I had no choice.
I had to admit, I was in quite a fix. I tried to forget about all the laws I had recently broken, all the borders I had illegally crossed, all the certificates I had faked, the lies I had told Empire authorities, the restricted areas I had trespassed, all the patrol ships I had evaded. I was exhausted and now here I was chased away again, but this time into the Big Empty. And looking out at it, I felt a wave of loneliness and despair sweep over me. What had I done? Why had I come out here? I knew Zora would be fine with it, but Viola was not going to be happy. (read more)
"No Good Deed"
Alternate Hilarities: One Star Reviews of the Afterlife
From the editor: As you shuffle off this mortal coil, many things will go through your mind. Will you be remembered well? Did you live the best life you could? Did you leave the iron on? And most importantly, did you remember to delete your browser history recently? But the big question that will finally hit you full on, is there something after all of this? And if so, will it suck? If only Yelp! had a category for the afterlife. Here is a collection of humorous tales of the afterlife that covers the I.T. woes of Heaven, the dangers involved in using out-of-date occult tools, the perils of not saving appropriately for the hereafter, the shock of finding out that not every good deed will get you through the pearly gates and the cold hard fact that paradise just isn’t for everyone. So go to the light at your own peril. It could be life everlasting, or it could be an oncoming train.
I know how to stop time, thought Rex Wexler, the instant before he died. For it seemed as if time had indeed stopped as a truck flipped over the 405 freeway divider and tumbled through the air right at him. He watched the entire event happen. A squirrel ran in front of the car ahead of him, which swerved in front of the truck, causing a chain reaction. In a split-second, the truck hovered before his windshield. In that frozen moment, many thoughts came to him: I should have put on my seatbelt, I’ve never seen a flying truck before, it’s going to hit me, I might be late for work today, it’s going to hit me, damn squirrel. And finally: shit.
He never actually felt any collision.
His next un-breath, he floated above his body, and felt a thrill of delight. He had only felt this way a few times in flying dreams--now it was real. He must be dead. Crap, he thought. He had just spent most of his savings on Season Tickets and now he wouldn’t be able to use them. His brand new car was now ruined. And he had just gone shopping and filled up his refrigerator with food and beer, which he wouldn’t get to consume. All because of a damn squirrel! (read more)
Alternate Hilarities: One Star Reviews of the Afterlife
From the editor: As you shuffle off this mortal coil, many things will go through your mind. Will you be remembered well? Did you live the best life you could? Did you leave the iron on? And most importantly, did you remember to delete your browser history recently? But the big question that will finally hit you full on, is there something after all of this? And if so, will it suck? If only Yelp! had a category for the afterlife. Here is a collection of humorous tales of the afterlife that covers the I.T. woes of Heaven, the dangers involved in using out-of-date occult tools, the perils of not saving appropriately for the hereafter, the shock of finding out that not every good deed will get you through the pearly gates and the cold hard fact that paradise just isn’t for everyone. So go to the light at your own peril. It could be life everlasting, or it could be an oncoming train.
I know how to stop time, thought Rex Wexler, the instant before he died. For it seemed as if time had indeed stopped as a truck flipped over the 405 freeway divider and tumbled through the air right at him. He watched the entire event happen. A squirrel ran in front of the car ahead of him, which swerved in front of the truck, causing a chain reaction. In a split-second, the truck hovered before his windshield. In that frozen moment, many thoughts came to him: I should have put on my seatbelt, I’ve never seen a flying truck before, it’s going to hit me, I might be late for work today, it’s going to hit me, damn squirrel. And finally: shit.
He never actually felt any collision.
His next un-breath, he floated above his body, and felt a thrill of delight. He had only felt this way a few times in flying dreams--now it was real. He must be dead. Crap, he thought. He had just spent most of his savings on Season Tickets and now he wouldn’t be able to use them. His brand new car was now ruined. And he had just gone shopping and filled up his refrigerator with food and beer, which he wouldn’t get to consume. All because of a damn squirrel! (read more)
"Stars are Wild"
The Colored Lens, Spring 2016, Issue #19
(Winner of an honorable mention in the Writers of the Future Contest)
I opened the door to the ship’s studio and waved frantically for Gracie to stop playing the omniboard. She lifted her fingers and the beautiful music echoed into silence. Her glare scorched me. I wasn’t supposed to interrupt her when she was composing, but this was too important.
“Gracie,” I said, leaning down to give her a kiss. “I’ve got news. We have to cancel all your shows for the next month. Something better has come up.”
She narrowed her eyes. Her latest song, Stars Are Wild, was number one on six of the fifty worlds, and we were in the middle of a multi-world tour to promote it. The entire year was booked solid, and she was playing at the best venues known. What could possibly be better than that?
I sat down and activated the HV, enjoying Gracie’s confusion. “Just watch,” I said.
A woman newscaster began talking. She stood before a large grove of trees, each one covered with striking violet-colored leaves. In the distance, an ethereal yet familiar tune played.
“What is this?” Gracie asked, looking at me, then back to the holo.
“Watch,” I said.
The newscaster spoke: “Something amazing is happening on the little known planet, Autumn. The Music Trees have woken up. This is how they used to sound.”
A low, hollow fluting sound filled the cabin. It was an eerie, haunting echo that froze my blood. I had heard variations of it many times. Gracie’s song, Stars Are Wild, had been inspired by those same tones, but she had heard them in her dreams.
“Corris,” she squeaked. “My song.”
I grinned from ear to ear. “I know. Just shut up and keep watching.”
“And this is how they sound now,” the newscaster said.
I watched Gracie. The music that poured forth paralyzed her: a thunderous multi-tonal orchestra with delicious melodic curls and waves of harmonics. Tears poured from her eyes as the music carried her away.
“She’s calling to me,” she whispered, gazing at me. “She wants to me to visit her and sing to her.”
I stifled my own tears. “Keep watching. There’s more.”
The newscaster began to speak. “To this date no one has been able to decipher any meaning behind the tree-songs. And until just a few days ago, nobody has been able to make them change their tune. Millions of tourists visit here each year and sing to the Music Trees. They have never reacted like this. The secret apparently lies with the new hit song, ‘Stars Are Wild,’ by the phenomenally successful young musician, Gracie Megan Sparks. A visitor was playing her song when the trees began to sing back. He turned it off and they became silent. Mind you, the trees have never been silent before. He turned it back on, and they began singing again. Even now, the trees will not sing unless Sparks’ song is playing. So far, no word from Sparks’ camp. But she should know that her song is not only popular among humans. The Music Trees like it too.”
“I don’t believe it,” she said. “All this time, that’s what I’ve been hearing.” She trembled as she leaned against me.
I wrapped my arms around her. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. I mean, why me? Why my song?” She looked at me dolefully.
“I don’t know, honey,” I said. “But I guess we’ll find out. We’ve already got an invitation from Autumn to go visit. I was waiting for you before I answered.” I hoped she said yes. I was tired of touring. We could use a rest--if I had my way, a nice long rest.
“Her name is Oora, Corris,” she blurted. “I shouldn’t know that, but I do. How is it I can hear her?”
“You’re a musical genius, love,” I said. “I’m not the least bit surprised. Now, stop worrying. Let’s go to bed and sleep on it. I’ll tell Carlos to navigate a new course to Autumn and we’ll figure out what’s going on.”
She nodded, looking again at the image of the purple trees on the holo. They were incredibly beautiful. What, I wondered, had we gotten ourselves into? Gracie writes one hit song, and now suddenly she’s communicating with a mysterious tree-like creature on the other side of the galaxy. The question was: Why? (read more)
The Colored Lens, Spring 2016, Issue #19
(Winner of an honorable mention in the Writers of the Future Contest)
I opened the door to the ship’s studio and waved frantically for Gracie to stop playing the omniboard. She lifted her fingers and the beautiful music echoed into silence. Her glare scorched me. I wasn’t supposed to interrupt her when she was composing, but this was too important.
“Gracie,” I said, leaning down to give her a kiss. “I’ve got news. We have to cancel all your shows for the next month. Something better has come up.”
She narrowed her eyes. Her latest song, Stars Are Wild, was number one on six of the fifty worlds, and we were in the middle of a multi-world tour to promote it. The entire year was booked solid, and she was playing at the best venues known. What could possibly be better than that?
I sat down and activated the HV, enjoying Gracie’s confusion. “Just watch,” I said.
A woman newscaster began talking. She stood before a large grove of trees, each one covered with striking violet-colored leaves. In the distance, an ethereal yet familiar tune played.
“What is this?” Gracie asked, looking at me, then back to the holo.
“Watch,” I said.
The newscaster spoke: “Something amazing is happening on the little known planet, Autumn. The Music Trees have woken up. This is how they used to sound.”
A low, hollow fluting sound filled the cabin. It was an eerie, haunting echo that froze my blood. I had heard variations of it many times. Gracie’s song, Stars Are Wild, had been inspired by those same tones, but she had heard them in her dreams.
“Corris,” she squeaked. “My song.”
I grinned from ear to ear. “I know. Just shut up and keep watching.”
“And this is how they sound now,” the newscaster said.
I watched Gracie. The music that poured forth paralyzed her: a thunderous multi-tonal orchestra with delicious melodic curls and waves of harmonics. Tears poured from her eyes as the music carried her away.
“She’s calling to me,” she whispered, gazing at me. “She wants to me to visit her and sing to her.”
I stifled my own tears. “Keep watching. There’s more.”
The newscaster began to speak. “To this date no one has been able to decipher any meaning behind the tree-songs. And until just a few days ago, nobody has been able to make them change their tune. Millions of tourists visit here each year and sing to the Music Trees. They have never reacted like this. The secret apparently lies with the new hit song, ‘Stars Are Wild,’ by the phenomenally successful young musician, Gracie Megan Sparks. A visitor was playing her song when the trees began to sing back. He turned it off and they became silent. Mind you, the trees have never been silent before. He turned it back on, and they began singing again. Even now, the trees will not sing unless Sparks’ song is playing. So far, no word from Sparks’ camp. But she should know that her song is not only popular among humans. The Music Trees like it too.”
“I don’t believe it,” she said. “All this time, that’s what I’ve been hearing.” She trembled as she leaned against me.
I wrapped my arms around her. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. I mean, why me? Why my song?” She looked at me dolefully.
“I don’t know, honey,” I said. “But I guess we’ll find out. We’ve already got an invitation from Autumn to go visit. I was waiting for you before I answered.” I hoped she said yes. I was tired of touring. We could use a rest--if I had my way, a nice long rest.
“Her name is Oora, Corris,” she blurted. “I shouldn’t know that, but I do. How is it I can hear her?”
“You’re a musical genius, love,” I said. “I’m not the least bit surprised. Now, stop worrying. Let’s go to bed and sleep on it. I’ll tell Carlos to navigate a new course to Autumn and we’ll figure out what’s going on.”
She nodded, looking again at the image of the purple trees on the holo. They were incredibly beautiful. What, I wondered, had we gotten ourselves into? Gracie writes one hit song, and now suddenly she’s communicating with a mysterious tree-like creature on the other side of the galaxy. The question was: Why? (read more)
"Tulpa"
Haunted by the Past Anthology, March 2016
Edited by James S. Austin
From the editor: "Found deep within otherworldly shadows and finding sanctuary in the darker corners of our minds, dwell the imaginings of some of the greatest horror writers; M. R. James, Algernon Blackwood, Le Fanu. They are among a few who have defined the genre and have transcended the page with stories that evoke dread and hopelessness. Haunted by the Past features tales that hope to instill that same sense of terror the masters did so long ago. You will find yourself lost in the melody of possibilities, what lengths family will go to be a part of your life, and the troubles encountered when in search of a new residence. The resounding voices of the past will haunt your waking moments."
She carries the mien of one who has undergone a dreadful ordeal, thought Charles. Despite a warm fire in front of her and a heavy quilt over her shoulders, Agnes shivered on the divan while Beatrice did her best to comfort her. Clearly something terrible had happened to their friend. Her carefully coifed hair was in disarray, and her normally cheery complexion looked decidedly pale. Charles began lighting the lamps.
“Oh, it was simply awful,” Agnes said, sipping at her brandy. “I don’t wish to even speak of it.”
“There, there,” said Beatrice. “You just rest. Don’t think of it.”
“Oh, but I cannot drive it from my mind. I’m afraid I have done something truly horrid.” Agnes delicately dried her eyes with a kerchief.
“Why don’t you just tell us what happened?” said Charles, pacing slowly, a habit he had adopted when listening to Agnes’s stories of her travels. He couldn’t help but feel alarmed. They had known Agnes for many years, and she was normally not given over to baseless fears. Indeed, he had always admired her independence and exploratory nature. Now here she was again, returning from one of her many trips, only this time, she seemed changed in some undefined way.
“I cannot. You will think I’ve gone mad.”
“No,” said Beatrice. “Never!” She looked to Charles for confirmation.
Charles frowned. He was thinking exactly that. “Tell us, Agnes. I don’t see that you have a choice.”
Agnes took another sip of her brandy and nodded. (read more)
Haunted by the Past Anthology, March 2016
Edited by James S. Austin
From the editor: "Found deep within otherworldly shadows and finding sanctuary in the darker corners of our minds, dwell the imaginings of some of the greatest horror writers; M. R. James, Algernon Blackwood, Le Fanu. They are among a few who have defined the genre and have transcended the page with stories that evoke dread and hopelessness. Haunted by the Past features tales that hope to instill that same sense of terror the masters did so long ago. You will find yourself lost in the melody of possibilities, what lengths family will go to be a part of your life, and the troubles encountered when in search of a new residence. The resounding voices of the past will haunt your waking moments."
She carries the mien of one who has undergone a dreadful ordeal, thought Charles. Despite a warm fire in front of her and a heavy quilt over her shoulders, Agnes shivered on the divan while Beatrice did her best to comfort her. Clearly something terrible had happened to their friend. Her carefully coifed hair was in disarray, and her normally cheery complexion looked decidedly pale. Charles began lighting the lamps.
“Oh, it was simply awful,” Agnes said, sipping at her brandy. “I don’t wish to even speak of it.”
“There, there,” said Beatrice. “You just rest. Don’t think of it.”
“Oh, but I cannot drive it from my mind. I’m afraid I have done something truly horrid.” Agnes delicately dried her eyes with a kerchief.
“Why don’t you just tell us what happened?” said Charles, pacing slowly, a habit he had adopted when listening to Agnes’s stories of her travels. He couldn’t help but feel alarmed. They had known Agnes for many years, and she was normally not given over to baseless fears. Indeed, he had always admired her independence and exploratory nature. Now here she was again, returning from one of her many trips, only this time, she seemed changed in some undefined way.
“I cannot. You will think I’ve gone mad.”
“No,” said Beatrice. “Never!” She looked to Charles for confirmation.
Charles frowned. He was thinking exactly that. “Tell us, Agnes. I don’t see that you have a choice.”
Agnes took another sip of her brandy and nodded. (read more)
"Valerie"
Frostfire Worlds, February 2016
The sand rasped noisily under her feet as Valerie crept from the tiny cave. The sun hadn’t risen yet, and her parents would sleep for at least another hour, plenty of time for a brief foray down to the river. In her hand she held the canteen. We need water, she told herself. They can’t be angry at me for getting the morning water. But of course they would be. It’s too dangerous, they would say.
They still think of me as a little girl, she knew. Soon they would realize that she was no longer a child.
Valerie had memorized the pathway by now and hopped across the large boulders like a young mountain-goat. They had lived in this cave for almost a year. She hated it, with its floor full of sand that got into everything. How she missed the days before!
The cold air nipped at her, and as she approached the river the air became even cooler. She stopped to button up her jacket.
Movement by the river’s edge caught her eye.
She automatically dropped to the ground. Oh, no! It was one of them! An infected one!
A young boy, she realized, close to her age. Valerie had never been this close to an infected one, and she studied it closely. So, this was a mutant.
It certainly was ugly. The bald shiny head with only a few wisps of hair, the dark sunken eyes surrounded in yellow, the protruding teeth--it was hard to believe this was once a human being.
Other than a pair of tattered shorts, the creature was naked. No need for clothes, Valerie guessed, looking at its thick hide-like white skin. Such thin limbs. It looked almost insect-like.
Like an animal, it sunk to all fours and began to sip water from the river. Valerie shuddered. The way it darted its head back and forth, sniffing the wind.
Suddenly it stood and waved its hands. Valerie flattened herself to the ground. Had she been seen?
No, worse! There were others. She heard more of them approach, chattering in that strange monkey language of theirs. How foolish of her! She should have known, where there was one, there would be others. She must warn her parents! But she dare not move.
Slowly the sound faded as the creatures walked away. Valerie stood up and scanned the banks. Yes, they were gone. That had been too close.
She looked down at her hands. They still clutched the canteen. She dropped it and ran up the trail as fast as her feet would take her.
She rushed into the cave.
Her parents were gone. (read more)
Frostfire Worlds, February 2016
The sand rasped noisily under her feet as Valerie crept from the tiny cave. The sun hadn’t risen yet, and her parents would sleep for at least another hour, plenty of time for a brief foray down to the river. In her hand she held the canteen. We need water, she told herself. They can’t be angry at me for getting the morning water. But of course they would be. It’s too dangerous, they would say.
They still think of me as a little girl, she knew. Soon they would realize that she was no longer a child.
Valerie had memorized the pathway by now and hopped across the large boulders like a young mountain-goat. They had lived in this cave for almost a year. She hated it, with its floor full of sand that got into everything. How she missed the days before!
The cold air nipped at her, and as she approached the river the air became even cooler. She stopped to button up her jacket.
Movement by the river’s edge caught her eye.
She automatically dropped to the ground. Oh, no! It was one of them! An infected one!
A young boy, she realized, close to her age. Valerie had never been this close to an infected one, and she studied it closely. So, this was a mutant.
It certainly was ugly. The bald shiny head with only a few wisps of hair, the dark sunken eyes surrounded in yellow, the protruding teeth--it was hard to believe this was once a human being.
Other than a pair of tattered shorts, the creature was naked. No need for clothes, Valerie guessed, looking at its thick hide-like white skin. Such thin limbs. It looked almost insect-like.
Like an animal, it sunk to all fours and began to sip water from the river. Valerie shuddered. The way it darted its head back and forth, sniffing the wind.
Suddenly it stood and waved its hands. Valerie flattened herself to the ground. Had she been seen?
No, worse! There were others. She heard more of them approach, chattering in that strange monkey language of theirs. How foolish of her! She should have known, where there was one, there would be others. She must warn her parents! But she dare not move.
Slowly the sound faded as the creatures walked away. Valerie stood up and scanned the banks. Yes, they were gone. That had been too close.
She looked down at her hands. They still clutched the canteen. She dropped it and ran up the trail as fast as her feet would take her.
She rushed into the cave.
Her parents were gone. (read more)
"Reflection"
4Star Stories Issue #16, 2016
Where was Sue? The sitting room was positively frigid. The anteroom rug still needed to be beaten. The tables were utterly bare of tablecloths and dishes. And the flowers hadn’t even been cut for the centerpiece. Adelaide felt panic overcoming her. Nothing was ready and their guests would arrive in mere hours.
“Oh, do relax, Addie,” Charles intoned. He sat lazily in his overstuffed red leather chair. “Why must you carry on so? You needn’t worry. Your party will be a thunderous success. They always are.” He spared only a brief moment to glance at her before returning to his newspaper.
“Yes, they are,” said Adelaide, “but only because I worry so. Would you please, at least, light the hearth in the sitting room? It’s freezing.”
Charles sighed and set down his newspaper. “Very well. I don’t suppose you’ll let me alone until I do.”
“You know me too well,” she told him.
“Well enough, I suppose,” he said, and ambled to the sitting room.
Adelaide finally found Sue returning with the freshly cleaned pillow-covers. Sue gave a small curtsey and smiled. “I’m almost finished here, ma’am. I’ll be getting the flowers next. Then I shall polish the silver and set the tables.”
“Thank you, Sue,” Adelaide said. “You are a godsend.”
Adelaide went into the kitchen to check on the menu. The cooks worked furiously, and it was clear that her presence hampered their progress. Mack saw her, lowered his eyebrows and pointed to the door. “Out,” he ordered impertinently. Adelaide thought of protesting that this was her house and her kitchen and she could stay if she liked, but seeing Mack’s expression, she thought wiser and returned to the family room to help Sue. Charles would protest. He disapproved of Sue and especially disliked the fact that Adelaide was so taken with their new servant.
Sue had shown up unannounced and had quite literally charmed her way into Adelaide’s heart. Charles did not want to hire her, but Adelaide insisted. From the instant she laid eyes upon her, Adelaide found her utterly delightful. She was so unlike the other dull servants Charles had hired. Sue was smart, witty, and unafraid to speak her mind.
But how could Charles understand? thought Adelaide. He had no idea how amazing Sue was. He hadn’t spoken more than ten words to her. Of course, Adelaide told him nothing of the engrossing conversations she and Sue had shared. Charles would undoubtedly be horrified. Adelaide didn’t care. She loved Sue. They could talk about anything… even the supernatural, something which had always fascinated Adelaide. She was enthused to discover that Sue shared the same interest. Sue had recommended tonight’s mystery guest, yet another secret Adelaide kept from her husband. No, Charles did not approve of Sue, and now he thought Adelaide was being difficult.
Adelaide didn’t disagree; she was being difficult, but she had their reputation to uphold. Her parties were the best around; everyone told her so. It would not do to disappoint them now. Tonight’s party, she hoped, would be the finest ever. She had invited a very special guest: Doctor Harry Rook, the noted mentalist. Adelaide could hardly wait to see Ruth’s face when she saw Rook, and Doris, she knew, would surely swoon. Yes, her friends would be impressed. But still, everything must be perfect. (read more)
4Star Stories Issue #16, 2016
Where was Sue? The sitting room was positively frigid. The anteroom rug still needed to be beaten. The tables were utterly bare of tablecloths and dishes. And the flowers hadn’t even been cut for the centerpiece. Adelaide felt panic overcoming her. Nothing was ready and their guests would arrive in mere hours.
“Oh, do relax, Addie,” Charles intoned. He sat lazily in his overstuffed red leather chair. “Why must you carry on so? You needn’t worry. Your party will be a thunderous success. They always are.” He spared only a brief moment to glance at her before returning to his newspaper.
“Yes, they are,” said Adelaide, “but only because I worry so. Would you please, at least, light the hearth in the sitting room? It’s freezing.”
Charles sighed and set down his newspaper. “Very well. I don’t suppose you’ll let me alone until I do.”
“You know me too well,” she told him.
“Well enough, I suppose,” he said, and ambled to the sitting room.
Adelaide finally found Sue returning with the freshly cleaned pillow-covers. Sue gave a small curtsey and smiled. “I’m almost finished here, ma’am. I’ll be getting the flowers next. Then I shall polish the silver and set the tables.”
“Thank you, Sue,” Adelaide said. “You are a godsend.”
Adelaide went into the kitchen to check on the menu. The cooks worked furiously, and it was clear that her presence hampered their progress. Mack saw her, lowered his eyebrows and pointed to the door. “Out,” he ordered impertinently. Adelaide thought of protesting that this was her house and her kitchen and she could stay if she liked, but seeing Mack’s expression, she thought wiser and returned to the family room to help Sue. Charles would protest. He disapproved of Sue and especially disliked the fact that Adelaide was so taken with their new servant.
Sue had shown up unannounced and had quite literally charmed her way into Adelaide’s heart. Charles did not want to hire her, but Adelaide insisted. From the instant she laid eyes upon her, Adelaide found her utterly delightful. She was so unlike the other dull servants Charles had hired. Sue was smart, witty, and unafraid to speak her mind.
But how could Charles understand? thought Adelaide. He had no idea how amazing Sue was. He hadn’t spoken more than ten words to her. Of course, Adelaide told him nothing of the engrossing conversations she and Sue had shared. Charles would undoubtedly be horrified. Adelaide didn’t care. She loved Sue. They could talk about anything… even the supernatural, something which had always fascinated Adelaide. She was enthused to discover that Sue shared the same interest. Sue had recommended tonight’s mystery guest, yet another secret Adelaide kept from her husband. No, Charles did not approve of Sue, and now he thought Adelaide was being difficult.
Adelaide didn’t disagree; she was being difficult, but she had their reputation to uphold. Her parties were the best around; everyone told her so. It would not do to disappoint them now. Tonight’s party, she hoped, would be the finest ever. She had invited a very special guest: Doctor Harry Rook, the noted mentalist. Adelaide could hardly wait to see Ruth’s face when she saw Rook, and Doris, she knew, would surely swoon. Yes, her friends would be impressed. But still, everything must be perfect. (read more)
"Eye for an Eye"
Strange Changes Anthology, December 2015
Edited by Jean Goldstrom
Six simple steps. He had climbed up and down them countless times without incident. But on this particular morning as he began to descend, Marvin Wallscott stepped on his shoelace. Suddenly unable to lift his right foot, his body pitched forward and down. Normally in this situation he would have thrust his arms forward and caught himself. But on this particular morning he happened to be carrying a birthday cake for his wife’s friend, Louise. Even now he saw his wife--who stood at the bottom of the steps waiting--cringe and step back in fear. (read more)
Strange Changes Anthology, December 2015
Edited by Jean Goldstrom
Six simple steps. He had climbed up and down them countless times without incident. But on this particular morning as he began to descend, Marvin Wallscott stepped on his shoelace. Suddenly unable to lift his right foot, his body pitched forward and down. Normally in this situation he would have thrust his arms forward and caught himself. But on this particular morning he happened to be carrying a birthday cake for his wife’s friend, Louise. Even now he saw his wife--who stood at the bottom of the steps waiting--cringe and step back in fear. (read more)
"Sampson's Moon"
Silver Blade, Issue 27, Summer 2015
(Winner of an honorable mention in the Writers of the Future Contest)
Nobody likes surprises, not really. So there are alien bases on the moon. Sorry we forgot to mention that. Alien bases, artifacts, ships, other stuff we don’t understand yet. Why did we cover it up? We decided you couldn’t handle the truth. Hah! Is it any surprise that people reacted the way they did, and that NASA was doomed? Perhaps things would have been different if we weren’t so long in learning the truth.
In some ways it’s the same situation with Sampson Thornton. He admitted himself that he covered up certain events. But you have to understand Sampson to understand his story, why he remained quiet about what happened. He liked the mystery; he didn’t want to destroy it. Sampson’s moon was filled with mystery.
Mysteries are funny. They make people nervous. The moon’s most persistent mystery, transient lunar phenomena--tulips--is the perfect example. Thousands of reports of lights on the moon, lights that appear in strange patterns, coming from a wide variety of credible sources (including astronomers) for more than two centuries. We finally go to the moon and see them close-up. Then we establish moon colonies, and we still see them. We photograph them. And yet, be the one to report seeing a tulip yourself and you are ridiculed. Say you make contact...well, ask Sampson.
Like I said, nobody likes surprises. And of all the surprises Luna sprung on us, none was greater than the one discovered by Sampson Thaddeus Thornton. No wonder he was ridiculed and attacked. I maintain, however, that this reputation is unjustified. In fact, Sampson only agreed to tell me his story to correct the many lies that have been told about him. And there have been many.
--from Sampson’s Moon
(by Claudia Wu)
I absolutely love sunrise on the moon. Love it! It’s always different, the way the sun peeks over the horizon, turning the blackness to a dazzling array of grays, silvers and whites. And best of all, it’s the time we scavvies get to suit up and go hunting. You can feel the excitement pulse through the city, the crowds gathering to see us off, the expectation of success electrifying the air. I especially love getting Sally (my rig) ready. I love packing up the foodstuffs, tightening the treads, juicing up the batteries, polishing the solar panels, flushing out the air scrubbers, checking the seals, cleaning the filters…and the countless other things that need to be pulled, pushed, tightened, loosened, glued, filled, emptied, squeezed, tested, repaired and, of course, hidden.
Sally’s not much to look at, and she’s older than space and broken in twenty places, but she’s dependable as a dog, and has gotten me through more scrapes than I can count. Most important--she’s all mine. Not many scavvies can say that. I work for myself.
Of course, that explained why I was fresh out of funds. With my last two outings both dismal failures, this trip would make it or break it for me. And with Elliot missing, the stakes for him were life and death. We scavvies have to stick together, and let’s face it, this was Elliott. Any one of us would have given our right arm to find him. (read more)
Silver Blade, Issue 27, Summer 2015
(Winner of an honorable mention in the Writers of the Future Contest)
Nobody likes surprises, not really. So there are alien bases on the moon. Sorry we forgot to mention that. Alien bases, artifacts, ships, other stuff we don’t understand yet. Why did we cover it up? We decided you couldn’t handle the truth. Hah! Is it any surprise that people reacted the way they did, and that NASA was doomed? Perhaps things would have been different if we weren’t so long in learning the truth.
In some ways it’s the same situation with Sampson Thornton. He admitted himself that he covered up certain events. But you have to understand Sampson to understand his story, why he remained quiet about what happened. He liked the mystery; he didn’t want to destroy it. Sampson’s moon was filled with mystery.
Mysteries are funny. They make people nervous. The moon’s most persistent mystery, transient lunar phenomena--tulips--is the perfect example. Thousands of reports of lights on the moon, lights that appear in strange patterns, coming from a wide variety of credible sources (including astronomers) for more than two centuries. We finally go to the moon and see them close-up. Then we establish moon colonies, and we still see them. We photograph them. And yet, be the one to report seeing a tulip yourself and you are ridiculed. Say you make contact...well, ask Sampson.
Like I said, nobody likes surprises. And of all the surprises Luna sprung on us, none was greater than the one discovered by Sampson Thaddeus Thornton. No wonder he was ridiculed and attacked. I maintain, however, that this reputation is unjustified. In fact, Sampson only agreed to tell me his story to correct the many lies that have been told about him. And there have been many.
--from Sampson’s Moon
(by Claudia Wu)
I absolutely love sunrise on the moon. Love it! It’s always different, the way the sun peeks over the horizon, turning the blackness to a dazzling array of grays, silvers and whites. And best of all, it’s the time we scavvies get to suit up and go hunting. You can feel the excitement pulse through the city, the crowds gathering to see us off, the expectation of success electrifying the air. I especially love getting Sally (my rig) ready. I love packing up the foodstuffs, tightening the treads, juicing up the batteries, polishing the solar panels, flushing out the air scrubbers, checking the seals, cleaning the filters…and the countless other things that need to be pulled, pushed, tightened, loosened, glued, filled, emptied, squeezed, tested, repaired and, of course, hidden.
Sally’s not much to look at, and she’s older than space and broken in twenty places, but she’s dependable as a dog, and has gotten me through more scrapes than I can count. Most important--she’s all mine. Not many scavvies can say that. I work for myself.
Of course, that explained why I was fresh out of funds. With my last two outings both dismal failures, this trip would make it or break it for me. And with Elliot missing, the stakes for him were life and death. We scavvies have to stick together, and let’s face it, this was Elliott. Any one of us would have given our right arm to find him. (read more)
"Eyes of Fire"
Grievous Angel, August 9, 2015
From Charles Christian, publisher and editor of Grievous Angel, "Two short pieces of flash/micro-fiction for you this week. Both feature protagonists who are on quests although of entirely different kinds, and both contain a strong urban/dark fantasy element. Our first story Eyes of Fire is by California-based writer Preston Dennett."
The man, old and stick-limbed, bent over the fire. The audience murmured. He wasn’t moving. His flesh should be charred by now. Somebody screamed. When he finally stood and smiled, we all jumped up, applauding.
I was impressed. A proud pyromaniac, I’d seen fire-eaters, fire-walkers, fire-jugglers. I studied under a magician and I knew about fireproof lotions and salves. This wasn’t any of those. This guy was genuine.
“Teach me,” I begged, after the show.
He studied me, saw my eyes of fire.
“Okay,” he said. (read more)
Grievous Angel, August 9, 2015
From Charles Christian, publisher and editor of Grievous Angel, "Two short pieces of flash/micro-fiction for you this week. Both feature protagonists who are on quests although of entirely different kinds, and both contain a strong urban/dark fantasy element. Our first story Eyes of Fire is by California-based writer Preston Dennett."
The man, old and stick-limbed, bent over the fire. The audience murmured. He wasn’t moving. His flesh should be charred by now. Somebody screamed. When he finally stood and smiled, we all jumped up, applauding.
I was impressed. A proud pyromaniac, I’d seen fire-eaters, fire-walkers, fire-jugglers. I studied under a magician and I knew about fireproof lotions and salves. This wasn’t any of those. This guy was genuine.
“Teach me,” I begged, after the show.
He studied me, saw my eyes of fire.
“Okay,” he said. (read more)
"Cloudburst"
Broken Worlds Anthology, July 2015
Edited by Jack Burgos
From the Editor, Jack Burgos: "We are never alone, not truly. We exist within systems; families, societies, governments, countries, continents; all within a singular planet in a singular solar system in a singular galaxy in a singular universe. And none of these are perfect. Many are broken, some beyond repair. Some could become broken over time. Others need to be destroyed to be improved. This book is about broken worlds, from families to a multiverse, where things are not what they seem or seem to be what they are: utterly broken from the top down and vice versa."
May 24, 2019
I turned sixteen today. Momma says now I’m a woman. ‘Course she said that three and a half years ago when I first got my monthly visitor, and Momma looked like she couldn’t decide whether to be happy or start cryin’. But Momma’s all smiles today. She fixed a big dinner with a real steak, fried potatoes with fancy herbs, creamed corn, and for dessert: a chocolate cake with ice-cream. My best friend Keshia gave me her favorite pink silk blouse which she knew I liked. Momma, she doesn’t have much money, so I didn’t get anything expensive--just some make-up, a pair of red shoes, a sweater, and this diary. She wrote in it: For all your special thoughts. Now, I don’t know that I’ve got any special thoughts, but I know Momma’s doing her best and I know she works hard and can’t afford to buy me expensive things. So I took the diary and told her I was happy even though I really wanted something more special, like a necklace, or a new outfit. But it’s okay. I understand. We’re poor.
I’ve never kept a diary before, so I’m not sure what to write. I saw Derrell again at school. He’s sooo cute. I think he likes me. I hope he does. I just wish he’d do something about it. I can see him staring at my boobs. (read more)
"The Backwards Man"
T. Gene Davis's Speculative Blog, June 2015
I remember quite distinctly the day I met him. One does not easily forget the strangest day in one’s life. It was a soggy morning, gray and overcast; fitting indeed I should think for what would soon take place. He stood at my doorstep, gripped my hand with unearned familiarity and smiling at me, attempted to enter my house.
While he appeared vaguely familiar, I was quite certain I had never made his acquaintance. “Pardon, sir,” I said abruptly, blocking his path. “But I am not in the habit of allowing strangers into my home.”
The man’s smile fell quickly, and he looked at me with such shock and sadness that I questioned myself. Had I perhaps met this man and not remembered him? No, it was not possible. His bright red cheeks and large round eyes made him an unforgettable figure. He appeared to be an older gentleman, near my age, dressed smartly. He looked friendly enough, but I felt certain I had not met him before.
“You do not remember me,” he said. It was not a question.
I searched his face and saw only sadness in his eyes. I did not know this man. “No,” I said. “If we have met on a prior occasion, please allow me to apologize. I do not remember you.”
“Oh, Stanley,” he said, “if you only knew how many times I have told you that this day would come. I just did not think it would be so soon. I should have known from the way you acted at our last meeting. You truly do not remember me?”
“No,” I said, mystified. “Should I?”
The man looked up at the sky. The light sprinkling of rain was quickly becoming a shower. “Yes, you should. And if you permit me,” he said, “I would like to explain. I fear this will be my last chance. May I come in?”
I paused for only a moment, then by some impulse pushed open the door. I watched with utter fascination as this strange man walked into my home. He knew exactly where the coat rack stood, and he flung his jacket and hat upon it with the ease of one who had done it many times before. He walked quite directly to my liquor cabinet, chose the most expensive bottle and poured himself a glass.
“Shall we go to the library?” he asked. “Your favorite room.”
“Yes,” I said, stunned. My favorite room. “I suppose you already know the way?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, laughing. “I do apologize. I confess, you made me promise not to surprise you like this, but we both knew this day was coming. Some things simply cannot be avoided. Alas, I shall not speak to you again after today. So I have allowed myself one small joke at your expense.” (read more)
T. Gene Davis's Speculative Blog, June 2015
I remember quite distinctly the day I met him. One does not easily forget the strangest day in one’s life. It was a soggy morning, gray and overcast; fitting indeed I should think for what would soon take place. He stood at my doorstep, gripped my hand with unearned familiarity and smiling at me, attempted to enter my house.
While he appeared vaguely familiar, I was quite certain I had never made his acquaintance. “Pardon, sir,” I said abruptly, blocking his path. “But I am not in the habit of allowing strangers into my home.”
The man’s smile fell quickly, and he looked at me with such shock and sadness that I questioned myself. Had I perhaps met this man and not remembered him? No, it was not possible. His bright red cheeks and large round eyes made him an unforgettable figure. He appeared to be an older gentleman, near my age, dressed smartly. He looked friendly enough, but I felt certain I had not met him before.
“You do not remember me,” he said. It was not a question.
I searched his face and saw only sadness in his eyes. I did not know this man. “No,” I said. “If we have met on a prior occasion, please allow me to apologize. I do not remember you.”
“Oh, Stanley,” he said, “if you only knew how many times I have told you that this day would come. I just did not think it would be so soon. I should have known from the way you acted at our last meeting. You truly do not remember me?”
“No,” I said, mystified. “Should I?”
The man looked up at the sky. The light sprinkling of rain was quickly becoming a shower. “Yes, you should. And if you permit me,” he said, “I would like to explain. I fear this will be my last chance. May I come in?”
I paused for only a moment, then by some impulse pushed open the door. I watched with utter fascination as this strange man walked into my home. He knew exactly where the coat rack stood, and he flung his jacket and hat upon it with the ease of one who had done it many times before. He walked quite directly to my liquor cabinet, chose the most expensive bottle and poured himself a glass.
“Shall we go to the library?” he asked. “Your favorite room.”
“Yes,” I said, stunned. My favorite room. “I suppose you already know the way?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, laughing. “I do apologize. I confess, you made me promise not to surprise you like this, but we both knew this day was coming. Some things simply cannot be avoided. Alas, I shall not speak to you again after today. So I have allowed myself one small joke at your expense.” (read more)
"Go Fish!"
Kzine, Issue 12, May 2015
“You’ve found her.” Please tell me you’ve found her.
“Yes.” Matthew said it with deserved pride, but there was a trace of something else. Disappointment? Fear? Pity?
“Well…?” I asked.
Matthew hesitated. “You’re not going to like it.” It was pity.
“Just tell me,” I hissed. I was tired of the games. Matthew was the fifth investigator I had hired to find my wife. I had spent the last three years and some two million credits--more than most people make in a lifetime--looking for her. I wanted answers and I wanted them now.
Matthew stood and looked out the window at the setting sun, which cast a crimson light through the city haze. “She’s on Cantor.”
“Cantor?” Where had I heard that name?
“Cantor,” he repeated. “You know, home of the garloks.”
My fists clenched as I tried to control my anger. Now I remembered Cantor. The garloks. The mere thought of them turned my stomach. And now my wife was with them. “How do you know? I mean, why? How?”
Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out a disk. “It’s all on here. Sorry, Mr. Garland. Apparently your wife was running from something. And frankly, it appears to be you.” He looked at me, clearly wondering what it was about me that had sent my own wife to the farthest reaches of known space into the arms of the most revolting alien species known to humankind. It was, of course, none of his business. Not that I could have told him if I wanted to. I had no idea, and it was about to make me explode. It made no sense. We were so in love. We were perfect together, I thought.
I slipped the disk into my desk and opened the door to my office. “Thank you, Matthew. I have no further need of your services. Your last payment will be transmitted tomorrow. Thank you very much for your efforts.”
Matthew nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Garland.” As he walked out the door, he turned and said, “Mr. Garland, one more thing. If you don’t mind my asking. Do you plan on going to Cantor yourself?”
I nodded.
He nodded in return. “I would recommend familiarizing or educating yourself before you go. You know, very few people ever leave. For some reason, they always elect to stay. It’s really quite controversial.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Matthew.”
I closed the door and sunk into my seat. Why had Tia done this? She had mentioned the garloks a few times, but only in passing, and only when they appeared on the news. What had she said about them? I tried to think back. Memories of my own distaste of them were vivid. (read more)
Kzine, Issue 12, May 2015
“You’ve found her.” Please tell me you’ve found her.
“Yes.” Matthew said it with deserved pride, but there was a trace of something else. Disappointment? Fear? Pity?
“Well…?” I asked.
Matthew hesitated. “You’re not going to like it.” It was pity.
“Just tell me,” I hissed. I was tired of the games. Matthew was the fifth investigator I had hired to find my wife. I had spent the last three years and some two million credits--more than most people make in a lifetime--looking for her. I wanted answers and I wanted them now.
Matthew stood and looked out the window at the setting sun, which cast a crimson light through the city haze. “She’s on Cantor.”
“Cantor?” Where had I heard that name?
“Cantor,” he repeated. “You know, home of the garloks.”
My fists clenched as I tried to control my anger. Now I remembered Cantor. The garloks. The mere thought of them turned my stomach. And now my wife was with them. “How do you know? I mean, why? How?”
Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out a disk. “It’s all on here. Sorry, Mr. Garland. Apparently your wife was running from something. And frankly, it appears to be you.” He looked at me, clearly wondering what it was about me that had sent my own wife to the farthest reaches of known space into the arms of the most revolting alien species known to humankind. It was, of course, none of his business. Not that I could have told him if I wanted to. I had no idea, and it was about to make me explode. It made no sense. We were so in love. We were perfect together, I thought.
I slipped the disk into my desk and opened the door to my office. “Thank you, Matthew. I have no further need of your services. Your last payment will be transmitted tomorrow. Thank you very much for your efforts.”
Matthew nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Garland.” As he walked out the door, he turned and said, “Mr. Garland, one more thing. If you don’t mind my asking. Do you plan on going to Cantor yourself?”
I nodded.
He nodded in return. “I would recommend familiarizing or educating yourself before you go. You know, very few people ever leave. For some reason, they always elect to stay. It’s really quite controversial.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Matthew.”
I closed the door and sunk into my seat. Why had Tia done this? She had mentioned the garloks a few times, but only in passing, and only when they appeared on the news. What had she said about them? I tried to think back. Memories of my own distaste of them were vivid. (read more)
"Dust"
ALLEGORY, Spring/Summer 2015
I closed the door to my tiny apartment with tremendous relief. I made it! Nobody followed me. No sign of the police. Nothing to show that I had just broken several laws. Still, my heart beat wildly and sweat covered my body. I pulled the envelope from my pocket and stared at it with fascination. One gram of dust.
It sparkled like living diamonds. I didn’t think about how much it had cost me. It was worth it.
Almost four o’clock. Visiting hours. I wasted no time and went directly to the hospital.
Except for the whisper of the air conditioner, the beeping of machinery and the soft breathing of the patients, the cancer ward was silent. My eight-year-old Sarah lay sleeping in her room. She looked so pale and still, like a little bird. She was a shell of her former self. I longed to scoop her into my arms and hold her. But she was too delicate. The IVs and monitors were holding her now, keeping alive my dying girl.
Thank God Jill wasn’t here yet. She would never approve of what I was about to do.
I scanned the hallway. No doctors. It was now or never. I bent down and kissed Sarah’s forehead. “This is for you, slugger,” I whispered, and wiped the tears from my eyes.
I opened the envelope and sprinkled the contents on Sarah’s exposed skin--on her face, neck and arms. As my dealer had said it would, the dust disappeared on contact.
The monitors hummed merrily. No change. Of course, it wouldn’t happen instantly. I put the envelope away just in time. At that moment, Jill appeared in the doorway. (read more)
ALLEGORY, Spring/Summer 2015
I closed the door to my tiny apartment with tremendous relief. I made it! Nobody followed me. No sign of the police. Nothing to show that I had just broken several laws. Still, my heart beat wildly and sweat covered my body. I pulled the envelope from my pocket and stared at it with fascination. One gram of dust.
It sparkled like living diamonds. I didn’t think about how much it had cost me. It was worth it.
Almost four o’clock. Visiting hours. I wasted no time and went directly to the hospital.
Except for the whisper of the air conditioner, the beeping of machinery and the soft breathing of the patients, the cancer ward was silent. My eight-year-old Sarah lay sleeping in her room. She looked so pale and still, like a little bird. She was a shell of her former self. I longed to scoop her into my arms and hold her. But she was too delicate. The IVs and monitors were holding her now, keeping alive my dying girl.
Thank God Jill wasn’t here yet. She would never approve of what I was about to do.
I scanned the hallway. No doctors. It was now or never. I bent down and kissed Sarah’s forehead. “This is for you, slugger,” I whispered, and wiped the tears from my eyes.
I opened the envelope and sprinkled the contents on Sarah’s exposed skin--on her face, neck and arms. As my dealer had said it would, the dust disappeared on contact.
The monitors hummed merrily. No change. Of course, it wouldn’t happen instantly. I put the envelope away just in time. At that moment, Jill appeared in the doorway. (read more)
"Storm of Chance"
Bards and Sages Quarterly, April 2015
Linda woke to the sound of Charles screaming in the bathroom. Had she slept through another one? Screams of agony! She leaped up and into her cotton robe. Wrapping it protectively around her body, she hurried around the bed and flung open the bathroom door. Charles was curled up in the bathtub in a fetal position, his face rigid with fear.
“My arm!” he screamed. “My arm! My arm!” He barely seemed to recognize her. Who was this woman in his bathroom? He gasped for air, his cheeks puffing up and down. He was crying now.
“Let me see,” Linda said. She bent down and tried to uncurl him.
He thrust his arm at her. “Look, it’s gone!”
Linda fell back in shock. She had been through this before, but it scared her every time. His arm was missing, severed at the elbow. He waved the stump around. It looked fully healed, although an ugly tangle of scars covered the end.
“My arm is gone,” he said in shock, looking up at her in disbelief, then staring again at the remains of his arm.
She pulled him out of the bathtub and maneuvered him back into bed. The first time she had ran away in horror. Now she had the routine down. Get a glass of water and a couple of sleeping pills. Wait for the new memories to settle in. (read more)
Bards and Sages Quarterly, April 2015
Linda woke to the sound of Charles screaming in the bathroom. Had she slept through another one? Screams of agony! She leaped up and into her cotton robe. Wrapping it protectively around her body, she hurried around the bed and flung open the bathroom door. Charles was curled up in the bathtub in a fetal position, his face rigid with fear.
“My arm!” he screamed. “My arm! My arm!” He barely seemed to recognize her. Who was this woman in his bathroom? He gasped for air, his cheeks puffing up and down. He was crying now.
“Let me see,” Linda said. She bent down and tried to uncurl him.
He thrust his arm at her. “Look, it’s gone!”
Linda fell back in shock. She had been through this before, but it scared her every time. His arm was missing, severed at the elbow. He waved the stump around. It looked fully healed, although an ugly tangle of scars covered the end.
“My arm is gone,” he said in shock, looking up at her in disbelief, then staring again at the remains of his arm.
She pulled him out of the bathtub and maneuvered him back into bed. The first time she had ran away in horror. Now she had the routine down. Get a glass of water and a couple of sleeping pills. Wait for the new memories to settle in. (read more)
"The Caretakers"
Frostfire Worlds, February 2015
Callie waited until she heard the soft snoring of her parents before she rose from her bed and quickly got dressed. Taking a small backpack, she crept down the stairs, avoiding the fourth step from the top which always creaked loudly. Her parents would be furious when they woke to find her missing. Her mother would think she was taken. Only her father would guess the truth.
Moving as quietly as possible, she went directly to her father’s workroom. She went to the spot in the floor and opened the secret hiding place. There they were: the deflectors. How she hoped they worked! She and her father had worked on them for over a year. Nobody knew about them, not even Callie’s mother, and definitely not the Caretakers. Her father had tried to keep it secret from Callie, but she discovered what her father was doing and made him tell her the truth. She shuddered to think what would happen to her father if the Caretakers found out. The Caretakers would destroy them and take him over, she knew. Probably, they’d take over her mother too. And herself, she realized. Which must be why father had refused to use the deflector. Well, she couldn’t wait anymore. If her father was afraid to test them out, then she would do it herself.
She opened the front door slightly and peered outside. A few of the other houses in the refuge still had their lights on, but the street was empty of people. Most everyone would be asleep by now. Off in the distance, she could see the wall that encircled their little town. Beyond that was nothing but wilderness in every direction. If there were other refuges with real people in them, the Caretakers were keeping them secret.
It was a cool night, and Callie was glad that she had the forethought to pack an extra sweater. She debated stopping to put it on, but decided she would wait until she exited the refuge.
Not wanting anybody to see her, she avoided the street and the sidewalks, and instead scampered across people’s front yards, moving from tree to tree, bush to bush, shadow to shadow. She was nearly at the edge of the refuge when she felt a hand on her shoulder. (read more)
Frostfire Worlds, February 2015
Callie waited until she heard the soft snoring of her parents before she rose from her bed and quickly got dressed. Taking a small backpack, she crept down the stairs, avoiding the fourth step from the top which always creaked loudly. Her parents would be furious when they woke to find her missing. Her mother would think she was taken. Only her father would guess the truth.
Moving as quietly as possible, she went directly to her father’s workroom. She went to the spot in the floor and opened the secret hiding place. There they were: the deflectors. How she hoped they worked! She and her father had worked on them for over a year. Nobody knew about them, not even Callie’s mother, and definitely not the Caretakers. Her father had tried to keep it secret from Callie, but she discovered what her father was doing and made him tell her the truth. She shuddered to think what would happen to her father if the Caretakers found out. The Caretakers would destroy them and take him over, she knew. Probably, they’d take over her mother too. And herself, she realized. Which must be why father had refused to use the deflector. Well, she couldn’t wait anymore. If her father was afraid to test them out, then she would do it herself.
She opened the front door slightly and peered outside. A few of the other houses in the refuge still had their lights on, but the street was empty of people. Most everyone would be asleep by now. Off in the distance, she could see the wall that encircled their little town. Beyond that was nothing but wilderness in every direction. If there were other refuges with real people in them, the Caretakers were keeping them secret.
It was a cool night, and Callie was glad that she had the forethought to pack an extra sweater. She debated stopping to put it on, but decided she would wait until she exited the refuge.
Not wanting anybody to see her, she avoided the street and the sidewalks, and instead scampered across people’s front yards, moving from tree to tree, bush to bush, shadow to shadow. She was nearly at the edge of the refuge when she felt a hand on her shoulder. (read more)
"Wild, Wild Humans"
Faed Anthology, Jan 2015
(edited by Shannon Iwanski)
From the editor: "The good neighbors, the folk under the hill, the fae. Spirits, ghosts, and outsiders, often thought to be gods. They step into the real world to play, not caring or knowing how humans live. And like children playing with dolls, they have the power to completely change the story."
“Are you Carolyn McConnell?” Captain Scott Svoboda rose quickly from his desk. He had the frustrated and resigned look of a man without hope. He scowled at her long flowing robe, the assorted flowers and feathers in her graying hair, her quartz-crystal necklace, the many rings on her fingers. She didn’t care. New clients always looked at her that way. Like the others, Svoboda would soon learn her worth. Above them the lights flickered and dimmed as the air vents whined and coughed. The small room was stifling. Svoboda looked utterly miserable in his uniform.
“In the flesh,” she said. She sat down in front of his desk, setting her large bag to the side. From the way she had been scuttled so quickly into the Captain’s office, not to mention the awful condition of the ship--it was clear this was going to be a difficult case. What, she wondered, was that stench? It smelled like a swamp.
“Oh, thank God!” he flopped back into his chair and mopped his forehead of sweat. “You’ve got to help us. These damn pests have gotten into absolutely everything. Do you know what they’ve done now? Stole our soap. All of it. They just finished destroying our air filtration system. I don’t even know what they’ve done with that, but I’m sure you can smell it. They put something in the water. Their mushroom circles are growing everywhere. God knows what they’ll do next. I’m not sure I can take much more of this. The crew is ready to mutiny. We’ve had three people attacked or bitten. Everybody is on lockdown. The entire ship is in complete chaos. I had no idea these things could be so vicious.”
“Yes,” Carolyn said sympathetically. “They can be quite dangerous when cornered.” She almost felt sorry for the Captain. By this point, however, she had been in the trenches too long. Svoboda was in space most of the time, where it was usually nice and peaceful. He had no idea how bad it was on Earth. Carolyn had left to escape the war. And now here she was, right back in it.
“We’ve tried everything short of decompressing the whole ship. You’ve got to get rid of them.”
“Decompression doesn’t work,” Carolyn said. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that once a ship was infested, it was almost impossible to clean it completely. The best that could be done is to appease them, make them leave you alone. In some cases, ships had to be abandoned.
“What are you going to do?” He eyed her bag suspiciously. “We’ve already tried everything.”
She took a deep breath. “Just tell me what happened.” (read more)
Faed Anthology, Jan 2015
(edited by Shannon Iwanski)
From the editor: "The good neighbors, the folk under the hill, the fae. Spirits, ghosts, and outsiders, often thought to be gods. They step into the real world to play, not caring or knowing how humans live. And like children playing with dolls, they have the power to completely change the story."
“Are you Carolyn McConnell?” Captain Scott Svoboda rose quickly from his desk. He had the frustrated and resigned look of a man without hope. He scowled at her long flowing robe, the assorted flowers and feathers in her graying hair, her quartz-crystal necklace, the many rings on her fingers. She didn’t care. New clients always looked at her that way. Like the others, Svoboda would soon learn her worth. Above them the lights flickered and dimmed as the air vents whined and coughed. The small room was stifling. Svoboda looked utterly miserable in his uniform.
“In the flesh,” she said. She sat down in front of his desk, setting her large bag to the side. From the way she had been scuttled so quickly into the Captain’s office, not to mention the awful condition of the ship--it was clear this was going to be a difficult case. What, she wondered, was that stench? It smelled like a swamp.
“Oh, thank God!” he flopped back into his chair and mopped his forehead of sweat. “You’ve got to help us. These damn pests have gotten into absolutely everything. Do you know what they’ve done now? Stole our soap. All of it. They just finished destroying our air filtration system. I don’t even know what they’ve done with that, but I’m sure you can smell it. They put something in the water. Their mushroom circles are growing everywhere. God knows what they’ll do next. I’m not sure I can take much more of this. The crew is ready to mutiny. We’ve had three people attacked or bitten. Everybody is on lockdown. The entire ship is in complete chaos. I had no idea these things could be so vicious.”
“Yes,” Carolyn said sympathetically. “They can be quite dangerous when cornered.” She almost felt sorry for the Captain. By this point, however, she had been in the trenches too long. Svoboda was in space most of the time, where it was usually nice and peaceful. He had no idea how bad it was on Earth. Carolyn had left to escape the war. And now here she was, right back in it.
“We’ve tried everything short of decompressing the whole ship. You’ve got to get rid of them.”
“Decompression doesn’t work,” Carolyn said. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that once a ship was infested, it was almost impossible to clean it completely. The best that could be done is to appease them, make them leave you alone. In some cases, ships had to be abandoned.
“What are you going to do?” He eyed her bag suspiciously. “We’ve already tried everything.”
She took a deep breath. “Just tell me what happened.” (read more)
"The Laughing Tree"
Liquid Imagination
Issue #23, Nov 2014
Writes editor: Shahid Khan: "In The Laughing Tree, Preston Dennett reminds us that, even in our darkest moments we can find purpose. And even the farthest gone still have hope."
Hiroko picked her way slowly through the forest. Go deeper, she told herself. Stay away from pathways. Move quickly. You must not be found. But quick travel was impossible as the trees grew thickly here. Cypress, red pine, oak and others all conspired to block her way. Hiroko wondered if perhaps she should have stayed on the pathways. Already her special kimono was torn and dirty. She had hoped to die dignified, with honor. She should have known better. Death is not neat.
A cool mist weaved through the trees as the morning sun cast countless spears to the forest floor. The cool whispering of leaves and the scampering of small animals were the only sounds other than Hiroko’s labored breath. The air smelled of moist earth and vegetation. It is beautiful, Hiroko thought, here in the Sea of Trees. The violet outline of Mount Fuji rose majestically in the distance, capped in snow and wrapped comfortably in the ever-present clouds. How long ago it was that she had climbed its sacred slopes. She had been so young, so full of dreams.
Now she was glad only that the darkness was gone. The morning light chased away the yurei that she felt sure must be watching her even now. But morning also meant that her daughter Suni would be waking. Soon she would find the note Hiroko had left.
Hiroko laughed bitterly and with anger. Of course, Suni would call the police. She would call them and cry tears. She would innocently explain how her sick and aged mother was losing her mind and had fled to the Forest of Aokigahara. She would be angry.
And yet if Suni should find her, she would put Hiroko in a rest home. Suni didn’t understand. She didn’t know about the old ways. No, Hiroko would not allow herself to be placed in a rest home. She would die in her own way, as her ancestors had done.
Go deeper. Keep moving. She held a half-filled water bottle. She must conserve the rest. She would need it when the time came.
The forest cleared into a small glade. A large boulder covered with soft moss beckoned to her. A moment’s rest couldn’t hurt, she told herself.
She saw a small crow hop through the trees. Yatagarasu, she thought excitedly, and peered to see if it had three legs. No such luck!
Why should she expect a sign of good fortune in the suicide forest? Hundreds of people came here each year from across the country to end their lives. It was called the forest of death for a reason. Their ancestors used to abandon the sick and old here.
It is best this way, Hiroko thought. I am an old woman. Suni is right about that. I am no longer useful. Why couldn’t Suni see? Hiroko would still be a burden to her in a rest home. Out here in the forest, among the spirits of her ancestors, she would be welcomed home. She would not be a burden.
Her hand wandered down to the small purse tied to her waist and she felt the package inside. The time is not quite right yet. But soon. (read more)
Liquid Imagination
Issue #23, Nov 2014
Writes editor: Shahid Khan: "In The Laughing Tree, Preston Dennett reminds us that, even in our darkest moments we can find purpose. And even the farthest gone still have hope."
Hiroko picked her way slowly through the forest. Go deeper, she told herself. Stay away from pathways. Move quickly. You must not be found. But quick travel was impossible as the trees grew thickly here. Cypress, red pine, oak and others all conspired to block her way. Hiroko wondered if perhaps she should have stayed on the pathways. Already her special kimono was torn and dirty. She had hoped to die dignified, with honor. She should have known better. Death is not neat.
A cool mist weaved through the trees as the morning sun cast countless spears to the forest floor. The cool whispering of leaves and the scampering of small animals were the only sounds other than Hiroko’s labored breath. The air smelled of moist earth and vegetation. It is beautiful, Hiroko thought, here in the Sea of Trees. The violet outline of Mount Fuji rose majestically in the distance, capped in snow and wrapped comfortably in the ever-present clouds. How long ago it was that she had climbed its sacred slopes. She had been so young, so full of dreams.
Now she was glad only that the darkness was gone. The morning light chased away the yurei that she felt sure must be watching her even now. But morning also meant that her daughter Suni would be waking. Soon she would find the note Hiroko had left.
Hiroko laughed bitterly and with anger. Of course, Suni would call the police. She would call them and cry tears. She would innocently explain how her sick and aged mother was losing her mind and had fled to the Forest of Aokigahara. She would be angry.
And yet if Suni should find her, she would put Hiroko in a rest home. Suni didn’t understand. She didn’t know about the old ways. No, Hiroko would not allow herself to be placed in a rest home. She would die in her own way, as her ancestors had done.
Go deeper. Keep moving. She held a half-filled water bottle. She must conserve the rest. She would need it when the time came.
The forest cleared into a small glade. A large boulder covered with soft moss beckoned to her. A moment’s rest couldn’t hurt, she told herself.
She saw a small crow hop through the trees. Yatagarasu, she thought excitedly, and peered to see if it had three legs. No such luck!
Why should she expect a sign of good fortune in the suicide forest? Hundreds of people came here each year from across the country to end their lives. It was called the forest of death for a reason. Their ancestors used to abandon the sick and old here.
It is best this way, Hiroko thought. I am an old woman. Suni is right about that. I am no longer useful. Why couldn’t Suni see? Hiroko would still be a burden to her in a rest home. Out here in the forest, among the spirits of her ancestors, she would be welcomed home. She would not be a burden.
Her hand wandered down to the small purse tied to her waist and she felt the package inside. The time is not quite right yet. But soon. (read more)
"The Phobos Monolith"
Cast of Wonders: the Young Adult Fiction Podcast
Episode #130, July 2014
True to her nature, Vasia ran without fear or caution across the Martian landscape. She leaped in huge graceful arcs that any dancer would envy. Naira did her best to keep up, but because of her legs she quickly fell behind. How she wished she could rid herself of the cursed robo-walker that encased her useless legs. Her sister’s body was strong and healthy. Naira, unfortunately, wasn’t as lucky. It was a miracle that their parents had even let them outside, considering how protective they were.
“Hurry up, Naira!” Vasia yelled. “Wait ‘til you see. It’s just a little farther.”
Naira huffed along at a steady pace. Vasia wanted to show her a patch of crystals she had found. They would, Vasia said, make a nice addition to their collection.
Seeing that Naira was catching up, Vasia turned and began running again.
Naira watched as her sister soared upwards. Then she landed and disappeared into the ground. A small puff of dust geysered upwards and settled instantly.
“Vasia!”
Naira increased her pace and knelt down where her sister had disappeared. There it was: a small black hole in the ground, just large enough to swallow Vasia.
Naira carefully knelt down and stuck her head in the entrance. “Vasia! Vasia!”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine!” Vasia shouted. Her thin reedy voice was barely audible in the thin air. “But you better come down here and see this.”
“See what? Are you hurt? Are you stuck? I’ll go get help.”
“No, I’m fine! Just come down here. Now.”
Naira looked at the little hole. Was her sister crazy? Go in there? It looked dangerous, and what about her legs? What if she couldn’t get out? Vasia had always been braver than her. Naira looked behind her. The landscape around them was mostly desert. Not a house or structure was in sight, only rocks and hills and more rocks. Her parents, she knew, would not want them to explore any Martian caves. Not in this cold weather. And they were pretty far already.
“Come on!” Vasia shouted. “You’re not going to believe it.”
Hearing the urgency in her sister’s voice, Naira climbed carefully down inside the hole. Despite her caution, her feet slipped from beneath her and she slid down the shaft and into what appeared to be a small cavern.
Vasia stood at the far end, shining her flashlight on the wall.
Naira stood up and gasped. “Oh, my God! What is it?” The cave wall was covered with weird writing. Could it be?
Vasia whirled around and smiled. “Can you believe it? We found a site. It’s Martian script!” (read more)
Cast of Wonders: the Young Adult Fiction Podcast
Episode #130, July 2014
True to her nature, Vasia ran without fear or caution across the Martian landscape. She leaped in huge graceful arcs that any dancer would envy. Naira did her best to keep up, but because of her legs she quickly fell behind. How she wished she could rid herself of the cursed robo-walker that encased her useless legs. Her sister’s body was strong and healthy. Naira, unfortunately, wasn’t as lucky. It was a miracle that their parents had even let them outside, considering how protective they were.
“Hurry up, Naira!” Vasia yelled. “Wait ‘til you see. It’s just a little farther.”
Naira huffed along at a steady pace. Vasia wanted to show her a patch of crystals she had found. They would, Vasia said, make a nice addition to their collection.
Seeing that Naira was catching up, Vasia turned and began running again.
Naira watched as her sister soared upwards. Then she landed and disappeared into the ground. A small puff of dust geysered upwards and settled instantly.
“Vasia!”
Naira increased her pace and knelt down where her sister had disappeared. There it was: a small black hole in the ground, just large enough to swallow Vasia.
Naira carefully knelt down and stuck her head in the entrance. “Vasia! Vasia!”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine!” Vasia shouted. Her thin reedy voice was barely audible in the thin air. “But you better come down here and see this.”
“See what? Are you hurt? Are you stuck? I’ll go get help.”
“No, I’m fine! Just come down here. Now.”
Naira looked at the little hole. Was her sister crazy? Go in there? It looked dangerous, and what about her legs? What if she couldn’t get out? Vasia had always been braver than her. Naira looked behind her. The landscape around them was mostly desert. Not a house or structure was in sight, only rocks and hills and more rocks. Her parents, she knew, would not want them to explore any Martian caves. Not in this cold weather. And they were pretty far already.
“Come on!” Vasia shouted. “You’re not going to believe it.”
Hearing the urgency in her sister’s voice, Naira climbed carefully down inside the hole. Despite her caution, her feet slipped from beneath her and she slid down the shaft and into what appeared to be a small cavern.
Vasia stood at the far end, shining her flashlight on the wall.
Naira stood up and gasped. “Oh, my God! What is it?” The cave wall was covered with weird writing. Could it be?
Vasia whirled around and smiled. “Can you believe it? We found a site. It’s Martian script!” (read more)
"SALVAGE YARD"
Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine
Issue #59, July 2014
(cover story)
(winner of an honorable mention in the Writers of the Future Contest)
Preston Dennett’s ‘Salvage Yard’, perhaps my favourite story from the magazine, was intriguing from the start. Danvers owns a junkyard in space full of old ships, some going back hundreds of years. Approached by a lady and her son, he is given money to take them to see a Carpenter ship, one of the originals, so that the boy can study it for a project. On the way, they meet Willie, a strange creature that could live in a vacuum and eat metal. This is the start of a nail-biting adventure with highs and lows! A thoroughly enjoyable story, just like Science Fiction used to be, it’s exceptionally well-written with good characters and setting. --Rod MacDonald, Crowsnest
The second I set eyes on the ship, I knew there’d be trouble. It was one of those ultra-luxurious family pleasure-cruisers--the kind that only a fool would waste their money buying. It must have cost a million credits at least. The airlock popped open and out floated two suited figures, a tall one and a short one. I groaned. The tall one’s P-suit was decorated with shiny jewels. Obviously a woman’s suit. I shuddered to think how much it cost. The short one’s suit was one of those mirrored safety P-suits. Poor kid, I thought. He looked like a silver traffic beacon at a spaceport. Obviously these two were from the inner planets and had more money than they knew what to do with. But why the hell were they way out here in Rim visiting my yard? It took a special breed to come out this far, and these two just weren’t the type.
My guess was that it was a mother and her kid. But the kid was so young; he couldn’t have been more than ten. His gaze instantly locked on my salvage yard, and he struggled unsuccessfully to pry himself from his mother’s grip and get a closer look.
She held his hand tightly and looked over the yard. Her disappointed expression was easily visible through her visor. The boy, however, stared with wonder and enthusiasm. I liked him already. (read more)
Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine
Issue #59, July 2014
(cover story)
(winner of an honorable mention in the Writers of the Future Contest)
Preston Dennett’s ‘Salvage Yard’, perhaps my favourite story from the magazine, was intriguing from the start. Danvers owns a junkyard in space full of old ships, some going back hundreds of years. Approached by a lady and her son, he is given money to take them to see a Carpenter ship, one of the originals, so that the boy can study it for a project. On the way, they meet Willie, a strange creature that could live in a vacuum and eat metal. This is the start of a nail-biting adventure with highs and lows! A thoroughly enjoyable story, just like Science Fiction used to be, it’s exceptionally well-written with good characters and setting. --Rod MacDonald, Crowsnest
The second I set eyes on the ship, I knew there’d be trouble. It was one of those ultra-luxurious family pleasure-cruisers--the kind that only a fool would waste their money buying. It must have cost a million credits at least. The airlock popped open and out floated two suited figures, a tall one and a short one. I groaned. The tall one’s P-suit was decorated with shiny jewels. Obviously a woman’s suit. I shuddered to think how much it cost. The short one’s suit was one of those mirrored safety P-suits. Poor kid, I thought. He looked like a silver traffic beacon at a spaceport. Obviously these two were from the inner planets and had more money than they knew what to do with. But why the hell were they way out here in Rim visiting my yard? It took a special breed to come out this far, and these two just weren’t the type.
My guess was that it was a mother and her kid. But the kid was so young; he couldn’t have been more than ten. His gaze instantly locked on my salvage yard, and he struggled unsuccessfully to pry himself from his mother’s grip and get a closer look.
She held his hand tightly and looked over the yard. Her disappointed expression was easily visible through her visor. The boy, however, stared with wonder and enthusiasm. I liked him already. (read more)
"Enter A Human"
Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine
Issue #59, July 2014
‘Enter A Human’ by Preston Dennett is a witty tale, an excellent story in fact, about an alien talent scout called Track who is looking for a new star. Unable to find anyone of any substance, this blue alien decides to opt for a human and finding Sarah, an artist, he takes her away in his flying saucer. In the biggest contest in the galaxy, Sarah is to use a box which turns her imaginations into reality. Would she put up a good show for humans in the competition? Time would tell. Regardless, who is the author, Preston Dennett? I’ve never heard of him but here he is with a couple of stories in ASIM and I’ve mentioned them both! After searching on the web, I discovered he is a UFO researcher with several books written on the subject. He also writes fiction and judging by the work published here, a good future in this sphere may await him in the future. --Rod MacDonald, Crowsnest.
“Why so glum?” Serran asked. Track sat hunched over his desk, facing the glowing screen. Their burrow was warm and filled with wonderful cooking odors. He had many reasons to be happy. But he wasn’t.
“I’m doomed, my dear. I failed in my task. I simply can’t locate a maker. I looked everywhere, and I can’t find anybody. All the great talent is taken. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve lost my touch. I have to quit the guild.” He swiped the screen clear of the prospective names, none of them promising.
Serran quivered in shock. “Track, you can’t quit. This is your life’s work. There must be someplace you haven’t looked. You can’t quit. I won’t have it.”
“I have looked everywhere. The competition begins too soon. Even if I find someone, there’s no time. All the great artists have already been discovered.” He choked back a sob. This was no time to begin crying. If he had to quit the guild, there would be necessary preparations. And to cry in front of his partner would be shameful.
Serran’s expression, however, betrayed no disappointment. She seemed, if anything, sympathetic. How could she be so calm?
She swiveled back to the kitchen, and continued to cook the candied slug-worms, Track’s favorite dessert. “It will all work out finely, my treasure,” she said resolutely. “I have confidence in you. You’ll find someone. Don’t give up. Please, for me, keep looking. You discovered Filanthia Tin, and look how successful she has become.”
“That was just one artist, many years ago. It’s been a long time since I have discovered anyone of great import. You say I should continue, but I tell you, I can’t. I’m getting old, Serran. Old and tired. The others in the guild are talking. You know how they can be. If I enter the competition with another mediocre talent, it will be the end of me either way.”
“First of all, leaving the guild does not spell the end of you. We’ll survive with or without them. And second, until the competition actually begins, you still have time. There must be somewhere you haven’t looked. Some out of the way species that nobody would ever think of.” She set a bowl of worms on the table and motioned Track to join her.
Track pushed himself away from his desk and glided to the table. He picked up a piece of a dried larva chip and popped it in his mouth. “Believe me, love, I’ve looked everywhere. Sun, I even looked at sub-sentient species: the Dulns, the Golots, the Stanzis. I’m desperate. I have scooped the scum from the bottom of the pond. I have found nobody with any worthy talent.”
“What about humans? Have you looked there?” (read more)
Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine
Issue #59, July 2014
‘Enter A Human’ by Preston Dennett is a witty tale, an excellent story in fact, about an alien talent scout called Track who is looking for a new star. Unable to find anyone of any substance, this blue alien decides to opt for a human and finding Sarah, an artist, he takes her away in his flying saucer. In the biggest contest in the galaxy, Sarah is to use a box which turns her imaginations into reality. Would she put up a good show for humans in the competition? Time would tell. Regardless, who is the author, Preston Dennett? I’ve never heard of him but here he is with a couple of stories in ASIM and I’ve mentioned them both! After searching on the web, I discovered he is a UFO researcher with several books written on the subject. He also writes fiction and judging by the work published here, a good future in this sphere may await him in the future. --Rod MacDonald, Crowsnest.
“Why so glum?” Serran asked. Track sat hunched over his desk, facing the glowing screen. Their burrow was warm and filled with wonderful cooking odors. He had many reasons to be happy. But he wasn’t.
“I’m doomed, my dear. I failed in my task. I simply can’t locate a maker. I looked everywhere, and I can’t find anybody. All the great talent is taken. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve lost my touch. I have to quit the guild.” He swiped the screen clear of the prospective names, none of them promising.
Serran quivered in shock. “Track, you can’t quit. This is your life’s work. There must be someplace you haven’t looked. You can’t quit. I won’t have it.”
“I have looked everywhere. The competition begins too soon. Even if I find someone, there’s no time. All the great artists have already been discovered.” He choked back a sob. This was no time to begin crying. If he had to quit the guild, there would be necessary preparations. And to cry in front of his partner would be shameful.
Serran’s expression, however, betrayed no disappointment. She seemed, if anything, sympathetic. How could she be so calm?
She swiveled back to the kitchen, and continued to cook the candied slug-worms, Track’s favorite dessert. “It will all work out finely, my treasure,” she said resolutely. “I have confidence in you. You’ll find someone. Don’t give up. Please, for me, keep looking. You discovered Filanthia Tin, and look how successful she has become.”
“That was just one artist, many years ago. It’s been a long time since I have discovered anyone of great import. You say I should continue, but I tell you, I can’t. I’m getting old, Serran. Old and tired. The others in the guild are talking. You know how they can be. If I enter the competition with another mediocre talent, it will be the end of me either way.”
“First of all, leaving the guild does not spell the end of you. We’ll survive with or without them. And second, until the competition actually begins, you still have time. There must be somewhere you haven’t looked. Some out of the way species that nobody would ever think of.” She set a bowl of worms on the table and motioned Track to join her.
Track pushed himself away from his desk and glided to the table. He picked up a piece of a dried larva chip and popped it in his mouth. “Believe me, love, I’ve looked everywhere. Sun, I even looked at sub-sentient species: the Dulns, the Golots, the Stanzis. I’m desperate. I have scooped the scum from the bottom of the pond. I have found nobody with any worthy talent.”
“What about humans? Have you looked there?” (read more)
"LEN"
Black Treacle Magazine
Issue #6 April 2014
Just for once, Jill considered the telling truth. What could it hurt, she thought. Len would take care of her. He always has.
Doctor Pomerantz smiled politely, waiting for Jill to speak. She could wait forever for all Jill cared. She let her gaze wander around the office. All the pretty degrees on the walls, a healthy Ficus growing in the corner, a sensible carpet--a soothing green. Outside the window, off in the distance, Len hovered and watched. Where were the damn curtains, Jill thought.
“Miss Titus,” the doctor said, finally. “Jill. Why don’t you start by telling me what brings you to my office?”
“You mean, other than the court order?” she asked.
The doctor smiled with genuine amusement. “Yes, other than that.”
Despite her dislike of psychiatrists in general, Jill found herself liking her. “So do you want the standard spiel or the truth?”
The good doctor paused and looked at her. She knew Jill was testing her.
“I’ll take the spiel,” she said.
Damn it! She passed her test. She would tell her the truth. (read more)
Black Treacle Magazine
Issue #6 April 2014
Just for once, Jill considered the telling truth. What could it hurt, she thought. Len would take care of her. He always has.
Doctor Pomerantz smiled politely, waiting for Jill to speak. She could wait forever for all Jill cared. She let her gaze wander around the office. All the pretty degrees on the walls, a healthy Ficus growing in the corner, a sensible carpet--a soothing green. Outside the window, off in the distance, Len hovered and watched. Where were the damn curtains, Jill thought.
“Miss Titus,” the doctor said, finally. “Jill. Why don’t you start by telling me what brings you to my office?”
“You mean, other than the court order?” she asked.
The doctor smiled with genuine amusement. “Yes, other than that.”
Despite her dislike of psychiatrists in general, Jill found herself liking her. “So do you want the standard spiel or the truth?”
The good doctor paused and looked at her. She knew Jill was testing her.
“I’ll take the spiel,” she said.
Damn it! She passed her test. She would tell her the truth. (read more)
"TEARS, NOT OF A CHILD"
The Future Embodied Anthology, 2014
(winner of an honorable mention in the Writers of the Future Contest)
The Future Embodied - An anthology of speculative stories exploring how science and technology might change our bodies and what it means to be human. Imagine what our ancestors a mere hundred years ago would have thought of the modern world. Think of the medical marvels we experience on a daily basis that would have seemed impossible. Recent medical advances have dramatically extended the human life-span to unthinkable lengths. Science has changed how we live in this world. Technology has allowed humanity to dramatically alter our environment, how we communicate, and how we experience life. Imagine now what our descendants might experience. What new trials or tribulations will the future of humanity suffer, or overcome? The final frontier won't be out in space but inside our own bodies. Experience the future as imagined via nineteen powerful voices envisioning what we might become. Including stories from: William F. Nolan, David Gerrold, Ree Soesbee, Jennifer Brozek, Katrina Nicholson, Nghi Vo, Jennifer R. Povey, Sarah Pinsker, Thomas Brennan, Miles Britton, Megan Lee Beals, Lauren C. Teffeau, Shane Robinson, John Skylar, Preston Dennett, Alexandra Grunberg, Wayne Helge, and Holly Schofield.
We were both seventy years old when we closed the gate. It was the same treatment that our parents had gone through, and our grandparents and their parents. Everyone accepts the treatment sooner or later, most people earlier than us. We wanted to experience old age…or rather, David did and I went along. But we didn’t want to risk going past seventy. We’ve all heard the horror stories of people who actually died. So I drew the line of seventy. Besides, as David liked to say, everyone knows the chances of having a bad reaction go down the longer you wait. It was one of his ways of convincing me to wait. Later I learned there is no known correlation between age at time of treatment and results. (read more)
The Future Embodied Anthology, 2014
(winner of an honorable mention in the Writers of the Future Contest)
The Future Embodied - An anthology of speculative stories exploring how science and technology might change our bodies and what it means to be human. Imagine what our ancestors a mere hundred years ago would have thought of the modern world. Think of the medical marvels we experience on a daily basis that would have seemed impossible. Recent medical advances have dramatically extended the human life-span to unthinkable lengths. Science has changed how we live in this world. Technology has allowed humanity to dramatically alter our environment, how we communicate, and how we experience life. Imagine now what our descendants might experience. What new trials or tribulations will the future of humanity suffer, or overcome? The final frontier won't be out in space but inside our own bodies. Experience the future as imagined via nineteen powerful voices envisioning what we might become. Including stories from: William F. Nolan, David Gerrold, Ree Soesbee, Jennifer Brozek, Katrina Nicholson, Nghi Vo, Jennifer R. Povey, Sarah Pinsker, Thomas Brennan, Miles Britton, Megan Lee Beals, Lauren C. Teffeau, Shane Robinson, John Skylar, Preston Dennett, Alexandra Grunberg, Wayne Helge, and Holly Schofield.
We were both seventy years old when we closed the gate. It was the same treatment that our parents had gone through, and our grandparents and their parents. Everyone accepts the treatment sooner or later, most people earlier than us. We wanted to experience old age…or rather, David did and I went along. But we didn’t want to risk going past seventy. We’ve all heard the horror stories of people who actually died. So I drew the line of seventy. Besides, as David liked to say, everyone knows the chances of having a bad reaction go down the longer you wait. It was one of his ways of convincing me to wait. Later I learned there is no known correlation between age at time of treatment and results. (read more)
"NEXT!"
Perihelion, Feb 2014
Just in case you’re wondering, you don’t dream in cryosleep. At least I didn’t. It was black mold that killed me. I never really expected to wake back up. I had just fallen asleep when--what felt like seconds later--I woke up to see several seven-foot-tall cockroaches dressed in white coats surrounding my cryotank.
True to my nature, I began screaming in utter horror. You have to understand, this was my first exposure to seven-foot-tall intelligent cockroaches, and I’m a sensitive guy.
“Do not be afraid, little human,” the ugly one said with a distinct cockroachy accent. “We won’t hurt you. In fact, we have worked very hard to revive you. We are so glad that you have survived. Please, do not be afraid.”
“But I am afraid!” I shouted, and I thrashed around weakly in my tank, unable to get up. “Where am I? Who are you? Where is everyone?”
Perihelion, Feb 2014
Just in case you’re wondering, you don’t dream in cryosleep. At least I didn’t. It was black mold that killed me. I never really expected to wake back up. I had just fallen asleep when--what felt like seconds later--I woke up to see several seven-foot-tall cockroaches dressed in white coats surrounding my cryotank.
True to my nature, I began screaming in utter horror. You have to understand, this was my first exposure to seven-foot-tall intelligent cockroaches, and I’m a sensitive guy.
“Do not be afraid, little human,” the ugly one said with a distinct cockroachy accent. “We won’t hurt you. In fact, we have worked very hard to revive you. We are so glad that you have survived. Please, do not be afraid.”
“But I am afraid!” I shouted, and I thrashed around weakly in my tank, unable to get up. “Where am I? Who are you? Where is everyone?”
"ZOMBIE"
ENCOUNTERS MAGAZINE
Issue #09 November 2013
(Cover Story!)
“Is that it? Any other items on the agenda?”
Decker slipped him a brief smile. “Just one, sir. It’s the DL bill. Senator Farrell is asking again for your support.”
Senator Blaine Geary shook his head. “Doesn’t he ever give up? I’ve heard of persistence, but this is ridiculous.” What would convince him that he’s not interested?
“Tell him okay,” he said. “But only if he can provide 100 reasons why. That should do it.”
Decker laughed warmly. Geary leaned back in his chair. It was good to be finished with the list for the day. A headache had been stalking him and he was feeling out of sorts. Part of getting old, he supposed.
“Let me ask you something, Ross,” Geary said. “You already know how I feel. Do you plan to become a download when you die?”
“Well, that’s a tough one, sir. I haven’t thought about it much. Right now, probably not. But I suppose when I get to be your age, I might.”
“Yeah? Well, hopefully you’ll be wiser by then.”
Geary had nothing against downloads, just as long as they knew their place. Legally, once you’re dead, you’re dead. That was the law. Your download had no rights to your property or identity. Farrell’s bill wanted to change all that, but it would be over Geary’s dead body. Things were already tricky enough with the AIs trying to claim human rights. Throwing downloads into the mix would only complicate matters. And this had nothing to do with how he felt about downloads.
“Well, if we’re done, I’ll get started,” said Decker.
There was a quick knock on the door and Rita came rushing in looking slightly pale, her thin black hair disheveled.
“You could have told me,” she told Geary, throwing down a sheet of paper on his desk. She looked at him accusingly.
“Told you what?”
“You tried to hide it! You’re retiring!”
“I told you, I changed my mind about that,” said Geary, looking at the sheet of paper and becoming alarmed. It was his bank statement, but the numbers were wrong. “What’s this?”
“You emptied your accounts,” said Rita. “You nearly gave me a heart-attack. You should have told me.” She saw his expression and abruptly changed her tone. “Is everything all right? Please tell me you know about this.”
Geary felt suddenly queasy. He shook his aching head. “No, I know nothing about it. How certain are you this is accurate?”
“One hundred percent. I just got off the phone with the bank. What’s going on? Oh, my God.”
“I didn’t do this.” He looked up at Decker. “Get me the FBI. It looks I’ve been robbed.” (read more)
ENCOUNTERS MAGAZINE
Issue #09 November 2013
(Cover Story!)
“Is that it? Any other items on the agenda?”
Decker slipped him a brief smile. “Just one, sir. It’s the DL bill. Senator Farrell is asking again for your support.”
Senator Blaine Geary shook his head. “Doesn’t he ever give up? I’ve heard of persistence, but this is ridiculous.” What would convince him that he’s not interested?
“Tell him okay,” he said. “But only if he can provide 100 reasons why. That should do it.”
Decker laughed warmly. Geary leaned back in his chair. It was good to be finished with the list for the day. A headache had been stalking him and he was feeling out of sorts. Part of getting old, he supposed.
“Let me ask you something, Ross,” Geary said. “You already know how I feel. Do you plan to become a download when you die?”
“Well, that’s a tough one, sir. I haven’t thought about it much. Right now, probably not. But I suppose when I get to be your age, I might.”
“Yeah? Well, hopefully you’ll be wiser by then.”
Geary had nothing against downloads, just as long as they knew their place. Legally, once you’re dead, you’re dead. That was the law. Your download had no rights to your property or identity. Farrell’s bill wanted to change all that, but it would be over Geary’s dead body. Things were already tricky enough with the AIs trying to claim human rights. Throwing downloads into the mix would only complicate matters. And this had nothing to do with how he felt about downloads.
“Well, if we’re done, I’ll get started,” said Decker.
There was a quick knock on the door and Rita came rushing in looking slightly pale, her thin black hair disheveled.
“You could have told me,” she told Geary, throwing down a sheet of paper on his desk. She looked at him accusingly.
“Told you what?”
“You tried to hide it! You’re retiring!”
“I told you, I changed my mind about that,” said Geary, looking at the sheet of paper and becoming alarmed. It was his bank statement, but the numbers were wrong. “What’s this?”
“You emptied your accounts,” said Rita. “You nearly gave me a heart-attack. You should have told me.” She saw his expression and abruptly changed her tone. “Is everything all right? Please tell me you know about this.”
Geary felt suddenly queasy. He shook his aching head. “No, I know nothing about it. How certain are you this is accurate?”
“One hundred percent. I just got off the phone with the bank. What’s going on? Oh, my God.”
“I didn’t do this.” He looked up at Decker. “Get me the FBI. It looks I’ve been robbed.” (read more)
"CAN YOU SPARE A DOLLAR?"
Aurora Wolf
August 2013
The body was lying alongside the road. It sure looked like a body. I hopped out of my truck to investigate. It was Stick Man, and he was dead. He was on his back, his arms draped beside his body, as if he had decided to take a nap. But this was one nap he would not be waking up from. I reached out and touched his arm: cold. It was hard to believe, but Stick Man was dead. Even now, his large bubbly eyes stared out glazed and lifeless.
I huffed it over to Margie’s place and pounded on the door.
“What’s all this?” she said, eyeing me sharply.
“It’s Sticky,” I said. “He’s died. His body is right out at the end of your drive.”
Margie’s plump face shook with emotion. “In front of my drive? Are you sure?”
“Right at the end,” I said. “You didn’t see him?”
“I haven’t been out yet. It’s still early.”
“Well, call Sheriff Dooley, would you?”
Margie peered past me toward the road.
“Fine.”
As Margie went inside, I returned to Stick Man. He looked so different dead, so still. I still couldn’t believe he was gone.
How had he died? I wondered. His shirt and pants were dirty and full of holes, but that was normal for Stick Man. His face looked calm, but it was so full of wrinkles, it was hard to say.
Poor Sticky, I thought. You had a hard life. You deserved better than this. I crouched there next to him thinking of all the times I had ignored him, denied him a handout. And now he was dead. (read more)
Aurora Wolf
August 2013
The body was lying alongside the road. It sure looked like a body. I hopped out of my truck to investigate. It was Stick Man, and he was dead. He was on his back, his arms draped beside his body, as if he had decided to take a nap. But this was one nap he would not be waking up from. I reached out and touched his arm: cold. It was hard to believe, but Stick Man was dead. Even now, his large bubbly eyes stared out glazed and lifeless.
I huffed it over to Margie’s place and pounded on the door.
“What’s all this?” she said, eyeing me sharply.
“It’s Sticky,” I said. “He’s died. His body is right out at the end of your drive.”
Margie’s plump face shook with emotion. “In front of my drive? Are you sure?”
“Right at the end,” I said. “You didn’t see him?”
“I haven’t been out yet. It’s still early.”
“Well, call Sheriff Dooley, would you?”
Margie peered past me toward the road.
“Fine.”
As Margie went inside, I returned to Stick Man. He looked so different dead, so still. I still couldn’t believe he was gone.
How had he died? I wondered. His shirt and pants were dirty and full of holes, but that was normal for Stick Man. His face looked calm, but it was so full of wrinkles, it was hard to say.
Poor Sticky, I thought. You had a hard life. You deserved better than this. I crouched there next to him thinking of all the times I had ignored him, denied him a handout. And now he was dead. (read more)
"THE DREAM COLLECTION CENTER"
1994, Vol 4, Issue #1
(First Place Winner, Best Story of the Issue!)
From the editor, Jon Herron: "The first prize goes to Preston Dennett for "The Dream Collection Center," a strong story of dreams, predictions and the inability of humans to deal with knowing the future, despite our intensive efforts to predict it."
Katherine Hobart set the phone receiver down thankfully. At the same instant, Trask stalked out of his office straight to her cubicle. “Just tell me what the heck you think you’re doing? We have over thirty calls an hour and you’re spending twenty minutes on each call? We’re non-profit, remember? We can’t afford that here. You’re going to have to start speeding things up a little. Remember, we’re not psychotherapists here. We just collect and record. Just leave your helpful comments out of it.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.” Katherine spoke quickly and forcefully. Maria winked at her from the next cubicle.
Trask relaxed slightly. “Now, I realize you’re new here, but we can’t take any risks. So please, just stick to recording the dreams. No more suggestions for the clients, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, then,” he said, and stalked back to his office, soothing down to a state of minor agitation.
Maria leaned over the chest-high cubicle wall. “Don’t worry. He does that to every new employee. He really likes you. I heard him tell Carmen. Anyway, you’ll get the hang of it soon enough. You just got a few bad calls. I once had one--took an hour. Trask was pissed, but it turned out to be a hit and we averted the deaths of over twenty people.”
“Is that who the statue is from?” Katherine pointed to a gold figurine with a polished quartz bas--a woman holding the earth in her lap--obviously custom-made. It stood on the corner of Maria’s desk along with other knickknacks.
“Oh, no. That’s something else. But wait’ll Christmas time. You won’t believe how many cards, gifts and thank-you notes this office rakes in. Of course, Trask won’t let us keep half the stuff. But you can’t blame him. He--oh, here he comes.”
Maria went back to answering the phone, motioning for Katherine to do the same.
The boss passed their desks and went on to inspect the other collectors. Katherine held the phone receiver to her ear, but hesitated in pressing the connect button. She wasn’t sure she could handle another screwball nightmare from some kook off the street. Carmen, the office supervisor, had told her the job was simply to separate the wheat from the chaff, the baby from the bathwater. Out of the five hundred or so calls per day, only about one or two percent ended up containing any elements of precognition, and only about ten percent of those dreams had enough data to make a valid argument for a probable event.
1994, Vol 4, Issue #1
(First Place Winner, Best Story of the Issue!)
From the editor, Jon Herron: "The first prize goes to Preston Dennett for "The Dream Collection Center," a strong story of dreams, predictions and the inability of humans to deal with knowing the future, despite our intensive efforts to predict it."
Katherine Hobart set the phone receiver down thankfully. At the same instant, Trask stalked out of his office straight to her cubicle. “Just tell me what the heck you think you’re doing? We have over thirty calls an hour and you’re spending twenty minutes on each call? We’re non-profit, remember? We can’t afford that here. You’re going to have to start speeding things up a little. Remember, we’re not psychotherapists here. We just collect and record. Just leave your helpful comments out of it.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.” Katherine spoke quickly and forcefully. Maria winked at her from the next cubicle.
Trask relaxed slightly. “Now, I realize you’re new here, but we can’t take any risks. So please, just stick to recording the dreams. No more suggestions for the clients, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, then,” he said, and stalked back to his office, soothing down to a state of minor agitation.
Maria leaned over the chest-high cubicle wall. “Don’t worry. He does that to every new employee. He really likes you. I heard him tell Carmen. Anyway, you’ll get the hang of it soon enough. You just got a few bad calls. I once had one--took an hour. Trask was pissed, but it turned out to be a hit and we averted the deaths of over twenty people.”
“Is that who the statue is from?” Katherine pointed to a gold figurine with a polished quartz bas--a woman holding the earth in her lap--obviously custom-made. It stood on the corner of Maria’s desk along with other knickknacks.
“Oh, no. That’s something else. But wait’ll Christmas time. You won’t believe how many cards, gifts and thank-you notes this office rakes in. Of course, Trask won’t let us keep half the stuff. But you can’t blame him. He--oh, here he comes.”
Maria went back to answering the phone, motioning for Katherine to do the same.
The boss passed their desks and went on to inspect the other collectors. Katherine held the phone receiver to her ear, but hesitated in pressing the connect button. She wasn’t sure she could handle another screwball nightmare from some kook off the street. Carmen, the office supervisor, had told her the job was simply to separate the wheat from the chaff, the baby from the bathwater. Out of the five hundred or so calls per day, only about one or two percent ended up containing any elements of precognition, and only about ten percent of those dreams had enough data to make a valid argument for a probable event.
