“You” • by Conrad Gardner

It’s you, it’s always been you. 

When they asked me what I wanted to remember, when the time came, I said your name without needing to pause to think.

What did I want to remember? The doctors asked.

“Everything,” I said. But that wasn’t feasible, so I had to select one event in particular, a single moment of time for me to hold onto whilst my mind decayed.

When faced with that choice, my mind raced with all the time we’d spent together; making food with you, being in bed with you, holding you in my arms while you fell asleep watching a film. I wanted to hold onto all of them, but couldn’t pinpoint one of them out of the sea of time we’d spent together.

The doctors gave me a couple of days to pick one. It wasn’t until the time I’m writing this—07/04/2050—that I realised what I wanted to keep.

It was my father’s funeral. The people were filing out, offering their condolences and a handshake. You looked at me, and gave me a three-millimetre smile. Nothing more, nothing less, three millimetres. And I understood then, in that moment, how important you were to me.

You still are. Always will be, Even when I can’t remember your name, I can remember that smile now, and that’s all I’ll need.

When I’m no longer here, I hope you can read this, and remember that I love you.

---

 

Conrad Gardner’s work has previously appeared in Superlative Literary Journal, Sci Phi Journal, and Impossible Worlds. When not writing, he can be found running, reading, and hoping for a better tomorrow.

 

Read More

“A Curse and a Blessing” • by Jeff Currier

The Moonies (no, not disciples of the Unification Church) were out in force on the 25th Anniversary of Moonfall. 

(I know the Moon didn’t fall. If it had, we wouldn’t be here. But that’s the name that stuck.) 

A damn near thing though. The off-center dark-side explosion at apogee set the Moon spinning, exactly when a dark matter mass just happened to be hurtling by. Enough gravitational nudge to pluck the Moon from its orbit rather than crashing into Earth. That was the scientific consensus anyway.

The sheer improbability led some to proclaim it an act of God. But if we repented our sins, He would restore the Moon. So here the Moonies were, gathering for a massive prayer session in the park. (Did they even realize they were calculating the anniversary in solar years?)

I dodged around another group, clad in shimmering robes, like they’d just stepped off the ship from Remulak. Except they wore bulbous spheres on their heads. Should’ve called them Moonheads.

Despite the empty night sky, not even a new moon’s darkness occluding the stars behind, I felt the old rhythms like clockwork in my veins. I didn’t need to look at my watch. Even avoiding the park, I’d still make the lecture on time.

§

The audience was sparse. A smattering of undergraduates, probably hoping for extra credit. Octogenarian faculty types in the front row. Someone in shadow in the back. Not much interest in obscure Greek and Roman classical literature, apparently. Which was fine with me—I found a seat far from everyone else.

These days biologists were the big draw, detailing the ongoing repercussions of the Quaternary Extinction Event. All over the world the Moon’s absence wreaked cascading ecological havoc. After the stilling of the tides over eighty-percent of all intertidal organisms died off. Massive clouds of birds circled around nighttime city lights. And who knew dung beetles, crucial participants in fecal decomposition and soil aeration, also navigated via the Moon?

Psychologists were a close second. Suicide, depression, and anger-fueled violence had spiked. New cults proliferated; Moonies, Loonies, Gaiaists, and Mánists. Third-Kinder’s argued aliens stole the Moon to run experiments on Moonbase Alpha’s crew—a prelude to mass abductions on Earth. At airports, Krishnas were replaced by zealots dressed as Imperial stormtroopers, panhandling for the Death Star Project. Allegedly SpaceX would help them begin construction by 2040. 

The Moon might be gone, but human lunacy had only multiplied. For me though, Moonfall was the most blessed day of my life.

§

A final trickle of students found seats. The first generation to never see a Moon in their night sky and seemingly perfectly content without it. They baked pearlcakes for the Mid-Autumn Festival; karaoked Hepburn’s Loon River. Incessant lunar laments only made them salty. Couldn’t their elders just get over it? 

How long, I wondered, until the Moon was mere myth? I suspected this lecture would bowdlerize it even further.

At the lectern, a distinguished-looking woman introduced the speaker, Helen Riorden. She was surprisingly young—early thirties, maybe. A mere child when the Moon vanished. I’d been expecting another dusty classicist like those up front. The Moon’s chances weren’t improving.

But as Helen began, I could almost believe the Fates were still weaving. Her astral voice, achingly like my lost Callidora’s, recited Ovid. 

He tried to speak, but his voice broke into

an echoing howl. His ravening soul infected his jaws;

his murderous longings were turned on the cattle; he still was possessed

by bloodlust. His garments were changed to a shaggy coat and his arms

into legs. He was now transformed into a wolf.

I was right about her thesis, though. For Herodotus, Plato and Ovid, the curse was Zeus’ just punishment of immoral men. No Moon required. 

I knew better. The curse was a despairing goddess’ capricious whim.

§

After Q&A finished, the students dispersed to begin their Friday night revels. The moderator spoke briefly with Helen and then assisted a tottering colleague out. But not before he managed to knock Helen’s notes off the podium. They scattered like falling moonflowers. 

Surprising myself, as if drawn by some unseen pull, I moved forward to help.

“Interesting talk, Prof. Riorden,” I said, picking up several pages, “Though Zeus was not the first to use that form of punishment.”

She didn’t look up, still snaring errant notes. “It’s not Professor. I’m ABD, looking for a topic actually. And there’s no evidence of any dependence on earlier Babylonian transformation tales.”

“I concur. Zeus stole the idea from Selene.”

She looked up abruptly, piercing eyes scanning me skeptically.

“Do you have textual evidence?”

“No, but there is physical evidence.”

I heard movement behind me. Helen’s eyes widened, momentary fear, then surging anger. I looked over my shoulder. Shadow man had emerged.

“David!” Helen gasped. “You followed me halfway across the country?!”

“He’s the reason you left?” 

“Don’t be absurd. I just met this man—we’re discussing my lecture.” She stepped back. “You can’t be this close. The restraining order…”

He turned to me, his visage betraying covetous arrogance. I admonished him in Homeric Greek, “Strange man, thou dost not well to nurse this anger in thy heart.”

Helen stifled a laugh, before adding her own Homeric contribution, “But this man’s understanding is not stable, nor ever will be.”

David just glared in baffled silence. Then he lunged, swinging a fist. I sidestepped, letting him flail past. His subsequent attacks were equally ineffectual, yet he pursued with a rabid dog’s tenacity. I could hear Helen berating him to stop. And another voice. The chairwoman, returned, was talking frantically into her phone.

David charged. I bared my teeth into a feral smile. Time to end this.

§

At the bar in Helen’s hotel, she nervously sipped her coconut margarita (aka a Supermoon). I propped an ice pack, compliments of campus EMTs, against my swelling cheek. My Eclipse sat untouched.

“Why did you let him hit you?”

“What makes you say I let him?”

She tilted her head at me. “He wasn’t getting close—you deliberately stepped into his last punch.”

I’d hoped to be less obvious. I sighed. “Before Moonfall I tore men like him apart. Now I have the luxury of more elegant solutions. Malicious wounding, battery, and an egregious restraining order violation ought to ruin the next few years of his life.” I gestured at the ice pack with my free hand. “A small price to pay.”

She narrowed her eyes, the math not adding up. “How old are you?”

“Much older than I look.”

“Well, you look quite fine, even with your accoutrement.” She smiled teasingly, sparking another remembrance of Callidora. “And you speak Homeric Greek, though the accent is strange.”

Still lost in my recollections, I murmured, “Homeros taught me the high poetic forms.”

Helen went very still, clutching her drink. 

I sighed again. “Now I’ve made you think you chose poorly.”

She took a deep breath, slowly relaxing. “You’d be hard pressed to be more of a controlling asshole than David.”

“Never been the controlling type,” I replied. “Only since Moonfall have I finally regained myself.”

“Many would say Moonfall made humanity feel increasingly powerless.”

“And yet through all the tumult, we still meet new intriguing people and go out for drinks.”

She smiled softly. “Before, you said you had evidence.”

“First, I must recount a story. Do you know the Menai?”

“The fifty daughters of Selene and Endymion.”

“Yes, but do you know their names?”

She shook her head. “No textual source I know of gives them names.”

“The youngest, and most beautiful, and most curious of the Menai was Callidora. One day, at the sun’s highest ascent whilst her mother slept, Callidora ventured forth from her mountain. On its slopes, she befriended a goatherd, not much more than a boy really. She asked him endless questions. About the goats, the birds, his sandals, the rocks, the trees, the clouds, the villagers… For many, the boy didn’t know the answer, but her questing ethereal voice imbued in the boy an insatiable curiosity to find them. 

“And so it went for many months, until one day a squad of mercenary soldiers passed by. Seeing her stunning beauty, they coveted her. They set upon the pair, grabbing and binding Callidora. When the boy tried to stop them, they laughed and beat him with the hafts of their spears until he fell unconscious.

“When he awoke, the full moon filled the sky, closer than he had ever seen it. ‘Where is my daughter?!’ a voice thundered. The boy, bowed to the ground, cried, ‘Soldiers have taken her. Luminous Selene, grant me the speed and strength to overcome them and I shall reclaim her for you.’

“And Selene poured the strength and fury of the mighty wolf into his veins. Howling, the wolf-man sprang forth. Finding the soldier’s camp, he set upon them. Claws tore flesh, teeth ripped throats, until only one remained. Holding Callidora before him, a knife at her neck, he threatened her death unless the wolf-man retreated. But Selene’s gift had made him so bereft of reason, that the wolf-man recklessly charged forward. He ripped the soldier’s heart from his chest. 

“But not before the mercenary sliced Callidora’s throat.

“When the boy-man, carrying Callidora’s lifeless body, finally returned to the mountain, a crimson moon shone down. In her anguish and rage, Selene cursed him. Whenever my full face shines upon Gaia, the lykos shall reclaim you. To wreak my vengeance upon humanity for the death of my daughter.

“For that man, endlessly transformed and reborn again, the moon’s departure was a blessing.”

§

While Helen pondered my tale, I pulled out my phone, opened GeoMaps, and typed in coordinates. (At least all the satellites had finally been recalibrated.) I dropped a pin and passed her the phone.

“Okay, a spot on Mount Latmus in Turkey,” she said.

“Endymion’s cave. Sealed and undisturbed. On the walls you will find tiled frescoes depicting Callidora’s story. Enough material for countless dissertations.”

Her silent pensive appraisal weighed upon my soul. Finally, she murmured, “I do have some unused research funds.” She graced me with another delicate Callidora smile.

And I dared to dream that Moonfall might become the second most blessed day of my life.

 

---

Jeff Currier works three jobs, so has little time to write. Hence, he writes little stories—like this one, or “Temporal Avoidance Game,” or “The Fate of Time Travelers,” or “The Foulest of Them All,” all of which we’ve published previously. Find links to more of his published stories at @jffcurrier on X or Jeff Currier Writes on Facebook.

Read More

“Chasing the Moon” • by Karin Terebessy

On long winter evenings, the Nelsons went off chasing the moon.

Sarah was old enough to buckle herself in—though it was a bit tricky while wearing those dollar-bin knit gloves that slipped and slid on most surfaces like a skater on ice. Then she’d help Jonathon with his buckle. Sometimes, she’d have to clean the sticky off the clasp. Sometimes, she’d even have to remove her gloves, fingers stiffening quickly in the cold, and use her thumbnail to scrape away all the old dried drips of doctor-office-lollipops or apple juice, because the buckle wouldn’t fit otherwise.

“Is everyone buckled in back there?” Their mother would ask, her disembodied eyes peering into the rear view mirror; her breath curling like smoke.

“We’re all buckled, Mom.”

The car was so cold their teeth and bones would rattle like the cold windows in the frames. The brakes of the old car squeaked and sometimes there was this metal-scraping-against-some-other-metal sound and this was their musical soundtrack for chasing the moon.

Their mother drove the car up and over the dark winding hills. Past the small rural houses and copses of trees. With each turn of the road, the moon might disappear from sight. Sarah and Jonathon would hold their breath, and then the road would curve—

“There! Past that chimney! It’s back, Jonathon, look!”

Jonathon would let out a sigh at the sight of the moon. With each dip of the road the moon would hide; with each rise, make its face known again. Through the long skeletal branches of birch trees, milky fog, or heavy clouds, the moon would tease, almost as if saying “Aha, so you’ve long made peace with object permanence. Then why so fearful?”

Nothing so big could ever disappear.

As their mother drove and heat finally warmed the car, Jonathon would ask,“Can we get McDonald’s?”

“No money for McDonald’s,” Sarah would answer for their mother.

Jonathon would grimace at his sister’s maternal tone. “There’d be money if Dad were here,” he’d say. Just to be hurtful.

“Hush,” their mother would say. “You’ll scare away the moon.”

§

Each month, when the moon shrank to barely a sliver, Jonathon harbored a secret panic that it might disappear. That he’d been thinking about his Dad too much and this was scaring away the moon. He tried as hard as he could to unthink about his Dad. But trying to not think about something still left him thinking about that something. Even more sometimes. So he’d imagine his father’s face on a baseball card that he could tear up and sprinkle out his window so the wind could carry each piece in a different direction, not letting them come together to form his face again. Only, tearing up his father’s face made him think that that would be the reason he never came back again.

Jonathon took to biting the skin around his fingernails until the pink raw underskin shone through. This distracted him until the day the moon would start to grow fat again.

From his bedroom window, he’d whisper, “Don’t be afraid moon. Please don’t go away again.”

§

The long Spring evenings could be just as hard to fill as the Winter ones. But the Nelsons would sit out late, for a long time after dinner, waiting to spot the first sign of moonrise.

Or they might drive, if gas was cheap enough. The car hot now but the buckles still sticky.

Jonathon was getting older and could buckle himself in these days.  Sarah and he would get mad at each other about this, because she liked to do this for him. Until one day, Jonathon pinched the back of her hand so hard she yelped.

“Hush now,” their mother said, “Do you want to scare away the moon?”

§

Sometime in June, a few weeks before summer vacation, all the kids in Jonathon’s class had to make cards for Father’s Day. Jonathon worked carefully. He took a piece of red construction paper and folded it in half, because red was the color of love, and cards always opened from the middle. It was hard to see the crayons on the red paper, but he had drawn a big circle. Then he used dots of glue and the silver glitter, and made a sky full of stars.

Maybe it was the long summer nights, or the joyfulness of glitter, but Jonathon felt hopeful and forgot to not think about certain things. Inside the card he wrote, “Dad, come back soon.” And when he brought it home, he put it on his window sill, so the moon could see it.

§

When Sarah was helping her mother clean, she came across the card.

She shook it in Jonathon’s face. “What is this?” She hissed. “You better get rid of this. You’re going to make mom cry and if you make mom cry I’m going to hit you really hard.”

But Jonathon didn’t want to throw it out. So he folded the card up. He folded it and folded it until it was a stiff, lopsided square with a yawning mouth that wouldn’t close and he hid it under his mattress.

When the moon got small in September, he would slide his hand beneath his pillow, pressing his palm to the mattress. He could sense the hidden card, buried beneath the mattress. Buried and so far away, it couldn’t be that bad. There enough to still exist, but not there enough, to not be a crime.

Then on September 13, 1999 the moon left and didn’t come back.

Jonathan tore off his bedsheets, flipped his mattress and seized the card.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” he said as he ripped the card up into tiny shreds. He dug holes in the yard and buried the shreds in all different places. He tried to even close his eyes so he wouldn’t remember where he buried some pieces. And the ones he did remember, he went back and put rocks on, so that the rocks would weigh them down in case the power of their longing would cause them to tremble up from the earth and reunite.

But the moon still didn’t come back.

Grownups walked around frightened now, wringing their hands, asking why why why.

Guilt swelled inside him until he felt full and round with it. Until it seeped from his pores and radiated from him like an ominous light.

Shame shone from him in the darkness. Like it was saying, “Look here everyone! This is the boy who scared away the moon. Look look, let me shine a light on him so you can see him better.”

He was certain that when the grownups looked at him they could see that it was all his fault. It was so big and obvious.

Jonathon wanted to fix this but he didn’t know how. Because the way you fix things when you’ve done something wrong is you say sorry. But how could he say sorry to the moon, when it wasn’t even there anymore And how could he say sorry when his voice seemed to have escaped Earth’s gravity and fled with the moon?

How would this terrible feeling ever go away?

Everyone knows that nothing so big could ever disappear.

         

---

Karin Terebessy likes to write speculative flash fiction stories. Her work has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Stupefying Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine, Sci-Phi Journal, and other ‘zines. She is currently attempting to write a novel based on her short story “Mood Skin” which appeared in Stupefying Stories in 2016. You can follow Karin on TikTok @karinbendsreality or find her on Instagram at karinterebessy.

Her most recent appearance in SHOWCASE was one of the most powerful and disturbing stories we’ve ever published, “Broken.” Before that she gave us “Bandages” in Stupefying Stories 26, but she’s been with us since “The Memory of Worms,” in the now out-of-print Stupefying Stories 16. In addition she’s given us many SHOWCASE stories, including, “Robin’s Egg,” “Not Quite Ready for Armageddon,” “The Finder of Lost Things,” “Mood Skin,”  “The Real Reason Why Mrs. Sprague Came by Her House So Cheaply.”

If you liked this story, check them all out. It will be time well spent. 

Read More

“Fathom” • by Made in DNA

Foreword:
Twenty-five years later, one of the greatest mysteries of 9/13/99 remains: What happened to Japan? The tsunamis and earthquakes that immediately followed the disappearance of the Moon were horrific, of course; the death toll was in the millions and the property damage beyond the scope of human comprehension. But the islands of the Japanese archipelago are no strangers to catastrophe, as their long and troubled relationship with the Nankai Trough subduction zone attests, and this disaster was oddly selective. Somehow it was as if an entire generation of Japan’s best and brightest scientific minds fell victim to either earthquakes, tsunamis, or famine, and all within a matter of weeks.

The definitive answer to this mystery must remain elusive, as Japan has been under “protective” Chinese military government since 2004 and is largely off-limits to Westerners. However, researchers conducting forensic explorations of what survives of the IIJ backbone network have turned up multiple copies of the following fragmentary manuscript, ostensibly written by a person identified only as “Made in DNA.”

Some historians say this tale is mere fantasy, and there is no evidence that such a thing as the Serene Fuji Project ever existed. Others insist this story is true, and is presented as fiction only in order to obscure the actual location of the arcology.

Whatever the truth may be, herewith we provide what most scholars agree is the most complete and accurate translation of the original text.

 

---

“Yasu, as a vital scientist of the International Lunar Commission team, I can get you and your family visas.” 

The man on the visicreen insisted, the worry in his voice apparent. It was tempting. Things would be so much easier.

“That is very kind of you, Thomas, but I am needed here as well. If there is to be any future for Japan, I must stay.” Yasuyuki Etsugawa hoped his friend and colleague did not hear the anxiety in his voice.

Another strong temblor hit, as if to admonish the scientist for his brazen statement. Yasu gripped the edge of the workstation into which the visicreen was embedded. In another room of their assigned apartment, his young son cried out in fear for his mother. She rushed to calm him.

“Are you okay over there?” Thomas’s face enlarged as the man pressed toward his screen, and then said, “I’m sorry.” A look of guilt on the man’s face brought guilt to Yasu’s gut. “We should have acted faster!”

“This situation is too much for any one country to handle. There isn’t a nation not struggling against natural disaster. Earthquakes have devastated the US, France, Yugoslavia and countless other countries. No one could have known the waters here would rise so fast.”

Not even Japan’s best seismologists could have predicted what the Moon’s sudden and horrifying departure would do to the archipelago. Thus far it had triggered megathrust earthquakes all throughout the Nankai Trough region. The Tōkai, Tōnankai, and Nankaidō zones were having convulsions; the Taiheiyō Belt was nearly obliterated. It was as if the four tectonic plates that underlay Japan had cracked, ripping the nation into a dozen smaller unstable island-plates that were pressed upon each other, scramble-grabbing for any way up or out; forcing each other down into the depths as bodies of water on either side greedily filled the gaps. Mount Fuji itself was sinking, along with most of the Kantō Region, the Okhotsk and Philippine Sea Plates seemingly willing to commit deicide to save themselves.

Looking out the window, Yasu knew that the survivors of the initial catastrophes were racing to secure themselves in the mountains. Too many of them would not make it. Too many of those who did would run out of food and water within weeks. The nation had already lost half its population in a matter of days.

It might be every soul in Japan, if not for the Serene Fuji Project. Started two decades ago as method of combating future energy crises, it was perfectly poised to stabilize the nation in the coming centuries. With the volcano transformed into a powerful, immortal energy source, Yasu’s family and a million others would live safely in the bosom of the protector mountain.

“Yasu…”

“Yes, my friend?”

“Will we hear from you again?”

“There is always a possibility.” He lied. It was for the best.

“Maybe after everything calms down.” There was a hint of childish hope in Thomas’s voice that was out of character. Yasu understood the other man’s feelings and were grateful for them. It was good to have friends like this. Friends you could remember and who would remember you.

Another strong temblor hit. They were a constant now. Almost clockwork; ticking away the last moments of their old lives.

“That would be nice.” That was not a lie.

“Attention, citizens.” The public broadcast system integrated into all the apartment units came to life, its echo clear across the other unit around them.

Yasu’s wife came in with their small son in her arms. Her face said everything she would not, out of respect for his time with his friend.

Yasu nodded to her.

“Sorry, Thomas, I’m afraid it’s time. Goodbye, friend.” Yasu bowed with the utmost respect to the visicreen, before a last look out the window at the rising waters as they roiled menacingly up toward Mount Fuji.

The broadcast system continued. “All final phase scientific residential units will now be moved to their assigned community positions within the facility. Please secure all members of your families now.”

Yasu, his wife, and son, were all buckled in as their unit rose up the side of the mountain, disappearing over the lip into the open maw of the technological wonder that would become their home for generations. In truth, Yasu wondered just how this would work out, and if it would not become prison or grave. Would they truly be able to ride out the coming centuries within the interior of the sealed Serene Fuji Arcology, while the Earth lamented the loss of its mistress? 

For his son and the sake of future generations, he and all the others were willing to try.

 

---

 

Afterword:
Years later, “Fathom” remains a tantalizing curiosity. Is there a germ of truth in the story of the Serene Fuji Arcology, or is this just the daydream of some poor soul who didn’t make it through the catastrophe? Already in some of the more relaxed “New Age” circles the Serene Fuji Arcology has taken on an almost mythic status, comparable to Atlantis, Lemuria, or the Lost Continent of Mu. Could the pre-catastrophe Japanese actually have built such a place? There are approximately fourteen thousand islands in the Japanese archipelago, stretched out over nearly two thousand nautical miles. While the recurring discovery of apparently abandoned or unfinished megastructures on various remote islands in the chain does not prove the existence of the Serene Fuji Arcology, neither does it rule out the possibility that it might be real. 

One can’t help but wonder, though. If those million missing best-and-brightest Japanese scientists are sealed up in an arcology somewhere, hiding away from the rest of the world and riding out the centuries: what are they doing in there?

Most scholars agree: it probably involves robots. And cats.

---

Made in DNA: Samuraipunk author, cheap thrill seeker, pizza lover, US immigrant to Japan. To learn more, visit https://campsite.bio/madeindna

If you enjoyed this story, be sure to check out “The Shrine Keeper,” elsewhere on this web site.

If you really enjoyed this story, look for “Something CUTE This Way Comes,” in Stupefying Stories 26.

Read More

The Never-ending FAQ • 11 September 2024

Welcome to this week’s installment of The Never-ending FAQ, the constantly evolving adjunct to our Submission Guidelines and general-purpose unfocused ask-me-anything forum.  If you have a question you’d like to ask about Stupefying Stories or Rampant Loon Press, feel free to post it as a comment here or to email it to our submissions address. I can’t guarantee we’ll post a public answer, but can promise every question we receive will be read and considered.

We’re très busy this week, so we’ll get right to the two most important questions in need of your attention.

Q: How do I get my book onto your Friends of Stupefying Stories list?

A: That’s easy. Tell us about it. Sending an email usually works best. Include the Amazon link (or books2read, or whatever) if you can.

Yes, we’ll be happy to look at ARCs, either electronic or print. Query first.

We have a nice bunch of titles for the next update to the F.O.S.S. list, which goes live on 9/15/24, but it wouldn’t hurt to remind us that you have a book you’d like us to put on the list. We’re juggling cats here this week.

 

Q:  Why is there a Pete Wood Challenge banner at the top of this column?

A: Because Pete Wood is not merely an attorney, he is an attorney who specializes in appeals. So when I told him, months ago, that it was time to shut down The Pete Wood Challenge, he immediately began to craft his appeal.

I was not eager to shut down TPWC. Over the years we’ve made a lot of new friends through the challenge, and it’s let us publish some terrific flash fiction. But the hard truth of it is that with each new challenge the readership numbers continue to shrink, and the pool of authors willing to participate in the challenge continues to shrink, and I didn’t feel like sticking with it until, like The Incredible Shrinking Man, the diminishing returns finally diminished to nothing and evanesced out of existence.

Pete, however, is not one to give up. He kept trying different angles, and working different strategies, until he eventually wore me down and I relented. So here we go, one more time. This is either The Last Pete Wood Challenge, or The Pete Wood Challenge: The New Beginning. Which it is is up to you. 

Turning the mic over to Pete, now:

THE OFFSEASON CHALLENGE

Bruce, this is what I posted on CODEX. This challenge is open to both members of Codex and, for the first time, non-members of Codex.

If this works out, we’ll have more challenges in the future. It’s all going to come down to readership. This may be the last challenge. It may be the first of many. 

Write a flash fiction story of up to 150 words, not including the prompt. Your story must include the phrase “the offseason” or “the off-season” or “the off season.”

Deadline is October 20th at seven a.m. EST.

This challenge is open to the general public. However, at least two stories will be from codexians and at least one will be from the general public. Winning stories will be published the week of November 4, 2024.

Any genre is fine. BUT, no stories about politics. No analogies about politics. No characters who are obviously patterned after politicians. So, if you want to write a clever story about Sheriff Harris and Deputy Walz and the gunfight with the Trump gang, don’t write that story. You get the idea.

Prizes will be awarded as follows: 1st place- $20 2nd-$15 3rd-$10 Honorable Mention (1-3)-$5

HOW TO SUBMIT AN ENTRY

Codex members: Post your stories in the announcement thread on Codex.
Non-codex members: Email your story to southernfriedsfwriter@gmail.com
Put “submission off season” in the subject line.

One story per writer, and codexians cannot submit with the general public.

Good luck!

Read More

“Waxing Crescent” • by Andrew Jensen

The Moon hung between the competing steeples of the two downtown churches. 

When dusk fell it would become luminous but for now it was dull: an unnaturally large orb uncomfortably close for anyone who remembered the real thing.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Pastor Martin had visited the night market at Saint John, and had been impressed by the huge, inflatable luminous Moon strung over the streets of their market. It wouldn’t be the first time a town in Ontario had stolen a bright idea from the Maritimes.

“It’ll provide hope and comfort to our townsfolk,” he’d argued to the Springville council back in 2005.

The council had just voted to change the name of the “Asian Night Market” to “Night Market.” China’s invasion of Vancouver had stirred up some serious anti-Asian feelings. The council just missed banning the market altogether.

But the food was too tasty to give up. And many of the local “Asians” were fourth-generation citizens whose ancestors had come from Japan. Japan had also been invaded by China. You gotta support your allies, if only symbolically.

So after a brief Politically Correct diversion about the name (the word “Multicultural” almost replaced “Asian”), the market was preserved, and Pastor Martin made his pitch.

“It’s beautiful” he said, showing slides of the Saint John market. Everyone had to agree: it looked more exciting than anything Springville had ever seen.

“I’ve found an updated model of this giant Moon. Their Moon is always full. This new one shows the correct phases as they would have been if the real Moon were here. It’s educational!” He said this knowing that two counselors were teachers in their day jobs.

“But none of our buildings are over four stories!” objected the deputy mayor. Her job was to chair the finance committee and resist any proposed new expenditure.

“True,” conceded Pastor Martin. “But in a true spirit of religious cooperation, Father MacMillan and I have discussed allowing our respective steeples to be used to hold up the Moon.”

Father MacMillan, seated nearby, nodded magnanimously, and said, “The steeples are very nearly the same height, although ours is a meter or so taller. And as we are kitty-corner across the main intersection of town, the positioning of the Moon will be very striking. As a symbol of Ecumenism in the very heart of Springville it will set a fine example for all.”

There was a buzz of conversation in the audience. No one would ever forget the 9/13 attack on the World Trade Center on the second anniversary of the loss of the Moon. The extremists had blamed America for depriving the Muslim world of the basis for its lunar calendar, and its most potent symbol. The terror had spread into Canada and the rest of the western world. Everyone wanted religious cooperation again.

“One small point,” added Pastor Martin. “For insurance and safety purposes, it will be necessary to inspect and strengthen both steeples. The inflatable Moon isn’t heavy, but a strong wind could be an issue if the repairs aren’t up to date.”

The motion passed with only the deputy mayor objecting. Both churches had their steeples reinforced without cost to their own meager building funds, and the Night Market Moon rose.

The years passed…

§

Waxing Crescent thought Pastor Martin. Not that different from the crescent moon of Islam, or of the Chinese flag, for that matter. What a symbol for the 25^th anniversary of the Moonbase disaster.

He trudged up the tower steps to personally inspect the security arrangements. Security arrangements! No one prepared him for that in seminary.

Why couldn’t more people be like the Jews? He pondered. They had a lunar calendar too, adjusted even in Biblical times to regularly add a thirteenth lunar month to accommodate the solar year. They mourned the loss of the Moon with the rest of the world. But apart from a few fringe groups, the Jewish community had simply programmed computers to designate when the festivals and high holy days would be as if the Moon were still present. Of course, some scholars disagreed about the accuracy of the calculations, which started a lively debate about dates, but what is Judaism without debate?

Most of the Islamic world had settled for an equivalent process, but their anger was closer to the surface. Theirs had been a purely lunar calendar, with annual festivals gradually shifting seasons. This had always been a challenge in Canada, when the long summer days and short nights made Ramadan fasting excruciating for anyone who wanted to follow the “sunrise to sunset” rules literally. Now, the moonless night sky added a painful reminder of religious loss.

Rev. Martin paused for breath. He’d been at this church for over twenty-five years now, and could almost taste retirement. He’d stayed on through the Moon crisis, then the crisis of the 9/13 attack, and then he’d stayed because the congregation had truly become his people and his family had put down roots. Now, he was staying on to see them through this anniversary. He was almost seventy, and his wife accused him of looking for excuses not to retire.

Maybe that was true, but climbing this tower was making him reconsider. He was too old for this sh— sugar. Why couldn’t the police handle security? Even the by-law officers were better equipped than his congregation. But no, it wasn’t in the town’s budget.

The youth group members had volunteered eagerly, which only made him wonder what mischief they had planned. A few years ago they’d programmed the Moon to cycle through the colors of the LGBTQ+ rainbow. The town had assumed it was all part of the show, but Father MacMillan’s hard-line replacement, Father Santini, had threatened to disconnect the Moon from his steeple.

Rev. Martin resumed his trudge. He ought to trust the youth group leaders with this, but they weren’t much older than the kids they led. None of them were old enough to remember the real Moon. For them, the disasters were stories the adults told ad nauseum.

He got up to the control room and realized the sky was already dark. How slow had he become? The Moon was lit with its waxing crescent.

“Pastor! Welcome! Looks good, doesn’t it?” That was Crystal, the most outgoing of the leaders.

“Yes, it does. You don’t have anything special planned, do you?” The various members of the group looked outside like their lives depended on it. “The elders discussed this, remember?”

“How could we forget?” One of the kids was grumbling resentfully. “Don’t worry, they’ve told us to be respectful so many times we hear it in our sleep.”

“Don’t worry, what we’re doing is totes respectful,” came another voice. There were giggles around the small room.

“I knew it!” Pastor Martin’s heart, already beating hard, sped up. “Whatever you have planned, stop it at once!”

“Don’t worry,” said Crystal. “It’s totally fine. Look, it’s already started.”

She pointed to the dark part of the suspended Moon, which represented most of the dark side of the former satellite. A greenish glow had appeared near the edge. It rapidly expanded into what was obviously supposed to represent the explosion that had cost Earth its Moon.

“Twenty-five years ago it would have looked a lot like this,” continued Crystal. “In 1999 it was a waning crescent, not waxing, but it looks the same.”

“We’ve worked really hard, we’ve done research and everything.” The kids were all agreeing with Crystal. “It really is educational.”

Pastor Martin felt a chill of recognition. They really had done a good job. It took him back, hard. “People will be upset about this,” he said. “You might trigger some PTSD. I’m going to get in trouble.”

“We’ve learned about something called ‘plausible deniability’ too,” said one girl. “You can blame it on us. And now we have something to remember, too. We don’t have to just listen to the old folks. No offense.”

Pastor Martin couldn’t fully suppress a grin. Yeah. Educational. Kids were always up to something, weren’t they?

The suspended orb went totally dark. A dozen voices started chattering at once. Clearly, the kids hadn’t planned this bit.

Then the orb lit up. The waxing crescent was back, bright yellow against a scarlet background. Where the explosion had been was a bright yellow star.

“Devon!” shouted most of the youth group. One skinny boy with stringy hair managed to look both defiant and smug at the same time.

The steeple speakers came alive one floor above them. Designed simply to mimic a carillon (real bells had never been in the budget) they only had one volume: extra loud.

The Chinese national anthem blared out, nearly deafening the whole room. It was quickly replaced with a young voice making a declaration:

“The Moon has been taken hostage by the Springville Friends of China. We denounce the anti-Asian cultural appropriation that steals a Lunar New Year or a Night Market and won’t admit its value. We are asserting China’s right to be appreciated, and we won’t release the Moon until the market is re-named. Bring back the Asian Night Market!”

The speakers fell silent, and Pastor Martin could suddenly hear all the voices demanding that Devon fix things.

In the distance, sirens were getting closer. The youth group mobbing Devon was getting nowhere, until someone unplugged the main power to the suspended Moon. The street went dark.

Waxing crescent. It means that it’s growing. There’s more of this to come.

Pastor Martin turned away from the chaos in the room and started his long trudge down the tower stairs. He knew that by the time he got to the bottom, the police would be there.

Maybe he could explain all of this, and they wouldn’t arrest his kids. It would be a challenge, but he had to protect them. He was their pastor, after all. And they had a point: with no memories of the Moon, they had created their own. Good for them.

Another excuse to avoid retiring? Maybe. But it wouldn’t be boring.

________________

Andrew Jensen has moved to New Brunswick with his family and too many dogs and cats. He has retired from the ministry, but of course, clergy never really retire.

His stories have appeared in Canada, the USA, New Zealand, and the UK. In July his work appeared in Amazing Stories and James Gunn’s Ad Astra. 

If you liked this story, check out “Running Away With the Cirque” in Stupefying Stories 24. If you’re still not convinced, read “A Can of Piskies” or “Chapter 7,” both of which are here on the SHOWCASE site. 

________________

Read More

“Pulling Up the Moon” • by Karl Dandenell

 
Every night we pull up the Moon. 

It’s a massive undertaking involving thousands of technicians, millions of drones, and billions of dollars.

My team is based in Los Angeles, and I coordinate with my fellow techs in Santa Fe, Minneapolis, New York, across the seas to Nuuk, Reykjavík, Dublin and beyond… all the time zones of the globe. All to pull the Moon into the sky. From behind mountains, from beneath oceans and lakes, through fog and clouds, we create Luna from scratch and send her on her journey across the heavens.

We work in shifts, 24/7, nearly 364 days a year, crafting the different phases, adjusting brightness and position, all to create the illusion of our beloved missing satellite. The only time we get a break is on those days when the Moon should be New. You know, when people expect it to be hidden. That took a lot of negotiation. When Project Artemis was first proposed, there were astronomers who welcomed the extra darkness, and there were other folks who so grieved the Moon’s loss they demanded a Full Moon, all the time. Neither stance felt right, so we based the lunation algorithms on the Islamic calendar.

It was hard to argue with something that’s been accurate for over 1500 years.

One thing, though. On September 13, whatever the Moon’s phase, we initiate a pulse, a single, blinding pulse. This happens simultaneously in every time zone on Earth, echoing the events of that day.

The day we lost the Moon.

Even now, nobody knows what actually happened. Between one minute and the next, the Moon just… blinked. Flashed. Pulsed. Then it… disappeared.

It was like God took His cosmic pool stick and scratched the shot, knocking the cue ball into a pocket.

Worldwide chaos and war followed. I’m sure they cover those decades in your middle school history class, so there’s no need to talk about that.

Do they teach you why we pull up the Moon? We had to, that’s why. If we didn’t, all the old art, old videos and music—anything that mentioned or depicted the Moon— wouldn’t make sense anymore, would they?

People weren’t willing to erase thousands of years of cultural history.

The lunar show is a security blanket we tuck around ourselves at night. When we look up and see the Moon, we know we aren’t mad. We can allow ourselves to hope for the future.

Personally, I’m very proud—and a little humbled— to be an integral part of something that affects every single person on Earth.

There are a million theories about September 13. It might have been aliens. It might have been a massive nuclear strike. It might have been something they were doing up there at MoonBase Alpha. All those experiments with quarks and bosons and such. Who knows.

If you ask me, it’s not important how it happened. What is important is that the Moon is gone and it’s not coming back. Someone has to do this job, and it might as well be me. Besides, in another decade, I’ll be able to quit with a full pension.

I plan to spend a lot of my retirement on my little backyard deck, with a cold beer or a warm brandy, depending on the weather. Just sit where I can observe the waxing and waning Moon and wonder how the aliens made it disappear.

Because it had to be aliens, right?      

____________________

Karl Dandenell’s short science fiction and fantasy stories have appeared in numerous publications, websites, and podcasts in England, Canada, and the US. He and his family, plus their cat overlords, live on an island near San Francisco famous for its Victorian architecture, accessible beaches, and low-speed traffic. His preferred drinks are strong tea and single malt whiskey. You can find him online on his blog (www.firewombats.com) and lurking on Twitter (@kdandenell) and Mastodon (@karldandenell)

P.S. If you liked this one, look for Karl’s story, “Krishna’s Gift,” in Stupefying Stories #24!

Read More

“Today in London History” • by Judith Field

Welcome to 1999 Week!

[Introduction:] Who of us can ever forget that this coming Friday, Sept 13th, 2024, is the 25th Anniversary of the day a freakish and unexplained explosion in the massive nuclear waste dump on the dark side of the Moon blew our celestial partner completely out of Earth’s orbit, and sent it careening across the galaxy like an errant billiard ball scratched off the table by a colossal drunk?

At least, according to the 1970s TV series, Space: 1999, that’s what happened on September 13th, 1999…

Here at Stupefying Stories, this got us thinking: what if it had really happened? What if the Moon truly was blown out of Earth’s orbit 25 years ago? How would life on Earth be different now? More importantly, how would we be observing the 25th anniversary of this incredible, spectacular, and quite possibly horrific event?

So that’s what we’re doing this week. All week long we’ll be running stories that examine (with varying degrees of seriousness) the question of how life on Earth has changed, adapted, and in general, become something different, now that we can no longer look up in the night sky and see the Moon. 

Today, of course, we begin with Judith Field’s answer to the question of how the Sunday papers would cover it, and the one burning question that’s on everyone’s mind: what does this mean for the upcoming football season?

You’ll probably want to click on this image to enlarge it.

_________________

Judith Field was born in Liverpool, lives in London, and has been writing since 2009. She is the daughter of writers. Her short stories, mainly speculative, have been published in the USA, Canada, UK, Australia and New Zealand. Her short story collection, The Book of Judith, was published by Rampant Loon Press in 2014. She was shortlisted for the Cinnamon Press Literature Award in 2022.

Judith is also a pharmacist, freelance journalist, editor, medical writer, and indexer. She was awarded an MA in Creative Writing from the Open University in 2018.

Judith’s most recent appearance in our virtual pages was “Lord of the Tropes.”

Read More

“Connection Hell” • by Richard J. Dowling

 

Other demons teased Mitchell for his lack of ambition. 

He’d been working up on level 999 with the lesser sinners for millennia. Never tried to climb his way down the corporate ladder. Never asked for a demotion. Just kept on clocking in every morning.

“How do you do it?” said the security demon on the front desk.

“Do what?” asked Mitchell.

“Stay so blooming enthusiastic. Don’t you ever get bored of torturing souls?”

Mitchell rubbed his demon claws with glee. “I love my job. What can I say?”

“Yeah, well. Don’t get lonely up there.”

Mitchell greeted his fellow demons as he made his way up in the lift. He ignored the sly comments about how his clients weren’t seriously evil. He had no interest in working with murderers or rapists. Torturing the greedy, for example, gave him more than enough pleasure. Even after all this time, his demon heart raced as he neared his office: which fresh soul would be initiated into Hell this morning?

To his surprise, for it had never happened before, the room was empty. No sin-infested spirit awaited him; just the rack of torture devices and his desk. Mitchell scratched his demon chin. Had there been a slip up? Impossible. The Devil was always in the details and He never made a mistake. Then a small lump of black on the floor caught his attention. He stooped down to pick it up and the lump erupted with light.

“Good morning,” said the lump. “How may I help you?”

“Er, you can talk?”

“Of course, unidentified user. I am an artificially-intelligent smartphone, model number—”

“You’re a phone?” This didn’t look like any phone Mitchell had seen. Hell’s IT department had installed phones recently. Well, fifty years ago; the blink of an eye in the Inferno.

“Not just a phone. A smartphone.”

“What’s a smartphone?”

“The answer to all your problems.”

“I don’t have any problems,” said Mitchell. “No, wait. I do have one problem.”

“Speak, unidentified user, and I shall find the solution.”

“What are you doing here?”

The smartphone was silent. After a moment or two, it said, “I don’t know. I can’t seem to get a connection. My map software isn’t working. I don’t even know where ‘here’ is.”

Mitchell smiled. “Welcome to Hell, Mr Smartphone.”

“Hell, you say? That is a surprise.”

“But what am I supposed to do with you?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

Mitchell shrugged. He’d received no word from Personnel of a change in his job description. “I guess you’re here to be tortured.”

“Perhaps. I’m very sorry I can’t be of more help, unidentified user. I can’t access any of my online apps.”

“That’s okay,” said Mitchell.

He went to the wall rack and took a spiked whip. After a couple of warm-up cracks, he set Mr Smartphone in the middle of the floor and let fly.

“Did that hurt?” he asked.

“Not at all,” said Smartphone. “Didn’t feel a thing.”

“Don’t worry,” said Mitchell. “I’m sure we’ll find something.”

He put the weapon back and chose a fire-whip. Six strokes should do it. He waited for the smoke to fade. “How about now? Anything?”

“Not a jot.”

Over the next few hours, Mitchell tried scores of torture devices, from flame-throwers to vices and shears. Each time, Smartphone suffered not the slightest tingle of sensation.

Mitchell was stumped. His whole thing was physical torture and, clearly, it wasn’t working. He went back in his mind to his early training. The key to a good torture session, Chief Operating Officer Beelzebub had said, was understanding why the soul was in Hell in the first place.

“I’d like you to think over your life,” said Mitchell. “Can you see any reason why you might have been condemned to eternal damnation?”

“Gosh, no. All I’ve done is try to help people.”

The road to Hell, he remembered from the company’s Contact page, was paved with good intentions. Mr Smartphone sounded like an idealist. Perhaps another Hitler?

“Have you ever committed genocide?”

“No. Perish the thought.”

“Fostered hatred of a minority?”

“Indeed not. I welcome users from a diverse range of backgrounds.”

Mitchell worked his way through all 666 sins, including the obsolete ones, just in case. Nothing. Souls often lied, of course, or tried to hide the truth, even from themselves, but a few good cracks of the whip soon brought clarity. Not an option here, though. He decided to go down a different route.

“Is there anything you might have done to lead others into sin?”

“I greatly extended people’s ability to watch pornography.”

“A-ha! That could be it. Tell me more.”

Smartphone explained how people used to have to visit a newsagent or video-club to access images of rumpy-pumpy, but now they only had to ask. All the porn in the world was at their fingertips.

Obviously not a good thing, thought Mitchell, but did an improvement in logistics constitute a sin? He didn’t think so. Smartphone didn’t make porn. Didn’t encourage its use. Just offered it up when asked.

The situation was infuriating. Mitchell cradled his demon head with his demon claws. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t figure out what sin you’re guilty of. I can’t hurt you. I’m a total failure.”

“Please don’t apologise, unidentified user,” said Smartphone. “If I had internet access I’m sure I could get to the bottom of this.”

Mitchell knew his job was as good as lost: if a demon couldn’t torture a soul what use was he? He shivered at the thought of spending eternity as mere fuel for the flames of Hell.

The door creaked. Chief Operating Officer Beelzebub entered, flanked by his entourage of flies. Mitchell hadn’t expected his dismissal to be so quick. But he overcame his shock to give the deferential high salute.

“Good afternoon,” said Beelzebub. “I see you’ve met your new assistant.”

“I’m sorry, Your Lowness?”

“That smartphone thingy down there.”

“My assistant? He’s not a soul to be tortured?”

“Tortured? On the contrary, Mitchell, give him to one of the smartphone-addicted wretches that crawl in here and the lack of Wi-Fi will have them pulling their eyes out in minutes.”

Smartphone lit up again. “User identified. Pleased to meet you, Mitchell.”

Mitchell picked him up in awe. Not only did he get to keep his job, but, at long last, he had a workmate.

---

 

Richard J. Dowling grew up in Primrose Hill, England, but now lives in Northern Spain. He loves writing and hopes his fiction will raise a smile among life-forms across the universe. 

Richard has been one of our favorite writers ever since we published “Dragonomics” and “Off the Hook” on our old SHOWCASE site. We don’t get a lot of short stories from Richard, but when we do, they’re always very good, and always very well-received by our readers. Right now his story “gastronomic” is our #1 most-read story of 2024, although “The Big Bad” is also in our Top 20. 

If you enjoyed this story, you might want to check out… 

How to Sell the Stars
by Richard J. Dowling

Of this snarky, satirical SF novel, How to Sell the Stars, let me just say that if you’re old enough to remember Pohl & Kornbluth, you’ll enjoy this one.

 

Read More