“Warranty Claim” • by Gustavo Bondoni

 

A shiny metal disc streaked through the sky before descending in front of Sergeant Murphy, a twenty-year veteran who just happened to be crossing the parking lot. 

As soon as he saw it, he buried his face in his hands. “Not these guys again.” He’d been on duty when these particular aliens had first come to Earth, and had been part of the initial talks.

The major he’d been walking alongside ran off, presumably to inform the upper brass of the visit. That would be unnecessary: every inch of Area 59 was filmed and wired for sound. Washington already knew what was happening.

The ship disgorged several blue-skinned aliens in silver spacesuits. 

“You are the one they call Murphy, correct?  The one we met the last time we were here?” the leader asked.

“Yes.”

“This is broken.”

It held out a slim silver rectangle with the well-known company logo, a fruit, on it.

“It’s probably the battery,” Murphy said.

“Can it be changed?”

“No. They make them that way so you have to buy a new one.”

“No good. You need to fix this immediately. We’re in an argument about whether alien life forms can be Communist Nazis. We tried opening a new account, but the website refuses to acknowledge our ship’s operating system.”

“I can’t help.”

The leader sighed. “Do you want us to destroy your planet?”

“No.”

“These are our demands”

“But—”

“Silence! We demand you get the experts at this computer company to fix our laptop.”

“That could take a while.” After a moment’s thought, Murphy responded: “Will you at least let me work through the problem with IT support?”

“As long as you get it fixed.”

Murphy sighed in relief. That should  buy the Joint Chiefs of Staff time to get something done.

 

___________________________

 

Gustavo Bondoni is novelist and short story writer with over three hundred stories published in fifteen countries, in seven languages.  He is a member of Codex and an Active Member of SFWA. His latest novel is Test Site Horror (2020). He has also published two other monster books: Ice Station: Death (2019) and Jungle Lab Terror (2020), three science fiction novels: Incursion (2017), Outside (2017) and Siege (2016) and an ebook novella entitled Branch. His short fiction is collected in Pale Reflection (2020), Off the Beaten Path (2019) Tenth Orbit and Other Faraway Places (2010) and Virtuoso and Other Stories (2011).
 
In 2019, Gustavo was awarded second place in the Jim Baen Memorial Contest and in 2018 he received a Judges Commendation (and second place) in The James White Award. He was also a 2019 finalist in the Writers of the Future Contest.
 
His website is at www.gustavobondoni.com

 

 

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“Merry-Go-Round” • by Christopher Degni

 

The field, once Sara’s favorite haunt, stood graveled and muddy, lonely except for a “Coming Soon” billboard for a 55+ community.

She didn’t love the field so much as the annual traveling carnival that had descended upon it, until twenty years ago, when it had stopped. Sara closed her eyes and reflected on that year of lasts: the last carnival, the last year of high school… the last time she’d seen her brother.

The smell of fried dough filled her nostrils. When she opened her eyes, she was amidst the carnival again, by the fortuneteller’s booth. It had none of the usual pageantry, only a plain-looking woman wearing a plain tee, jeans, and a Mona Lisa smile.

The strange resonance of being in two times at once buzzed in Sara’s sternum.

“We’ll meet again,” said the fortuneteller.

“Sorry?” said Sara—both Saras.

“I said we’ll meet again.” The first time had been a restatement; now it was a confirmation. “It’ll be rough. For a while. But you’ll come around.”

The vibration in Sara’s chest stopped, and she stood in an empty field again. She glanced at the billboard and sighed.

“Not yet.” She kicked a rock. “Maybe in another twenty.”

_____________

Christopher Degni is a 2019 graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop. He writes about the magic and the horror that lurk just under the surface of everyday life. He lives south of Boston with his wife (and his demons, though we don't talk about those). You can find more of his work in NewMyths.com, Sherlock Holmes and the Occult Detectives, 99 Tiny Terrors, and the upcoming 99 Fleeting Fantasies.

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“Inheritance” • by Ephiny Gale

 

They tell me that taking the memory pill is when you really become an adult.

My friend Marie took it when she was 16, as soon as she legally could, and then she stopped liking any of the guys our age or laughing at our favourite shows. That scared me for a long time. She promised she was fine, but there was something different in her eyes afterwards, like she was haunted.

Mum’s had my pill ready for a while, ever since gran died. It contains most of my grandmother’s memories, and my great grandmother’s, and my great-great grandmother’s from when they first invented the technology. Mum says no pressure, but I know that it’s supposed to give me perspective; give me experience to help me navigate my adult life, make good choices.

Twenty-four is pretty old, but I think I’m finally ready. To be haunted.

The memories of my ancestors flood through me, overwhelming. Celebrations, funerals, childbirth, regrets, moments of joy and inertia. Life is long and life is short, and I will live my own with a legacy inside of me.

Mum hands me a lemonade to sip. “Do you regret it?” she asks.

Not at all.

_______________________

 

Ephiny Gale is the author of more than two dozen published short stories and novelettes that have appeared in publications including Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Constellary Tales, and Daily Science Fiction. Her fiction has been awarded the Sundress Publications' Best of the Net award and the Syntax & Salt Editor's Award, and has been a finalist for multiple Aurealis Awards.

 

 

 

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“The View from the Old Ship” • by Carol Scheina

Sai groaned at the patrol assignments. “We get the haunted ship.”

Her co-pilot, Mack, frowned. “You mean it’s got ghosts?”

“Naw, it’s got sensor problems. Some old data, something it scanned ages ago, keeps popping up. Covers all the viewports. So if you look at our planet, the continents’ll be all wrong. Techs call it a ghost view. Get it? Haunted?”

Mack rolled his eyes. “So we’ll fly blind?”

“We’ll use auto-pilot if it happens. Tech’s gonna try again to fix it after our patrol. That or junk this ancient thing.”

They were orbiting the planet when the ghost view started, showing an ocean where no ocean resided.

Sai gasped. “The water’s blue.”

“So?”

But Sai remembered the stories her grandmother had told, who’d heard them from her grandmother, who’d actually lived on the Old Planet. Stories about blue oceans, not like their red ones. About seven continents. So much had been lost over the decades, but Sai’s grandmother had kept the stories alive.

“That’s Earth.”

Mack peered at the blue water as it shifted to green landmass. “That’s what it looked like? Dang!”

“We’ve gotta tell tech not to fix this.”

Mack nodded.

This was a view worth keeping.

__________________________

 

Carol Scheina is a deaf speculative fiction author from the Northern Virginia region. Many of her stories were thought up while sitting in local traffic, resulting in tales that have appeared in Cossmass Infinities, Daily Science Fiction, Escape Pod, and other publications. You can find more of her work at carolscheina.wordpress.com.

 

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“Goons” • by Christopher Blake

 

I stroke the oars and shatter the lake’s reflected stars. In the distance, a loon wails.

The sack in the bow groans.

“Shut up,” I say. “You’re dead.”

“I’m breathing,” says the sack.

“Good as dead.”

The loon cries again, or anyways I think it’s a loon. Only time I leave the city is to deep-six bozos ain’t smart enough to mind their business. Like this bozo who stumbled stark-naked into the boss’s most remote grow-op.

“You know,” says the sack. “You’re making a big mistake.”

“What, you going to haunt me or something?”

The loon wails again, only closer this time.

“Oh no,” says the sack. “Not me.”

Behind me there’s a splash. I whip around, but catch only moonlit ripples.

“Thing is,” says the sack, “That grow-op was my forest. And this is my lake. Which means I won’t be haunting you.”

Something scratches the bottom of the boat, and suddenly I’m overboard, my limbs tangled in weeds like a thousand grasping hands.

“I’ve got goons for that.”

I thrash, but a weed wraps round my neck and pulls me into the inky dark.

And underwater I see I was wrong.

It wasn’t a loon, after all.

________________

 

Christopher Blake lives with his wife, cat-daughter, and human-son in Ontario, Canada.  He writes mostly fantasy and science fiction, some of which can be found in places like Galaxy's Edge and Cosmic Roots & Eldritch Shores.

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“Mother Noodges Best” • by Allan Dyen-Shapiro

 

Sure, the recruiter had told Junfeng about the brain surgery Tiger Software demanded of its employees, but still. “Boss, I can’t do this anymore. It’s dredging up too much trauma.”

Bob, Junfeng’s boss, flashed a sympathetic smile. “Who else would help maximize your productivity? You knew the procedure would draw someone from your memories who only you could see.”

HAUNTing—Human Ability Up-Regulatory Nudging of the Talented. Post-procedure, the only person tougher on Junfeng than he was on himself stood in front of him 24/7, an augmented reality version only he could see or hear.

“Fix your tie,” his mother said. “You look like a slob.”

Junfeng excused himself from the meeting and headed toward the restroom.

“Promise me you’re not going to touch yourself. That’s disgusting.”

“Mom, I’m exhausted. I need time off.”

“I didn’t raise a slacker.”

Junfeng pondered—what would distract his mom? Finally, he hit on it. “You’ll never have grandkids if you don’t let me socialize.”

Freedom?

Or not. A younger Chinese woman appeared beside Mom. Three children played underfoot.

“You’ll love marriage,” Mom said. “And AI kids behave better. Now, get back to work.”

“Listen to your mom,” Junfeng’s new wife said.

_______________

Allan Dyen-Shapiro is a Ph.D. biochemist currently working as an educator. He's sold stories to numerous markets including Flash Fiction Online and Grantville Gazette. He also co-edited an anthology of SFF set in the Middle East. He is a member of SFWA and Codex. You can find links to his published stories (and some freebies) as well as his blog, where he opines on matters of interest to those who might like his fiction (environmentalism, futurism, science, literature, and science fiction in all media), at allandyenshapiro.com. Follow him on Twitter (@Allan_author_SF); friend him on Facebook (allandyenshapiro.author). 

 

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“Every Day the Music Died” • by Jenna Hanchey

 

They took the music away, but left the feelings it evoked. Today’s wave of nostalgia washed over me like a child standing too deep in the water. I had always felt this when—it was on the tip of my tongue—when that musician played, the one my ex loved. I tried to grasp the tune, even though I knew it was impossible.

I assumed they left the feelings on purpose. In my more generous moods, I thought they must be running tests, trying to understand human emotional ties to sound. We probably inspired the methodology; god knows we’d run enough experiments on them. But as I grew more desperate, reaching for sounds that no longer registered, melodies truly unchained from human experience, my read shifted.

Torture, my mind shouted above the silence. Torture.

The emotions would recede, after awhile. And alone in the pressure-adjusted chamber, deep under the sea, I remembered. Octopuses did not understand sound. They communicated through color and motion. Our feelings for music were an oddity to be explored.

I’d felt haunted when I heard the song my ex loved everywhere after she left. I was wrong.

The true haunting was the weight of its absence.

___________________________

Jenna Hanchey is a communication professor by day and a speculative fiction writer by...um...earlier in the day. She lives in Reno and teaches courses at the University of Nevada on racism, colonialism, and communicating across difference. Her research examines neocolonialism in Western aid to Africa, and how Africans use Africanfuturism to imagine their own developmental futures. Somehow she manages to act, sing, and rock climb, too! Notable credits include Gwendolyn Fairfax in The Importance of Being Earnest and Elaine Wheeler in Night Watch. She's also a voice-actor, narrating the audiobooks in Emily S. Hurricane's Bloodlines series. Her fiction has also appeared in Daily Science Fiction and the Apex Microfiction Contest. Follow her adventures on Twitter (@jennahanchey) or at www.jennahanchey.com.

 

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“The First Stage” • by Matt Krizan

 

Mark is singing Happy Birthday to Layla—loudly and out of tune, as was their custom—when someone knocks on the front door. He ignores it, watching Layla blow out the candles, but the knocking continues.

“C’mon, Mark,” says his sister Sara, “I know you’re in there.”

Mark doesn’t respond. He’s giving Layla her present, waiting for her delighted smile when she opens it.

“I brought donuts,” Sara says. “Those cream-filled ones you like? Mark…?”

Grumbling, Mark pulls off his VR Hood, and Layla and her present vanish. He rises from the sofa, knocking over an empty vodka bottle. Crumbs fall from his pajamas as he shuffles to the door and opens it.

Sara’s eyes widen at the sight of him.

“Oh, sweetie,” she breathes. “You can’t keep torturing yourself like this. It was an accident. There’s nothing you could’ve—”

Mark takes the box of donuts and shuts the door.

He returns to the sofa, tuning Sara out as he shoves a donut in his mouth. He wipes his hand on his pants and pulls on his Hood.

“It’s beautiful.” Layla eyes the necklace, smiling.

“You’re beautiful,” Mark murmurs, echoing his recorded voice, tears welling in his eyes.

__________________________________

 

Matt Krizan is a former certified public accountant who writes from his home in Royal Oak, Michigan. His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in various publications, including Daily Science Fiction, Martian Magazine, and Dark Moments. Find him online at mattkrizan.com and on Twitter as @MattKrizan.

 

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“Inheritance” • by Carol Scheina

Grandma never hid her head, which instead of hair, had numerous strands of inch-long icicles jutting out like a frozen porcupine. They dripped in summertime’s heat and sharpened with winter’s bite.

“We have a frost elf ancestor in our line.” She held her head high. Proud.

The ice-hair skipped a generation. Only I inherited that cold halo. When I was younger, I’d eye people’s soft, warm hair.

“You’re beautiful,” Grandma said. “Be proud.”

But I’d blast the hairdryer to melt my ice, cold drops forming constellations of goosebumps on my shoulders. I’d wrap my head in thick, scratchy scarves. I’d keep a smile frozen on my face when people asked if my icicles were real.

Grandma had been gone a week when, in her honor, I decided to venture outside with my icicles in all their glory, tinted pale blue in the frosty morning. No more hiding our inheritance.

The coffee barista stared long, and I tilted my head for a better view, like Grandma would’ve done. “Runs in the family.” I kept my voice strong, proud.

“Beautiful,” he said. “They sparkle.”

I heard Grandma’s voice in his words, and they warmed a smile onto my face. “Thank you.”

___________________________

Carol Scheina is a deaf speculative fiction author from the Northern Virginia region. Many of her stories were thought up while sitting in local traffic, resulting in tales that have appeared in Cossmass Infinities, Daily Science Fiction, Escape Pod, and other publications. You can find more of her work at carolscheina.wordpress.com.

 

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“The Message” • by Helen French

I hide messages in ice, where I hope my captors won’t think to look.

There’s an extraordinary amount of data in a single snowflake. Each one unique, each one able to tell a story.

I can’t make snow, but I can rewrite its form, so this is what I do from my cell. I stare out the window, I harness the power inside of me, and I magic my message into ice, adding a duplication code so that wherever this particular blizzard falls, the message falls with it.

My daughter is far cleverer than I and she will be waiting for a sign—so I’ve sent millions of them.

Nevertheless, I’ve been doing this for some time now and silence has been the only response. What if she’s been captured too?

I keep hoping because hope is all I have. It’s built-in to me, just as cold is built into ice. There’s always a way forward. I just have to find it.

Mid-thought, my door rattles open. Breakfast time.

“Good news,” my captor says, as he places my food on the floor. “Spring is on its way.”

And then even hope begins to melt.

______________________

Helen French is a writer, book hoarder, and TV-soaker-upper who grew up in Merseyside near the coast and now lives in Hertfordshire, UK, with her young family. Her short stories have appeared in venues such as Stupefying Stories #23, Shoreline of Infinity, and Flash Fiction Online, and she is currently buried in novel-writing. You can find her on Twitter at @helenfrench.

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“Restoration” • by Ephiny Gale

My wife and I go to get scanned every four months; every quark that we’re made up of is recorded as a back-up. Our physical and mental states in that moment put figuratively on ice.

After the third scan I feel unusually cold. My wife has appeared in front of me, her face swollen and pink like she’s been crying for days. “What’s wrong?” I ask. She was fine when we got here.

After the second scan I feel chillier than the first. My wife reaches out to me, her hair greyer and half the length it was thirty minutes ago. “What happened?” I ask, and pull her close.

My wife is waiting for me after my first scan. Somehow she looks years older than when we arrived, and the mixture of emotions on her face is too difficult for me to read. She kisses my hand and says my name like a prayer. Says, “This has to be early enough. Early enough to beat it, because there isn’t any earlier.”

Then she drives me to the hospital, my hand on her knee.

_______________________

 

Ephiny Gale is the author of more than two dozen published short stories and novelettes that have appeared in publications including Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Constellary Tales, and Daily Science Fiction. Her fiction has been awarded the Sundress Publications' Best of the Net award and the Syntax & Salt Editor's Award, and has been a finalist for multiple Aurealis Awards.

 

 

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“Ice Hearts” • by Kai Delmas

I found the boy at the forest’s edge. Surely, his mother told him not to wander near Firelight Forest.

But boys will be boys.

Humans trust nothing more than a child, even when they are children themselves. They seek companionship.

So, I skipped through the woods and happened to cross paths with this boy. He asked where I came from. I told him the truth.

An important thing, the truth. You never want to steal a child away by lying to them.

I asked to play catch and offered to show him where I lived. It would be fun.

Once we ran through the veil I struck.

We used to steal children away for seasons, years. Sucking them dry took time. We had to extract everything they cared for. The fun, their laughter and kindness, too.

I found a different way.

Licking blood from my fingers, I relished his youth.

When done, I shoved a lump of ice in his hollow chest and sent him on his way.

The boy staggered through the forest, wisps of ice trailing him, his shoes leaving frosted footprints in his wake.

That would subside before he returned home.

But his cold heart would remain.

___________________

Kai Delmas loves creating worlds and magic systems and is a slush reader for Apex Magazine. He is a winner of the monthly Apex Microfiction Contest and his fiction can be read in Martian Magazine, Tree And Stone, several Shacklebound anthologies, and elsewhere. Find him on Twitter @KaiDelmas.

 

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“Love’s Labors, Lost” • by Jenna Hanchey

 

I was lost after she broke down.

“Get another one,” friends said. “Same model, you won’t know the difference.”

They didn’t understand. I loved her. How she brought me coffee in bed every morning, anticipated my needs, smoothed my hair with her cold hand as I sighed over paperwork. Listened. She made everything easier.

“It’s programming,” they insisted. “You’ll see.”

The second overloaded in a matter of months. I’d opened up, risked vulnerability hoping she would listen to all the troubles with my job, girlfriend, family. Until one day her glassy eyes failed to light.

Realization hit four models and upgraded programming later.

“That everyone gives you so much is love. That you take it is not,” the last model explained, door closing behind her.

___________________________

Jenna Hanchey is a communication professor by day and a speculative fiction writer by...um...earlier in the day. She lives in Reno and teaches courses at the University of Nevada on racism, colonialism, and communicating across difference. Her research examines neocolonialism in Western aid to Africa, and how Africans use Africanfuturism to imagine their own developmental futures. Somehow she manages to act, sing, and rock climb, too! Notable credits include Gwendolyn Fairfax in The Importance of Being Earnest and Elaine Wheeler in Night Watch. She's also a voice-actor, narrating the audiobooks in Emily S. Hurricane's Bloodlines series. Her fiction has also appeared in Daily Science Fiction and the Apex Microfiction Contest. Follow her adventures on Twitter (@jennahanchey) or at www.jennahanchey.com. 

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“Kickstarting Fate” • by Patricia Miller

“Can you fix it?”

“Don’t know yet. Gimme a second to look it over.”

We crowded around to watch her work. She grumbled about the rush, the crowd—

“Seriously, I’m not lifting another finger unless you stop that damn racket?”

—and obviously, the music didn’t make her happy either. A gesture from the Boss, and the music stopped. She gave another glare. We stepped back.

“I don’t suppose anyone has a can of WD-40 handy.” We bowed our heads. We were so woefully ill-equipped for this kind of thing. “Didn’t think so. Brute force it is then.”

She stood up, reared back, and gave it a swift kick.

And slowly, the Wheel of Fate resumed its turning and the angels resumed their chorus.

____________________________

Patricia Miller is a US Navy veteran who writes SF, fantasy, horror and romance. She is a member of SFWA and CODEX.

Publications include short fiction in A Quaint and Curious Volume of Gothic Tales, 206 Words, and the March 2022 Cinnabar Moth Literary Collection e-zine. Upcoming publications include short stories for Brigid’s Gate Press, Cinnabar Moth Press, Zooscape Magazine, Wyngraf, and Touchstone Press.

 

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“Mr. Giz” • by Marc A. Criley

 

Three hundred pounds of robot plunked down, shaking the house. The RoboAide™ wiggled on its back, as if trying to scratch an itch. It paused to stare at me, shifted its gaze to my wife when she rushed in, then ignored us. 

“What’s Mr. Giz doing?”

“Tech said the personalization module needs a factory reburn. Normally they swap in a flexibility loaner because depersonalized RoboAides can stiffen up, but those are backordered. We gotta make do for now with a leftover module from someone’s RobotPet™ upgrade.”

Mr. Giz slinked to a sunbeam, stretched. “Meow.”

My wife eyed me. “How long?”

_________________

Marc A. Criley began writing in his early 50s, and his stories have since appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Abyss & Apex, Galaxy’s Edge, and elsewhere. Marc and his wife “manage” a household of cats in North Alabama, from where he maintains kickin-the-darkness.com and tweets as @That_MarcC.

 

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