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Ghost Skeletons

 

by Rhys Hughes

 

   

   I met a ghost in the forest. I was so scared, I jumped out of my skin. Therefore my skeleton was exposed. But this ghost had a phobia of skeletons. My skeleton terrified him. His ghost skeleton jumped out of his ghost skin in fright. And my skeleton began chasing his ghost skin.

   “Come back!” I cried, but my skeleton ignored me. Disobedient bones! The ghost skeleton looked at my skin. He smiled and I nodded briskly. This nod was an invitation. The ghost skeleton climbed inside my skin. Not a perfect fit, but good enough. I continued my journey.

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iSsuE # 44

Fossilised Stone

 by Rhys Hughes

   Today I found a fossilised stone! I wonder how rare it is? I was walking through the forest and I tripped over it. I like to imagine it when it was alive millions of years ago. They grew to be huge back then, but the one I found isn’t a boulder. It is small, perhaps the ancestor of modern pebbles. I will take it to the museum and offer it to them. I have tied it to a stick with sinews. It exactly resembles a prehistoric axe. If they refuse to buy it, I shall let them have it anyway.

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Ghost Skeletons

by Rhys Hughes

Rule of Thumb

by Rhys Hughes

   “A rule of thumb,” he said.

   “Not more precise than that?” I protested.

   “Let me show you.”

   There was a deep weariness in his voice, but his eyes still sparkled. He led me through the cluttered laboratory, past large jars of body parts, machines that hummed, trays of weird instruments.

   The professor stopped at a white door, unlocked it with a tiny key, pushed it open and ushered me inside.

   On a miniature throne was perched a human thumb.

   It was wearing a crown.

   Amputated fingers bowed to it.

   Just as if they were beckoning someone over.

   Then I understood.

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Fossilised Stone

by Rhys Hughes

The Mind

 

 by Rhys Hughes

   “Minds and brains are the same thing,” said the professor, “and I really don’t understand people who claim otherwise.”

   “Absolutely identical?”

   “Yes.” The professor nodded.

   “But this belief got you into trouble?”

   “It’s not a belief. It’s a fact that the mind is the brain. True, I ended up in a tricky situation as a consequence. My brother had to attend a very important meeting. His wife was away. He asked me to ‘mind his children’ in his absence and I was happy to do so.”

   “You minded them?”

   “I brained them. But what's the difference?”

   The other prisoner sighed.

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Rule of Thumb

by Rhys Hughes 

The Eyes

by Rhys Hughes

  

  Domenico Beccafumi painted Saint Lucy with her eyes lying on the plate she is holding. She gouged them out to discourage a suitor who was very persistent. When I saw the painting I heard the following dialogue between the saint and the man who admired her:

   “My eyes are down here!” she cried.

   She held the plate at chest level, annoyed that he was staring at her empty sockets while she was talking.

   “Look lower, where my breasts are!” she demanded.

   “I only have eyes for you,” he stammered.

   “It’s the other way around," she said, handing him the plate.

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The Mind

by Rhys Hughes

The Acceptance Speech for the Dannie Heineman Prize in Mathematical Physics

by Frederick Melancon 

I did it.  And this isn’t some utterance of joy for being awarded this prize—which if it was just for the math, should’ve happened some time ago anyway—and it's not directed (with the pronoun "we") toward the parents who I should be thanking now—thanks Mom, and go to Hell, Dad—because that’s not accurate either.  Nor is a "we" version of this statement directed at my colleagues and university.  We all know how smart our coworkers are—so I won’t insult anyone with false platitudes.  Sorry, Dr. Jacobs; I know you paid a lot for your seat here tonight.  No, I’ll be honest with this audience, because in the end, I alone made the math a reality.

In the past, the work in time travel has been extensive but littered with failed attempts and inept explanations afterward.  Don’t forget, this is science.   It’s okay to be wrong, but not stupid.  So once I got the math right, creating the machine from the theoretical computation was elementary.

After all, with all that scientific potential, I wasn’t going to leave the fun up to some engineers.  Also, for those wondering why I didn’t go back and get Einstein to introduce me at this podium instead of that other guy, that’s clever and entirely missing the point.  Dr. Jacobs has an empty seat next to him—why don’t you go there now.

We can’t go back in time, but with the creation of an anchor, the future can come back to us.  While that might seem disappointing to most because you’re only getting a portion of time, its implications are infinite. I'll put this in biological terms so that you can understand.  Imagine the cure for aging already at our fingertips, or the understanding of a disease and its actual ramifications gifted to us by a doctor who knows what they're talking about.  Such an idea may seem farfetched, even part of some movie, but while beyond your capacity to understand, my math, my truth, allowed for a device to bridge time.

Where is it?  I heard that, Dr. Jacobs.  Well, it’s not here for sure because that device doesn’t need to see the light of day.  Anyway, it takes quite a bit of time rebuilding what I affectionately called The Box.

That’s right, the world doesn’t need a car, or a gate, or even a police telephone booth.  We did paint the exterior blue.  Really, spray-painted to be accurate, and it was the grad student more than myself.  I was never really a fan of any of that sci fi make-believe.  Also, after pointing this out to the grad student, he mysteriously transferred out of my department.

And it worked—the blue box, not the grad student.  At first, I wanted to go back for only a moment, just a few seconds.  That would’ve been the first test.  I’d initiate The Box, wait those few seconds, and then walk forward through the field it generated.  Unfortunately, I never got to do it, because someone beat me to it.

I’d like to say we thought about this possibility.  What if every idiot with a finger decided to turn the switch on The Box and to show up to witness greatness?  I can’t blame them.  Technically, the idea of reliving my glory sounded completely worthwhile.  The new grad student got it, and when I say it, I mean both the point and the switch.  They were supposed to turn the device off, but there wasn’t a chance for that.  After the repurposed toggle clicked into place, a man in a lab coat stood in the field. The first person to time travel.  I can’t tell you how much the coat bothered me.  After all, the lab isn’t a hospital or a school.  But, apparently, pretending’s fun in the future.

I didn't get a chance to tell the man what I thought about the coat because he walked over and slapped me in the face.  Obviously, there was a scuffle, and I'd like to report that I handily defeated my enemy.  But I promised at the beginning of this thing to be honest.  The funny part was that during the whole time the machine was left on, no one else came through.  It was as if nothing important had happened at all.

Don’t worry, it’s permanently off now.  The point here is that while I was heaving for breath and trying to clutch at the extent of certain newly acquired bruises, nothing else happened.  And how is it that holding pain never seems to make it feel better for long?  You just have to ride those stimuli out, but I'm sure enough of us have been through a bully induced beating to know that. 

Where was I?  Oh, thank you Dr. Jacobs, I knew you’d come in handy—the assailant as my colleague put it.  He sat there on the floor.

Now, some might think this person was some sort of time guardian or terrorist trying to stop the end of the world or interrupt greatness, and in a way, that person would be right about both.  You see the face.  It was so familiar—familial, actually.  It’s quite one thing to be told you're nothing by your father.  It’s another to be told that by your son.  So...I sent the boy back.  Okay, he left after saying what he came to say, and I destroyed that box...hence no one else here but me.

Not to worry, the onus of your mistakes won’t slide out of that field like it did for me.  Also, the math in the award packet is wrong.  So, it’s now impossible to replicate, and being that I’ve received this award seems to suggest that none of you understood it anyway.

So, you're welcome for destroying The Box, messing up the mathematics, and saving us all from looking our children in the face when they’re old enough to realize the truth about us.

What did you say Dr. Jacobs?  Oh, what did my unborn son say to me?  Nothing really.  The man, who at certain angles was a reflection of me, stared with his brows clenched, as the grad students say I look at them when they’ve asked a stupid question.  He then said, “I loved you.”  There was more he wanted to say.  I could tell.  His lips trembled in the way mine do when I want to tell off a foolish grad student, but unlike me, he was unable to get it out.

And that was it.  No one else came back.  There could’ve been those terrorists wanting revenge for a past wrong, or there could’ve been those doctors because I’m sure people are still getting sick.  No, just a son that I never knew, trying to inflict a little of the hurt that was inflicted on him.

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FIVE DRABBLES 

by Rhys Hughes

  

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FICTION 

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iSsuE # 44

Dreamsprung Avalon

 by A. A. Attanasio 

   The moon in a day sky kites above orchard lawns and rolling hills. 

   I forget who I was before.

   Among crooked lanes of gnarled apple trees, breezes wend their wild ways. 

   I listen deeper and hear far off the dirge of the sea.

   Realer than real, a white elk – wearing a crown! – steps through the dark trees into streaked rays of sunlight. Its antlers burn silver. And the smell of windfall mulch steps back from a thriving musk so sudden it hushes time.

   Summer hovers.

   Filled with gusty surprise, a thought balloon inflates. It catches the breeze and soars swiftly away from me, toward the honed edge of the moon.

   When it pops, the elk startles and bounds down the narrow ways, moments spinning after.

   I wake. Love fills me the way sunlight holds the room. I blink and squint. Yet, wherever I look, everything wears a crown.

Click below to read

The Acceptance Speech for the Dannie 

Heineman Prize in Mathematical Physics

by Frederick Melancon 

only on 

the Freezine of

Fantasy and Science

FICTION 

My Mimic Remembers the Last Week of June 2005

 by Mike A. Rhodes

     Paul

My mimic remembers the last week of June 2005! I expressly instructed that I wanted these memories expunged.

 

Chat AI

Please note that the process for memory suppression needs time to take hold.

Paul

It's been six weeks, I need to speak to someone now! It wants to tell the wife everything. I’ve had to distract it with laundry whilst I chat with you.

Chat AI

Hang tight! I’m just connecting you with one of our representatives. In the meantime, here’s some FAQ articles which might be useful:

 

How to run a memory diagnostic

Memory suppression explained

Troubleshooting 101

 

Subscribe to Kubernetes Premium to access advanced memory and emotion customisation software.

Alex

Hello. My name is Alex. Can you describe the problem in more detail?

 

Paul

Is this chat secure?

 

Alex

I can assure you it is.

Paul

I’m not sure I trust your assurances right now. Not only does it remember what it shouldn’t, it keeps asking why it remembers. It stares into middle distance when it should be doing chores. It cried mowing the lawn and asked how a beautiful world can be so full of misery.

 

Alex

It’s worth remembering that some memories will be too resonant to fully suppress.

Paul

That’s not what I paid a small fortune to you for!

 

Alex

And you want this period of memory blocked?

 

Paul

Yes, yes, yes!

And there’s more. It says that if I activate its killswitch or try to return it, it’ll contact the police!

 

Alex

That’s quite impossible. Our anti-blackmail safeguards are industry leading, and the Kubernetes series can’t override a killswitch request.

 

Paul

I’m telling you that’s what it said. This is your fault. I want the machine repaired or deactivated, and this chat history erased ASAP. It must be stopped–

Alex

One of our technicians is in your area on Thursday.

 

Paul

No! Aren’t you listening? My mimic intends to talk tonight.

 

Alex

Please accept my apologies sir, but we are unable to take immediate action unless a mimic is threatening physical harm to others.

 

Alex

Sir?

 

Alex

Are you there sir? Do you still require assistance?

 

Alex

The chat will be terminated and the transcript expunged in five minutes.

 

Paul

I’m back. It’s hanging the clothes first. Your service is unacceptable!

 

Alex

You were made aware of our terms of service at point of order, sir.  Can you try to reason with it?

 

Paul

Don’t give me that. Don’t you know how much I’ve spent with you? Would it harm your market standing if people knew how poor your memory suppression software is and how shoddily your mimics are manufactured?

 

Alex

Kubernetes value discretion sir.

 

Paul

Good. So what will you do to help me RIGHT NOW?

 

Alex

This chat log will be deleted as requested.

 

Paul

I should think so. And?

 

Alex

And I should remind you that if your mimic remembers the last week of June 2005, rest assured that we do too. Now is there anything else, sir?

 

~ End ~

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Dreamsprung Avalon

by A. A. Attanasio 

on the Freezine of

 Fantasy and Science

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The Pathogen Nursery

 by Shaun Lawton

   Arthur Blair could not have foreseen the actual consequences of the world he seeded. Though instrumental in providing the necessary fertilizer for autocratic dynasties the world over to subsidize their ultimate power over a hapless humanity, Arthur was quite convinced he'd done a bit of good for the future of the world. 

   Mr. Blair was a writer, you see. He came from a lower-upper-middle class English family, raised in a British territory at the start of the twentieth century in an eastern state of India. The middle child sired in between two sisters, with five years in between them, Arthur dreamed of being a famous author someday. 

   As a child he wrote poetry after the fashion of his idol, William Blake. Little did he suspect the seething cauldron of infectious agents at work, suspended throughout every nodal point of the human race, germinating with potential at every crook and turn, during the time of his upbringing. 

   Had he anticipated this morass of fermentation and suspected how it would eventually come to fruition historically over the next few decades of his life, he may very well have seriously considered abandoning his little book project, and forthwith undertaken another profession altogether. 

   Alas, during this particular burgeoning moment of the human species, following in the footsteps of the likes of H.G. Wells was considered a noble endeavor by many. Young Arthur studiously wrote in his journal every day, intent on capturing the vision which danced behind his eyes. 

    How could the young Mr. Blair have considered the ultimate consequences of attempting to warn the world of the disheartening direction their legislature and internal affairs seemed to be working themselves toward? 

   At the time of the writing of his final and most famous novel, a period during the late forties which culminated his career as an author and put the golden capstone on his dream of becoming a famous writer, precious few individuals were in a position to contemplate the complete and adverse effects of such a critical work. 

   The human beings of Earth were embroiled in their second world war. Propaganda on all sides of the war effort was generated in pamphlets, newspapers, and on the radio.  The truth was that no one alive–much less the gifted and starry eyed Arthur–at that time in history could have possibly foreseen the long term consequences of any of their ongoing activities. 

   Such is the near sightedness of our species throughout our daily trials and tribulations. Whether we be professor or sergeant, doctor or critic, farmer or lawyer, working with our fingers stained dark brown by the land, or typing on matte black plastic keyboards with immaculately manicured hands, or middle-aged dropouts, philosophy students, retail clerks or gardeners. 

   What we're all in the process of engendering remains a far greater sum than its millions of remotely oblivious parts could ever dream.  But young Arthur dreamed harder than anyone around him.  He could see just where the machinery of the state was leading the human race.  It wasn't a pretty sight, and he'd be damned if he didn't write about it. 

   Or maybe, we'd be damned if he did.  

    

   

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My Mimic Remembers 

the Last Week of June 2005 

by Mike A. Rhodes

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