Crab’s World

by Angel

After so many wet and gloomy days, the sun finally showed up. Dampness and depression in the air were swept away by the dazzling sunshine which lightened up everywhere. Tree branches swayed gently in the spring breeze, and the sunshine danced merrily on the glossy green leaves, inviting me to go out and join them. It would be very nice to take a walk along the river flowing in front of my house.

The river was high from of days of raining, and the water appeared cleaner. Grass and wild flowers looked livelier. It was refreshing. I sat down on a rock by the river bank, looking absent-mindedly at the glistening surface of the river. The sunshine’s reflection was glaring, but I squinted without taking my eyes away.

A few moments later, a crab floated onto the river surface, swam to the river bank, and walked towards me. He was a really big crab with two strong pincers. He was no different from other crabs that I’d seen before except he wore three watches, one on each pincer and a third one dangling in front of his chest.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” the crab said. I was surprised that he could speak my language and greeted me in such an English fashion. “Yes, very lovely. It’s very nice to be out here.” I answered, and couldn’t help looking at his three watches. They were big golden ones with diamond set dials.

“They must be very expensive and made in Switzerland.” I thought to myself, unaware of his taking notice of my stare until he spoke again. “It’s a fashion in our world. Anyone who can afford wear three watches nowadays.”

I was a little embarrassed about my rudeness, but I asked: “Your world? Is it not the same as mine? What is it?”

“It’s the Crab’s world. A harmonious society.” he replied. “Harmonious society? That’s so great !” I said, “but is it truly harmonious? It’s almost impossible to achieve harmony in a society, you know.”

“Well, there’s no such thing as genuine harmony. It’s only a beautiful vision. But there are some measures that can be taken to create apparent harmony. Just like ugly people have plastic surgeries to become pretty, while their children never fail to reveal their genes.” he explained.

“What specific measures do you take then?” I inquired curiously.

“Do you really want to know about that?” he asked, “it may take some time.”

“I’ve got time.” I said.

He shifted his long legs, found himself a comfortable position, spat out a few bubbles, and started to talk: “The simplest way to create harmonious society is to eliminate all the unharmonious factors. If they cannot be eliminated, the alternative is to harmonize them.”

“What do you actually mean by elimination?” I interrupted, unwilling to misunderstand him.

“Kill, expel or imprison anyone who is our opponent. Eliminating enemies is more convenient than winning them over. Weeds can never become roses, so the only way is to root up the weeds in the rose garden.” he talked light-heartedly as though talking about the weather.

“However, the majority of our people are not stubborn dissidents. Propaganda is enough to appease them for most of the time. They are taught to be content with where they are. For example, in the Crabs’ World, the upper-class wear luxurious timepieces made in Switzerland, the middle-class wear good-quality watches produced in Japan, while the low-class can only buy cheap gadgets from China. The poor are told that they should not aspire to lead the life of the rich, so they resign themselves to the inequality and live with it.”

“Don’t they complain at all?” I interrupted again.

“Of course they grumble sometimes,” he said, “but there are always ways to make then realize that they are better off as they are.”

“Here’s a story. Several months ago, my cousin took a fancy to a rock cleft which had been occupied by a mussel. He asked the mussel to move to another place, but she wouldn’t. She had a shell. What did she want the cleft for? My cousin asked her to decide between the cleft and her own shell. And you know what? That stupid mussel chose to leave her shell to show her determination! She died quickly of course. My cousin got the cleft after all. What did she get? She lost the cleft, her shell and her own life. It could have been much better for her to stay in her shell. Her body has decayed or been eaten up by some fish. Nobody would remember her. And no one would be as foolish to follow her suit.”

The coldness of his words made me shiver a little, which he didn’t fail to notice, though it did not perturb him. “Don’t feel sad, young lady,” he tried to comfort me, “this kind of things happen everywhere. You just haven’t seen enough of the world. I should go now. Nice talking to you.”

He turned around and waved goodbye with his right hand. The sun glared off of his watch and into my eyes, blinding me momentarily. When my eyes cleared he was gone, back into the harmonious society from which he came.

House on Fire

by Ginger wRong Chen

The fire alarm went off at 2:13 in the morning. In five minutes, peopleʼs attitudes shifted from “What the hell is that noise?” to “Is this real?” to, finally, “Run, there is no time!”

They rushed out of the building, in pajamas, bathrobes, sheets, unmatched shoes, crumpled pants worn overnight, dresses that had been put on only a few hours before yet already smelling of blended perfume, cologne, cigarette butts and over-fermented alcohol. They ran with terrified eyes, trembling shouting, and hysterical crying.

Standing at the edge of the roof, with eight floors beneath him, Cheung looked down at the gathering crowd. He was startled to see humans as one species of this planet standing so close to each other. It seemed unnatural.

By the pool where the last fish died 29 days ago, Mr. Wang wrapped Mrs. Wang in his arms, stroking her hair with all his tenderness, comforting her “we are safe now, we are safe now”. Are they really the couple who live next to my door; the ones programmed to fight from 8:11 to 12:12pm every night?

For a moment, Cheung was so confused that he thought there might be two pairs of Mr. and Mrs. Wangs living in his building. The Mr. Wang he knew says things like “Canʼt you see, weʼre dying here?” and his Mrs. Wang yells, “You think I want to live like this?”

To Mr. and Mrs. Wangʼs right, sitting on a stone stool, was the grumpy old lady who curses everyone walking past her door, “Damn all of you! One day you will all grow old too. One day! ” Who is she holding? Cheung squinted. Is that the ʻnoisy monsterʼ she refers to? The five-month-old baby living across from her door was bundled up in her worn 70ʼs military coat. “She hangs that coat outside the window every sunny winter day Cheung thought to himself, which makes it around 45 coat-hangings a year.

Tonight, everything seems…Cheung searched for the right word in his head …unfamiliar.

He heard yelling.

“Donʼt jump, Cheung! Don’t do it!”

He heard his name. it must be a hallucination. ʻCheungʼ? Who would know my name in this building?…He was almost amused. Yet he couldnʼt help looking over in the direction of the hallucinated sound. He saw a young girl in blue bathrobe. Her hair was drawn back in a ponytail, not as tight as normally he would see on her, but it certainly was a ponytail. He knew this girl in a sense he recognized her face. She lives in apartment 8D, right above me. By the sound delivered through the ceiling, he could tell when she was home, when she went to bed, when she was sleeplessly strolling from kitchen to balcony, when she was moving the furniture around, and when she had a visitor. He liked her ponytail. It goes well with her oval-shaped face. There were times, he really wanted to talk to her, but there was no chance. For three years, he just couldnʼt find the right time to talk to this pretty girl living right above him. But he knew her name was Yu. He got to know it because he had peeked into 8Dʼs mail-box. Though there was no mail in it, he saw the bills addressed to her. He felt himself quite clever for coming up with this peeking trick.

But still, it would be much nicer if Iʼd have got the name from her in person. There had been a pity in his way of name-sneaking.

“Itʼs eight floors! Donʼt jump, you won’t make it! ” Yu cupped her hands around her mouth. “Take the stairs to your left. You still have time. Run Cheung! Run!”

At that moment, Cheung started  to feel the heat coming up to him from Apartment 7D. Is my house on fire? What did I forget? Did I not put out the flame after I burned all my personal belongings in the bathtub? Maybe a spark jumped out, landing on the old magazines by the toilet? Maybe the stove? Was I so absorbed with preparing for this suicide that I forgot to check the gas tonight?  Was that…”

“….”

The explosion hit like a bomb. From where he stood it was just a dull thud. Strange.

Cheung was thrown from the roof by the shock wave.

He was falling. He could see fear on the faces of the people on the ground. Tonight, it is fear that makes people stand together.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

More stories by Ginger wRong Chen

The Nomadic Metropolis

by H. van Blarenburg

It has been nearly three days, and they have not fed me.

I fear I am the last one of the colony. I fear they all have left. That all the colony’s prisoners have secretly been freed. That the guards have left with them. That I am the only one inhabiting this metropolis.

I was born into incarceration. To be imprisoned is my service to the colony. In the past, when I have asked as to why I am here, the guards reply mechanically that I must sacrifice my life to satisfy a debt unfulfilled by my father, now deceased. I never knew my father, just as I have known no one. But he was a traitor they tell me. I suppose I too then am a traitor.

Every morning, the intercom wakes me. I do not understand what it says, for the voice speaks in the guard’s language, a dialect unfamiliar to me. Three times a day they feed me through the slot. The food is drugged. I know this because, now, it is not merely that I am starving, though the hunger is unbearable, but also that I am experiencing narcotic withdrawal.

My perspective of the colony is limited. I live on the sixty-seventh floor, but through my cell window, roughly a foot by foot in length, I can only see the cells of other buildings. A broad expanse of the colony’s other prisons, edifices of concrete and cages and bars. Mountains of windows, all of them identical to mine. I cannot see the horizon. Nor can I see the sky or the ground.

Once, and only once in my life, have I ever left my cell. They transferred me from my previous hold–of which I had been born in and lived in till young adulthood–to the one I am in now. The two cells are indistinguishable. The same concrete floor plan. The same nauseating salmon paint caked on the cinderblocks. The same teal vinyl mattress. The same metal toilet-sink combo. And the same lightbox, protected by a cage. One can never actually turn the lightbox off. During evening hours, it dims, permitting the guards from their towers to observe me always. It is then that I take to dreaming of what I witnessed during the transfer. From the moment my door opened (it was the first time) and the guards stepped in to take me, I absorbed every detail. For I have such a deficiency of images in my repertoire that I am quite simple-minded. But that short walk through part of the colony I can recall with a clarity nearly identical to the actual event. Every day, I recreate the experience in mind, if not for pleasure then to ensure I do not lose any of the specifics. And at night I dream of those few minutes over and again with no variation.

They escorted me outside of my cell onto a catwalk but a few feet in width that extended down the side of the building. I stumbled the entire way. Both to savor the open air and the view. But also because I am partially crippled, for I have never had the freedom to take such strides. Three times I fell while employing underdeveloped muscles in my legs.

The colony is a colossal entanglement of bars and concrete formations, laced with repeating windows and trees. Its seemingly endless precipices of metal prisons are racked in by razor-ribbon fences and trains that circle the perimeters. The buildings climb dozens of stories higher than my cell, such that their tops shred through the clouds. But something else is crucial. The colony moves. It is in fact a mobile city, miles in length, mounted upon a platform of gears and belts and wheels continually lumbering over watery ruins. The sky is an infinite grey. And though I have read of a sun and moon and stars, none are visible.

In these past three days, I have realized as much. The colony is self sufficient. Whether the people are here or no, it operates on its own. All the gears still turn. It travels on. The intercom still speaks, but it is a recording. And the streetlights flicker though the streets are empty. And the trains still sound; as always, they run on time. And on the week’s seventh day, the church bells ring throughout the city, though no one attends the service.

And only in these past three days, soon to be four, when I have been its sole occupant, has it become clear to me that the city is breathing. And that emerging from its trees and machinery are large and searching eyes.

On the fourth day, the door opens, though no one stands behind it. Outside, the intercom is blaring Wagner.

The Magic Dumplings

by Paul Kurowski

One Sunday morning, Little Jin went out for a walk with his dog, Timmy. They wandered for hours. The sun was getting high in the sky, and Little Jin’s tummy was starting to complain.

“Hear that, Timmy? What do you say? Shall we get something to eat?’ Timmy barked once, which means ‘yes’.

As they walked down a lane, Little Jin spotted a cart on the corner. A sign said ‘Dingdong Dumplings’. They went up to it and Little Jin craned his neck to see over the edge of the counter. Dumplings were lined up in rows, crispy brown and smelling delicious.

Mr. Dingdong appeared from behind the counter. He had yellow teeth and an eyepatch, and breath like grandpa’s farts.

“These dumplings are fine. They’re good dumplings. But you, young sir, you look like a gentleman of discerning tastes. Perhaps you’d be interested in something special.”

“Special like what?”

“Maybes you’d like some magic dumplings.”

Little Jin’s eyes widened. Timmy’s ears pricked up. Mr. Dingdong produced a tray of dumplings from beneath the counter. They too were brown and fragrant.

“They look just like dumplings,” said Little Jin.

“You ever seen magic dumplings before?”

“No.”

“Then don’t badmouth the merchandise. You want ‘em or not?”

Little Jin looked at Timmy. The dog was nodding enthusiastically. “Do they cost more than ordinary dumplings?”

“They’re magic. What do you think?”

Timmy barked once. “Okay, we’ll do it.”

Mr. Dingdong put the magic dumplings in a bag. Little Jin was excited. He could hardly wait.

“What do the magic dumplings do, mister?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Dingdong, as he took the money. “Just magic stuff. Go away.”

Little Jin and Timmy skipped off with their treasure. They found a small park and sat down on a bench. Little Jin pulled a dumpling from the bag and took a bite. “It’s tasty!” he said. A moment later, the bench broke underneath him and he was sitting on the floor. Little Jin had grown to three times his normal size.

“Wow! They really ARE magic dumplings!” Little Jin held one out for Timmy. “Here you go, Timmy.”

The dog scoffed the dumpling in one go. He sat panting for a minute. He got impatient and started barking. He ran round, chasing his tail. But he didn’t get any bigger. “Sorry, Timmy. It mustn’t work on dogs.” Timmy whined unhappily and skulked off.

Little Jin looked in the bag. There were still a few dumplings left. He couldn’t waste them. Who knows when he’d get a chance to eat magic dumplings again? He tucked in and didn’t stop until the bag was empty. Nothing happened. The day went on as normal. Children played in the park. Old people sang battle karaoke.

Then Little Jin started growing.

And growing.
And growing.

He could see the people getting smaller beneath him. Soon he was looking down on the treetops. He stopped at about the height of a lane house. “Wow!” said Little Jin. The city unfurled like a carpet in front of him. He heard a mewling from nearby. There was a cat stuck up a tree. He held his hand out and the cat jumped on it. He lowered the cat gently to the ground. “There you go.” It hopped off into the bushes.

There were houses looking over the park. Old ladies hung out of the top floor windows. They waved at Little Jin.

“Hello, young man. We don’t often get to speak to anyone up here.”

“Isn’t it a fine day, ma’am! Can I get you anything?”

“Well, we’re awfully thirsty in this heat.”

Little Jin looked around. There was a pond in the park. He picked up a boat and scooped up some water, and lifted it to where the ladies held out their cups.

“Thanks, young man. That’s very kind!” said one.

“Don’t forget about your dog, Little Jin,” said another.

In all the excitement, Little Jin had forgotten about Timmy. He went in search of his faithful friend. As Little Jin headed out of the park, a police car drove up. Two policemen got out.

“Hey, you. Stop!”

Little Jin looked down. Policemen were usually much bigger than him, but these were as small as mice.

“What’s up, officer?”

“You’ve made a mess of the grass.”

Little Jin looked behind him. It was true. He’d left a trail of giant footprints and one of the flower beds was ruined.

“We’re going to have to arrest you.”

Little Jin bent down. One of the policemen tried to handcuff his wrist.

“It’s no good,” said the other policeman. “Get him in the car.”

“He won’t fit in the car. We’ll have to let him go.” They turned to Little Jin. “Please be a good citizen and don’t walk on the grass.”

“Okay, officer. Sorry for the damage.”

The policemen drove away.

Little Jin carried on down the lane. He turned a corner. There was a crunch. He lifted his foot. The broken body of Timmy was stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

“Timmy!”

He tried to revive his friend, but it was too late. He walked back along the lane, crying tears as big as pumpkins. The old ladies were above him now, waving. He was getting smaller. Before he reached the end of the street he was back to his normal height.

He returned to where Dingdong Dumplings stood on the corner. Mr. Dingdong was packing up, getting ready to move on.

“Hey,” said Little Jin. “I ate your dumplings and I grew to a giant size and now my dog is dead.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“This is your fault. You and your stupid magic dumplings.”

Mr. Dingdong fixed him with his one good eye. “Look, kid. The dumplings aren’t magic. I dump some extra MSG on top, and the old guys love it. I don’t know what happened, but why don’t you go bother someone else?”

With that, Mr. Dingdong picked up his cart and waddled off.

Little Jin watched him disappear down the street. He walked home, thinking sad thoughts about his dead dog, Timmy. He never ate magic dumplings again.

Revenge of the Butterfly

by Ginger wRong Chen

My name is Bella Butterfly. My late boyfriend’s name was Bobby Butterfly. We lived on a tropical island with white sand and palm trees.

Three years ago, a lady and a man came to the island. He called her “Sweetheart,” she called him “Bastard.” Bastard kept saying to Sweetheart, “Come on, sweetheart, give me another chance.” And Sweetheart never changed her reply, “Leave me alone.”

The third day they were on the island. A bright, breezy afternoon, me and Bobby were playing on a leaf, rolling and laughing. But all of a sudden, the leaf broke away from the branch. Surprisingly, it didn’t land on the floor. It flew steadily in the sky. We looked up. It was Bastard. He held the leaf in his hand. We were excited at the beginning. After all, It was our first experience of flying. Five seconds later, we saw Sweetheart. She was lying on the white sand, a Sangria in hand. As he said, “Come on, sweetheart, ” he brushed the leaf against her face, back and forth. Bobby was thrown to the edge. He held onto the back of the leaf. But his full and round body was dangling down. “Oh, my god!” Sweetheart screamed, “what’s the matter of you, get that disgusting worm off me! ” She jumped to her feet and stomped Bobby to death.

I was so sad that I made myself a silky house with no windows and door. I stayed inside days and nights, mourning for Bobby. My tears formed colorful wings on me.

I wanted a revenge.

Seven days passed. I knew I was ready. I opened the windows and let the sun shine in. With my new wings, I flew around the island. I found Sweetheart lying in a hammock. Her skin was much darker than I thought. But I recognized her bellybutton ring, and the Sangria in her hand. I hid deep inside a magnolia, waiting for my chance. Surprisingly, the same thing happened like the day Bobby died. The magnolia started flying. It was Bastard. As he said, “Come on. sweetheart!”, he brushed the flower against her nose.

“Perfect! ” I thought to myself. “Aim at her face.” I thrust my way out.

“Oh, my god! ” She gasped. “ A butterfly! How did you do this? It’s so beautiful! ” She kissed him.

Together, they caught me and brought me back. For three years, I’ve been nailed to the wall in their house.

The first year, when Sweetheart said, “This butterfly saved our love!” Bastard said, “She is a godsend!”

The second year, when Sweetheart said, “This butterfly saved our love!” Bastard said, “Urhur.”

This morning, when Sweetheart said, “This butterfly saved our love!” Bastard stared at me, anger in his eyes.

At that moment, I looked out the window. There it was, Bobby’s smiling face in the sky.

Willy and His Two Friends

A sex education tale
by David Hampson

Willy had 2 friends, bolliker and balliker. Willy always wondered why they looked so similar and he looked so different, so strange. They would tease him when he inexplicably grew large and then shrunk. And when it was cold they would snuggle together leaving Willy all alone. They shared the same space inside the 95% polyester tent. Worse was when bolliker and balliker made him vomit when he didn’t want to, and sometimes in very embarrassing situations, getting the tent all wet. Sometimes he would be pushed into the water chute, with bolliker and balliker making him vomit, which was strange because he never ate anything.

One particularly busy day, after bolliker and balliker had made him vomit 2 times already, and then vomit once again into the tight pink swimming suit that the man in the sky made him wear, Willy and bolliker and balliker were taken for a ride across town. They went into a dark place that smelt a bit fishy. Suddenly the tent came off and balliker and bolliker were getting slapped by a wooden paddle, Willy started laughing at his little friends jiggling around, so much that he vomited with all the excitement! But this time he didn’t mind.

cats / gods

by Ling’Ling.

cats

we are four meister cats in my apartment
we have an harmonious
feline society

one black, one yellow and two
big white ones
with red beards

i’m the black one
i wear
white boxing gloves,

the red bearded ones
always stink like alcohol
cigarettes

the fat one always smells
like different
lady cats but
we always smell like meister cats
because
we don’t get any lady cats
because
the big cats are
meow hypocrites

gods

when i was
young i had a god.
i raised him
from a little baybe
and he was always with me he never left my
side
and then one new year he
disappeared

and
the village party chief
sent us a bowl of soup made with
his bones
it wasn’t very
good soup
since then i don’t eat
god
anymore

The Sunstorm Lectures

by Björn Wahlström

The Sunstorm Lectures: “On late Isolation era conceptions of chance”

(Transcript of lecture held by Dr BGW Blacksea at Mercury 5 as part of the Applied Ancient Sciences Series, 2^nd Sunstorm phase of CY (2865AD))

‘Ladies and Gentlemen,

Firstly, I would like to thank you for joining us at this early hour here at the M5 facilities. With the state of traffic during sun storm season I’m also happy to see that you all still have your hair and skin intact. Most of you anyway, no offense Professor Starkk (laughter). Jokes aside though, until the council finally have all M-shields up and running 100% again I strongly advise you to stay within the screen zones as much as possible. I’m sure our guests from the outer planets find it nice and warm here at arms length from the Source, but believe me, you do not want to go sunbathing right away, at least not your first year here (laughter).

Today I will outline late Isolation era conceptions of chance. One of the major functions of applied historical sciences is to penetrate the state of mind that brings forth certain questions, and to understand and experience how and why change came about. This sounds trivial, but it is not. Particularly not as the general concept of science has been a more distant, colder one during most of System history. To a certain extend this has always been known, in varying degrees, to the historical sciences, but not always applied, and never really, until the beginning of our time of course, properly understood as a practical possibility. I invite you to forget for the duration of this lecture all you know about time/space/chance flow, future conceptualization, and general organic system will analysis. Hard as it is, I will try to cicerone you back to a time when the faulty gap between organic and mechanical sciences was still not perceived, a time when man was not only alone in the universe, but actually regarded the System as a cold and hostile system, a time when Einstein and quantum gravity was still regarded as the future of science (laughter).

The last centuries of the Great Isolation is surely one of the most intriguing periods in the history of the System in this respect, and at the same time the hardest one for us to grasp. You all know the historical facts of late Isolation, let’s say around 2100AD. The mother planet was still cut off from the rest of the System, which was largely believed to be uninhabited, including Mars, including Jupiter, and of course M-minor where we are this morning. We know now how development from this stage is always the slowest, from T2 to A2 to S3, as the movement from a passive two-dimensional concept of time/space continuum to an active and four dimensional understanding of time/space/chance flow requires letting go of it’s own inherent founding principles, namely the individual. As Wittgenstein almost correctly put it: you must throw away the ladder once you’ve climbed it. The paradox from a 21st Century point of view, of course, is how to throw it while climbing it. This does not sound paradoxical to you here today, but as with all paradoxes, the problem for a 21st Century scientist (or any citizen for that matter) was that he was of course unable to question the very entity posing the question – himself.

An event either occurs, or doesn’t occur. I see you rolling your eyes Professor Starkk, but please bear with me. An event either occurs or it doesn’t – to a 21st Century mind however, there were certain…mindsets preventing the realization of what drives events. I’m thinking of course of the period of the great wars between 1500 – 2300AD. Strange as it may sound, the later part of this era was considered one of progress in all sciences (except the organic ones of course, but we’ll get to that after lunch). You all know the characteristics: de-deification, subjugation of nature, and the reinsertion of mankind at the center of the universe. There seems to be no limits to how many Galileos and Descartes humankind needed to show us the way (laughter). We all know the results: a constant, random and very violent clashing of different parts of the mother planet, coming to within an inch of actually destroying this one part of the System.

We will have to break for lunch at this point, I can already feel Professor Starkk getting impatient with me (“Not at all, not at all”). Shuttles outside will take you up to level 45. After lunch I will go into details on the example of the infinite monkey theorem, one of the most illuminating thought faults of Isolation era. Without getting ahead of myself, let me give you this one thought to ponder over lunch: how is it possible that the 21st Century mind kept repeating a question already containing it’s own answer? I will also try to give you a few ideas of the System question this poses to our own time, for remember this: T2A2S3 development is just as hard for every time. Or as the brightest of them all, Professor GW Hegel put it: ‘The Owl of Minerva spreads its wings only with the falling of dawn.’

Enjoy lunch everybody, I will see you back here at 13.30 sharp.’

2288: Chapter one

by Yoyo

How many missions had he flown since leaving the academy? His chief engineer Joe informed him during flight-prep for every mission. The procedure was always the same: flight assistants bustling around, strapping him in here, adjusting a monitor there and Joe listing off all the important information for the particular mission, which always ended with a rundown of his statistics to date. Confirmed and unconfirmed kills, burns, assists, interceptions, escapes, crashes and a slew of other numbers that Dave didn’t recognize, nor care to know more about. The reading of his mission numbers always coincided conveniently with the securing of his flight-helmet and the pneumatic screwdrivers whined just loudly enough to drown out Joe’s voice.

Though he never listened to the statistics he knew they must be impressive based on the looks he got from the flight assistants. Having survived as many years as he had was enough to make him a seasoned vet at just 27, but his list of kills was at least twice as long as that of fighter pilots with twice his mission hours.

Joe was a fanatic for protocol and Dave had quickly come to appreciate his professionalism. He had never so much as exchanged a single word with the little old Chinese man. They had never seen each other outside of the cockpit and he was sure that Joe had as much personality as a plate of Fujianese sea cucumber, but he was the best flight engineer in the business. Joe probably doesn’t take a shit without consulting a service manual thought Dave. Thank god he’s on my side.

Dave conducted a mental run-through of the launch procedure, though he had done it in reality hundreds of times. He exhaled slowly and opened his eyes to find old Joe framed squarely in front of his visor. Something was wrong…This had never happened before. He looked into Joe’s eyes for an explanation, and though he knew Joe couldn’t see through the reflective silver coating of his visor, their eyes somehow met.

‘This is your 88^th mission.’ Said Joe, holding Dave’s gaze briefly before disappearing from view.

What the hell was that about? He thought.

Presently he could hear Joe and the assistants retreating from the cockpit and the sucking noise of the cabin door closing. It sounded just like what he had heard on old Star-Trek reruns from the 1970s. How did they know that it would sound like that?

T-minus 10…9…8……….and away. He could feel the bloodstream nanobots expanding in his vessels to keep them from bursting during the hyper-acceleration of the launch. From 0 to 800klm per hour in the same distance it takes the elevator to travel from the first floor of the Jinmao tower to the top. It was the exact speed necessary to clear the rapidly spinning electrical laser shield at the top of the launch funnel. A technology developed by the Africans, and the only thing keeping ‘them’ outside – nobody ever tried to get out of course.

Always in the back of his mind was the thought that he might never see earthShanghai again and he did a slow, lazy barrel roll coming out of the launch funnel that ascended straight from the heart of Pudong where the Oriental Pearl Tower used to stand. It wasn’t much to look at now that the city was covered in a massive hermetically sealed dome of steel and glass, but you could get a vague taste of the city’s former glory between the iron beams and through the skylights.

It must have been something else to see that sprawling cityscape before an Eastern sunset. He had once seen classified pictures of pre-invasion earthShanghai. Happy faces and sunny smiles on crowded streets. People coming and going, buying and selling, trading, laughing, loving, living. That was so long ago now. The last pre-invasion survivors had long since died. There was not a creature left on Earth that had not been born and raised within the confines of one of the five remaining domed city states, except for a couple of ancient sea turtles in the Parisian zoo. As a fighter pilot, and a successful one at that, Dave had actually been to Paris on several occasions. The number of humans moving between one city-dome to another on any given day could be counted on four sets of hands (or two sets if you were keeping count with one of the invaders’ appendages).

Today’s mission was fairly routine. He was accompanying a shipping vessel from earthShanghai to the newBeijing lunar colony. Dave was never informed as to the contents of the freighters he was guarding, but he could usually gauge their importance by the level of action once they broke out of Earth’s now toxic atmosphere. He could never fully fathom that there were actually traitors among those men still remaining on Earth who leaked and reported critical mission information to the alien invaders. Who can account for the actions of man? Dave certainly couldn’t.

Who would have guessed that the only way to stop us from killing ourselves was to have to concentrate our murderous efforts on a new common enemy? As a teenager, Dave had always cringed at ancient Hollywood’s juvenile treatment of ‘the good guys and the bad guys’. What a bunch of bloodthirsty playground bullies with their adolescent hero-complexes.

Ironic that he was now one of those good guys. Brilliant white flight suit and all.

As he came out of the barrel-roll he did a visual scan of the horizon. He could see hundreds upon hundreds of the invader’s car sized fighter vessels hovering several kilometers off in the distance, the signature of their glowing green hyper-drive engines casting an eerie light through the toxic orange atmosphere. Jesus Christ! – he thought – I’ve never seen so many of them before. This is going to be hairy…

Elastic dawn

by Estel Vilar

I’ve never read the Bible myself, but it seems to me that one of the ideas it conveys is that God created the universe, earth and life so that mankind could flourish. This is not what I believe. What I believe – and I am quite certain – is that God made the Universe, Earth, Life and Mankind so that Sky Scrapers could flourish. And that is why, on the 8^th day of the creation calendar, God insufflated will into the Sky Scrapers. I wasn’t there myself, but I can visualise how it happened as clearly as if I had been.

That morning rose as pink as the pink petals of a red rose. The light – so sharp – pierced the chilly atmosphere layers. The air was as quiet as the walls. Until the walls woke up in a quake-like roar, distorting the shape of light. The divine power of full elasticity permeated both concrete and steel, glass and stone, doors and beads. The Sky Scrapers rose with the rising sun that painted the whole land pink.

The mirror walls of the Shanghai World Financial Centre were shining bright as ever in a majestic pinkish glow. Suddenly, the sound of one hundred thousand million neighing horses fiercely slapped every surface around, and the tower of the SWFC bent in a seemingly eternal bow towards the sun. So did the Jinmao Tower and the Aurora. The Marriot and the Radisson across the river followed, multiplying the deafening sound of neighing horses. Soon every Sky Scraper in the metropolis had bowed their heads to the ground to worship the sun of their dawn. Later on, their heads rose back up gradually, following the curve of the sun in the sky, bidding farewell to their father with the same devoted reverence.

When night fell, the lights in the city started to shine with the first stars. By midnight, both the firmament and the Earth were sprinkled with floating tiny lanterns. By then, the Sky Scrapers were out of the sight of their father, and stood up somewhat heavily and without any elegance. At some point during the night you could hear the growing sound of the buildings singing. Their voices were deep and flute-like, so different compared to the creaking and booming sound of their bodies. Their chants swung across the city, from one tower to the other in a question-answer rhythm, musical and orderly. Meanwhile, the human survivors from the Elastic Dawn laid abandoned on the floor like rug dolls, some trapped inside the disobedient organic structures of the buildings, some fallen in the still roads.

The enchantment by the singing of the giant sky-scraping pipes started to take effect when Queen Nariayaght arose from the mists of Huangpu River. It was the beginning of the new order, and Nariayaght was its queen. Her soul was the entity of the collective singing. Whenever summoned, a gigantic cargo ship with a mole head and a gecko tail would incarnate her spirit. She had a transitory body, a soul, and also a voice of her own. It was loud and deep, it shook the human bodies like a drum and it delighted the Sky Scrapers with the tickles of its sound waves. The night that followed the 8^th day of creation she was heard for the first time.

I have to admit again from my most annihilating humbleness, that I never heard her. I have seen, though, the fear in Anna’s eyes whenever she takes her prescribed drugs to induce her interplanetary visions. Something colossal is happening on Earth while we cling to our miserable exiled existence in the orbit of Venus. The only hope for mankind today is to be remembered after our extinction.