Plugs

Read Rudi’s story “Detail from a Painting by Hieronymus Bosch” at Behind the Wainscot.

Alex Dally MacFarlane’s story “The Devonshire Arms” is available online at Clarkesworld.

Edd Vick’s latest story, “The Corsair and the Lady” may be found in Talebones #37.

Trent Walters, poetry editor at A&A, has a chapbook, Learning the Ropes, from Morpo Press.

Archive for June, 2010

When pigs fly

Tuesday, June 22nd, 2010

The satellite was old. It just barely fit in the empty part of the cargo hold. Radiometry indicated an age of 1.2 billion years, give or take 100 million or so. No telling how much it would be worth, especially if he could get it working. Darren squinted at the symbols etched into its surface. The script was recognizable, but the syntax! He slammed his fist against the deck plates. The instructions read like they were written in Betelgish and translated into Centauran-A by someone who only read Vegan! He opened an access hatch, blew nonexistent dust off of some weird-looking integrated circuits (?), scratched his head, and put the hatch back on. Beneath another hatch were rows of buttons with strange shapes printed on them. They were no script he recognized. Nothing ventured nothing gained — mentally flipping a coin, he pressed the button whose icon looked like copulating pigs.

A grinding and shrieking emanated from the interior of the satellite. Bits of corroded metal sifted down onto the deck. Hastily he pressed the button again and the sound stopped. A moment later, a previously invisible door slowly ground open, stuck halfway, then fell off with a clang. He smelled dust, and something else. A staccato tapping sounded from the interior, and a small blue-furred critter shot out of the satellite. The pseudo-pig hit the deck running and disappeared into the dark recesses of the crowded hold.

“Sacred waste products” Darren exclaimed, leaping to his feet and running after the suoid. There were a thousand places in the hold where something that small could hide. He ran back and forth among stacked crates, moved boxes, shone lights, even called to it, to no avail. Finally, he went to his tiny refectory, dialed some stew from the Chefmaster, and put a bowl full in the middle of the hold.

The blue pig trotted right out, even let him scratch its back while it ate. After, it burped, curled up beside him and went to sleep. When it started snoring, Darren walked back to the satellite. The next button in line bore an icon that seemed to have wings and horns, lots of them. Darren reached for it, hesitated.

The end

Every One We Get

Monday, June 21st, 2010

It was the old, old story, he felt: handsome stranger comes to town, walks in on a feast complete with pretty (and pretty interested) girls, has a great time—and wakes up a night later about to be brutally sacrificed in order to save the village from a terrible drought.

“Seen it a thousand times,” he said aloud, trying to get more comfortable in his bonds.

“No you haven’t,” he answered himself. “Before this, you’d never walked more than three days from home.”

The priest came, carrying a horn. He sat down next to the stone.

“Sunrise soon,” he said, turning to look at the stranger.

“I’m aware of it,” agreed the stranger.

The priest lifted the horn. “We give the sacrifice a forgetting drink, if he wishes.”

“No, thank you,” said the stranger after a while.

The priest shrugged.

“I’ve had all night to wonder,” said the stranger. “What is the point? What is the point of killing a perfectly healthy young man who would be much more useful begetting strong children and fighting off wolves and catamounts?”

“Hopefully you’ve already done the first thing. Feast, remember?” Said the priest, raising the horn.

“Not much of it,” replied the stranger, smiling though he had begun to shake.

“Things are bad,” said the priest. “You saw.”

“I did,” said the stranger, remembering how thin the women had been, how easily tired.

“It’s how we’ve always done it,” began the priest. There was a sound like a gourd dropping. The priest sighed.

The sigh went on for too long; the priest folded over. A bony young woman stood over him, the butt of her hunting knife in her hand.

“Not anymore, not anymore,” she chanted while she cut the stranger’s bonds.

Two more women stepped from the edge of the grove. They looked at the priest, nodded at her.

“The sacrifice went well,” said one.

“No! Not a sacrifice!” snapped the young woman.

“Joke,” said the other, waving her hands.

“Time to go,” the young woman said, holding out his belt and kit.

He looked once over his shoulder, to see the two women gently lifting the priest; the woman tugged his hand over the hill. On the other side, the sun was rising.

“That is the most fine and beautiful sight I have ever seen,” he said to her.

She smiled at him. “Like every one we get,” she agreed.

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