by Luke Kondor
Hannah shook her head in disbelief. It was all impossible. It was all nonsense. The whispering woman was now in her ear. She saw nothing, but could smell the woman’s breath, could hear the words in a language she didn’t recognise.
“I don’t know how you got here, Miss Birkin, and I’m sorry that this had to happen to you, but it’s our job to iron you out. For the safety of our own world, we have to send you back.”
Hannah heard a cranking noise. The whispering woman’s mouth was against her ear. She found herself dropped downwards into the icy cold water. Still strapped to the chair she was unable to wriggle herself free. She looked upwards towards the light and saw the square hole which she fell through. Standing above the open hole, looking down at her, she could make out the milky white eyes of the old lady who’d been whispering to her.
Her chest throbbed and her body was screaming at her to open her mouth and take a breath. She did her best to stop it, but it became too much. As the water filled her lungs she saw flashes of light and fire and felt her body lifted. She saw vast seas of infinite beauty filled with wonders, lights in the dark sky flying past her, and for the last couple of seconds of her life she realised she was back in her bed lying next to the person she’d almost forgotten about — Simon.
Have You Seen My Wife?
Markus Schmiebler
Hello there.
I hope you can help me.
Perhaps you’re seeing this as a post on Facebook. Or in one of the many newspapers I’ve reached out to. Or one of the hundreds of websites that I’ve signed up to. Or maybe even plastered to a lamp post or telephone pole or maybe even on the side of a shop window.
The point is, I’m desperate.
A couple of weeks ago my wife suddenly woke up and forgot everything — her name, her husband, her address, and even her planet. It was strange, I admit.
Having your wife forget who you are is quite distressing. At the young age of twenty-four I don’t think it would be anything Alzheimer’s related. Hopefully not.
Plus, the effects were sudden and she was quite panicked to be “stuck on planet Earth”, as she said.
I did my best to calm her down and make her tea and try to get her to remember who she was, but it only made things worse. Eventually as she calmed down enough to fall asleep I left her to it, but then next morning she was gone.
No note, no goodbye, nothing.
As you can probably tell I am a heartbroken husband looking for his lost love. She was hands down the greatest thing that ever happened to me.
She is 5 feet 4 inches tall, hair dyed pink and blue, shorn at the sides, blue eyes, and several piercings and tattoos. She currently doesn’t answer to any name other than Yayatoo (Yah-Yah-Too). This isn’t her name — her real name is Louise, but when she woke this is the name she kept referring to herself as.
If you find her please be kind, offer her some tea, explain that Earth isn’t all that bad and that it’s perfectly natural for the seasons to change so dramatically (she didn’t like that it was spring). You can contact me through a new website I’ve set up: www.findmylouise.co.uk.
Hopefully hear from you soon,
Regards,
Markus Schmiebler
The Outer Reaches
THERE’S A PLACE FAR OUT into space where the stars don’t look like stars anymore. The physics bend. Consciousness melts. Here lies the border and just a little further is where everything starts to repeat itself. Like the imperfect stitching between the squares of a patchwork quilt, it’s in the spaces between the fabric where things start to look a bit wrong.
Out there it’s like the deepest parts of the oceans — full of the amazing undiscovered, the unforeseen terrors and the things that have found a way to flourish where life has no right to exist.
In the Outer Reaches, you’ll find eggs the size of moons. Fish swimming through the vacuum. Lights that can think and talk. Existence is upturned. Realities are in constant flux.
And in one particular part of the Outer Reaches, floating out in the nothingness is a hole in the space-time continuum. A single tear in the fabric of existence. Like most things, the portal started small. It was unnoticeably small. And like the smallest drop of water in a desert, it attracted life — Outer Reaches kind of life — a parasite, holding onto the portal, waiting for something to come through it.
And something did come through the portal — skin, bone, blood — human flesh from a small blue planet light years away, teleported through the portal in less than a second. The flesh didn’t freeze. It didn’t burn. Chunks of hair and skull and sinew and muscle. All pre-chewed. Pre-digested. Like the portal itself was mother bird feeding its young. The flesh of a Thinker, all prepared for the parasite. And the more that was fed through the portal to the parasite, the bigger it grew. The hungrier it became.
As the remains floated, suspended in zero gravity, the fat-fingered hand of the parasite reached forward, grabbed as much of the stuff as it could, and pulled it towards its mouth. It gorged on the substance, but it was never full, never satisfied.
Once finished with its gift, it sent out a new call to its host.
There’s another one, it said — not with words, but with thoughts. I want another one.
Luna Gajos
The first thing Luna did when she unlocked the restaurant — the first thing she did every morning, without fail — was look out into King’s Cross train station, buzzing with early morning London life, and take a deep breath. In fact, she took two. In through the nose, and out through the mouth. Bracing herself. Another day. Holy shit.
She used to smoke. Not anymore. Apparently that’s bad for you. And it makes your breath stink. She still kept a pack in her pocket though, and a lighter. Just in case.
It was still amazing to her how she’d ended up in that particular part of the world, in that particular job, in that current situation. And it amazed her each and every day. It didn’t amaze her in the way a shooting star might do, or in the way NASA did, or even in how a car motor worked. It was amazing to her in a how-the-fuck-did-I-let-this-happen sort of way.
She was pretty. She’d always been pretty. That’s what everyone in Komorów in Poland had told her. All twenty of them had said so. Growing up she’d been given the impression that life would be something amazing, something special. That she’d travel the world, be a celebrity, marry a film star, live in a mansion, eat all the McDonalds she could ever dream of. But at the age of twenty, with big hopes and bigger expectations, she’d made her way to England and through several jobs that didn’t make sense to her. Competing against people who actually spoke the language, she’d found herself stuck, over and over, working harder and longer. Like an Orwellian horse. Like a flower constantly clipped before given the chance to grow and spread itself and become as glorious as it goddamn well was supposed to be.
But hey … she’d got somewhere at least. She was the manager of a café-restaurant inside King’s Cross Station. They filmed Harry Potter there. That was kinda like marrying a film star, right?
The restaurant specialised in baked goods and hot beverages. She’d worked nose to the grindstone to get the job. She’d picked up the language over the years and was fluent. She had steady pay and a place of her own — as small as that was. At least she didn’t have to share. And she had a car. A crappy little Ford Fiesta that cried when you started her up.
But the years had not been kind to Luna. No one had called her pretty in a long time. Her eyes had lost their brilliance. Her skin had wrinkled and sagged. And her hair was copper red with the odd grey.
She saw thousands of commuters, tourists, and others like herself go in and out of that station every single day. And she saw a few of those travellers that looked like the person she thought she’d become. Pretty little bastards with their shiny rings and fresh tits, in the arms of men who looked like they’d climbed right off the front cover of a magazine.
That’s what was amazing to her. She’d been the fool with the open mouth, s
aying “Yes, that is my card” and the universe, being a crafty illusionist, had duped her with misdirection and tricks. She’d been beguiled by the riches and swindled by the promises. Holy shit.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
She tied her dark copper curls up into a tight bun above her head, rubbed away the leftover makeup that had caked up in the corners of her eyes, and took another deep breath. Before placing a tray loaded with frozen Steak Bakes into the oven.
Carol Francis
A dog barked.
Carol’s eyes shot open and, for a second, she saw teeth.
Her heart pounded against the inside of her rib cage. Her breath was heavy and her chest was tight. In the dark she could just about make out the outline of the bedroom around her — the end of the bed, her husband to her side, the curvature of his nose, the bristles of his moustache. She pulled the covers down and sat up, placing her feet against the cold wood floor. Her eyes adjusted and she saw the starlight creeping in through the gaps in the curtains.
She reached over and found a dangling piece of cord. She pulled on it and the small bedside lamp clicked into life. She found her slippers at the side of the bed and slotted her feet into them. She then stood, put on her dressing gown, turned the lamp off, and quietly walked out of the bedroom, leaving Jim to his subtle grunting and snoring in the dark.
As she walked downstairs a cold draft came in from the patio door. She tightened her dressing gown belt and walked through the kitchen, and saw that the door was open.
“Indie,” she whispered. “Indie?”
She couldn’t see her dog anywhere. The dog bed was empty on the floor next to the half-eaten chewy bit of dried skin she’d given to occupy Indie through the night.
She walked to the open door and looked out down the long garden. She squinted her eyes, trying to focus in the darkness.
“Indie,” she said again, this time louder. Jim’ll sleep through it. “C’mon girl.”
She braced herself and stepped out onto the concrete slabs of the patio. The trees and the bushes and the animals of the night were whistling a song just for her. Her skin felt ice cold and she stepped onto the grass.
She called for Indie a few more times before seeing the movement at the bottom of the garden. The starlight reflecting in the two big eyes of her companion. Indie ran up to her and placed her cold nose in Carol’s palm and brushed her body against her side.
“You little bleeder,” she said as she saw the pile of dirt that Indie had dug up. A sizeable hole in the grass lay next to it. “What the fuck have you been doing?”
She grabbed Indie by the collar and resolved to sort it in the morning whilst Jim was at golf. As she shame-walked her dog, she felt her head go light and her skin go warm. Her brain rolled backwards in her skull, her eyes followed. Her balance left her and she fell onto her back. The cold grass tickled her neck above the collar of her dressing gown.
Her mind drifted somewhere else, above her own body. She saw Indie licking her head but she didn’t feel anything. She was too far away now, all the way out into space, and all she saw were teeth … blood and teeth.
Moomamu The Thinker
Moomamu lifted his hand as Richard smashed his wooden stick down onto it. He thought his human hand might offer some protection, but as the stick connected it sent spasms of pain through his hand, down his arm and up and out through his body, where it eventually popped out of his mouth as a scream — a piercing wail as high-pitched as any human Moomamu had heard, regardless of age or gender. It was shrill and higher-pitched than the squealing of the mechanical wheels of the snake-thing. It was high enough to even halt Richard as he was about to strike again.
“Was that you?” Richard asked, a smile curling the edges of his mouth. “Good God … it sounded like a little girl.”
“It wasn’t me,” Moomamu said — the palm of his hand bright red. “It was the snake-thing.”
“You can’t fool me, good sir,” Richard said as he lifted his stick almost to the light on the ceiling. “It was definitely you.” He slammed the stick down onto Moomamu’s shoulder, and then below his eye. Each strike made Moomamu cry. He’d never felt anything like it before. Out of everything he’d experienced as a human, this was without a doubt the worst.
With instincts he never knew he had, his right hand clenched into its fighting configuration and swung violently in Richard’s direction. The ends of his knuckles connected with something soft. Something mushy. Something vulnerable. He opened his eyes, just enough to see a tear running down Richard’s cheek. Without hesitation, Moomamu clenched his hand and launched it at Richard again. It connected with the same soft fleshy part of Richard as before. This time, with his eyes open, he realised he’d been attacking Richard’s reproductive underparts. Both of them. One after the other. Like it had been some sort of fighting tactic. It wasn’t his intention, but it was effective. Richard howled like a kicked dog and took a few steps backwards. Leaning on his stick, he bent over to catch his breath. His hat fell to the floor, revealing his thick black curls. Moomamu saw the genuine pain Richard was in — huffing and spitting up saliva, trying to catch his breath. He felt proud and somewhat even.
“I wasn’t lying,” Moomamu said, his eyeball spasming. “I have no idea how I got here.”
Moomamu heard a soft wheeze escaping Richard like he’d punctured an internal air pillow or something.
“I will hurt you,” Richard said. “I will hurt you again and again until you show me the way out.” Richard bent down and picked up his hat. He brushed it against a handrail and placed it back on his head. “Even if I have to open your head, pull out your insides, and see for myself, good sir, I will do just that.”
Moomamu squinted. He clenched his hands. He adjusted his feet for optimal fighting.
Richard reached into his jacket and pulled out a short, sharp object. It looked like a metal eating stick. But sharper, angrier. Like it could cut human flesh with ease. (Let’s be honest, what can’t?)
Moomamu took a step back. And then another. He thought about a third.
“Listen, aggressive lonely human. I am not here to die. I am going home. I don’t belong on a planet with bickering little lifeforms, caught in their dramas. I am a Thinker. And I don’t have time for …”
Richard leapt forward, giant eating stick first, with a burst of energy that came from nowhere. The snake-thing rattled and Moomamu squealed like a gas leak and jumped a few feet backwards. His back hit the door at the end of the carriage. He was stuck.
Realising this, Richard slowed down. He walked towards Moomamu. His wooden beating stick in one hand, metal eating stick in the other. Everything about Richard was battle-ready. His smile, his eyes, his hands. Even his ears seemed to prickle with quiet rage.
Moomamu tried to push his back against the door, but it didn’t budge. The thought of dying made him sad. The thought of him dying as a human made him feel even worse. Richard jumped forward with the metal eating stick pointing forwards.
“I’d rather be on Obonda than here,” Moomamu whispered.
Richard jumped. The lights flickered. Cold metal against his skin. The metal door. It opened and Moomamu tumbled backwards into the open black and there was nothing.
***
Moomamu opened his eyes and realised he could smell again. He looked to the ceiling and saw the inside of a dark pink dome and everything smelled of fruit. Not the kind of fruit you found on a planet in the human Solar System though. All around him he heard movements. Damp, slimy movements. Rhythmic slapping. Like the sound of squids slapping one another. Wet skin on skin. Sliding up and down.
The stone floor was cold against his back and he shivered. The stone floor felt smooth and firm like marble. The pink, domed ceiling curved all the way down to the floor in a perfect circle around him. And a warm draught of air blew through a single opening in the side of the dome.
He sat himself up. It was dark. The sun had gone down.
Light beamed in thro
ugh the opening. Within the rays, he saw dust suspended in the air, floating upwards. He climbed to his feet and walked towards it, holding his swelling eye as he went. His human body felt lighter, like it could float upwards at any moment.
“You freed me?” a voice said from behind him. “Good sir, you’ve done it.”
Moomamu turned around to see Richard Okotolu in the darkness behind him and his hands automatically clenched.
“No, you don’t have to worry, good sir. You’ve jolly well done it. You’ve gotten us out of that forsaken pocket dimension.” Moomamu eased when he saw Richard’s eating stick on the floor by his feet. Richard clapped his hands together again and again and jumped and clicked his heels together. “Just where in the devil are we now? Is this what the future looks like?”
Richard walked to the walls and ran his finger over them with the curiosity of human spawn.
“I don’t think you should touch anything,” Moomamu said.
“Nonsense. I’ve not touched anything other than the inside of that train for so long. And I’ve not smelled anything either.” He started to suck air through his nose. Over and over. So loud you’d think his nose might collapse. “Wherever we are it smells fantastic. Rich and deep like a fine wine. A wonderful bouquet, if I do say so myself. Listen, you have to tell me where we are, good sir.”