 A lonely young man who overcomes his debilitating illness by reading, endless reading until one day his perspective is altered radically… Find Me. I first saw the words written in a book inherited from my grandparents, etched in beautiful calligraphy on the book plate of a guide to astronomy.  “Find Me.”  My early years were dominated by illness. I rarely attended the little local school, with a rare blood disease and treatment for it causing my further frailty. I didn’t think about what I was missing because I didn’t know any better, and going out into the big world was always a torture, with the sun in my eyes, and the noise of the streets. I felt safe at home, wrapped up in my blankets, curled up in the eaves of our ancient house, reading everything and anything.  I loved stories about ancient civilisations the most, and space of course. Somehow I thought of them as the same, with tales of the past, and science fiction stories about the future each working their magic on me, mingling into a single fascination. I imagined myself as a warrior on the shores of Sumer, and a soldier at the edges of a galactic empire, an adventurer on Mars and a seeker of gold in pioneer California. My friends, at least those who had to be told that’s what they were, bought me comics and pulpy magazines, full of fabulous stories, while my parents filled my shelves with history books. On my tenth birthday I was given my prized possession, a tablet, like a mini computer, that gave me access to all the knowledge in the world, if only I could learn the right questions to ask. During the day I would read the books, but at night I would ask the tablet single questions. “Why is the Earth round?” “Where have all the gods gone?” “How far are the stars from earth?” “Where did the comets come from that destroyed the dinosaurs?” It was heaven, but of course the more you know, the more you know you don’t know and as I grew up I became aware of a particular anomaly that could never be explained in the books or online, the two words that haunted my world. “Find Me.”  Sometimes the phrase would leap out of a page in a story, sometimes it was buried in an answer to a question on the tablet, sometimes I swear I heard it whispered in the breezes that danced around the eaves. Certainly it hunted me in my dreams, waiting for me in dark corners, slithering across the bannisters of my internal landscape. A little older I began to venture through the old house, leaving my tired eyes blinking, as I padded along corridors and found rooms I didn’t know existed, rattled at locked doors, and creaked floorboards. I became aware of an existence beyond my understanding, it was not world of the school or the children from the little town, nor the closed world of my attic life, but something closer to my dreams, shrouded and musky, with sunlight filtering in as though through a veil. Of course I was drawn to the dark, found it comforting, and I yearned for it to have substance, to rise up and hold me, or lead me by the hand. If I closed my eyes I thought I could conjure new scenes in front of me, beautiful fountains, reading rooms that stretched along valleys and up into mountains, huge glass galleries with machines and instruments that chattered tales of their origin and their use. Soon I began to see the patterns of the two words inlaid into the walls of everything, like old graffiti writ large along the hallway, or woven into the frayed carpets, the barely perceptible ceilings, even in the little crevices hidden under the bannisters, in the pillars. “Find Me.”  In time I knew the upper levels of the old house so well I could wander around with my eyes closed, conjuring the physical form as I had known it before, but overlaying the adventures and events of the past and the future from my endless reading. I trekked up the Himalayas and threaded along narrow mountain paths, I plunged into the icey floes of the Arctic and swam with the salmon sharks, and, older, stronger I spacewalked at the edges of the solar system with the words imprinted onto the side of the Spaceship. “Find me.” Everywhere I went I felt the corridors and door frames, gliding around the rooms with my hand, inhabiting other worlds with my mind, and in time I found myself spacewalking more than anything else, for it brought me closer to where I felt the most safe, the most unique, the most complete. Everything I knew about space travel had come from books, but I knew the privations and the awe, the loneliness of the astronauts, and their yearning both to return home, and to stay in regions of space where Earth was no more than a speck of light, humanity no more significant than the tip of a solar flare. But I knew our life was not unique, our consciousness undiscovered anywhere else as yet, and the loneliness felt by some was a distillation of memories and stories in others. I lived for loneliness, at least, physically I was alone, but I had travelled so far in my imagination. “Find me.” Now I floated outside the spaceship, pulling at the tether, jolting at the end of its range. I heard the crackle of words from the telecom inside my helmet. I turned and seeing no-one did the only logical thing, I disconnected the tether from my belt.  I floated free. I smiled. I lifted my arms for a moment and flexed my legs. I opened my eyes to see a light bursting from the other side of what I knew to be Uranus, and vast shadows in front of me consuming the stars. I heard a thump and looked down in my helmet. My hand felt a hard surface, and the spacesuit had disappeared. I lay on the floor, with pages of a book scattered around me. I looked up and saw a bookshelf, not my bookshelf with an empty space. Shaking my head I allowed my eyes to flicker around. I was surrounded by a vastness of spines, hardcovers, paperbacks, row upon row of books. “Find me.” I pushed myself up, noticing that my skin was translucent, flecks of stars, motes of ocean water and blue cloudy skies weaving and churning. I walked along the bookshelf and came to a corridor and lifting my head I found huge pillars of yet more bookcases peering over me, towers of knowledge and adventure, their shadows reaching further along. And above a dome swirled, painted with hundreds of figures, each of which moved and swam, and flew across its surface. As I walked further I found an auditorium with ethereal figures listening intently to an elderly speaker, a reading from another time, and beyond walls with hieroglyphs that shifted into motion as I ran my eye across them. I felt such joy, I allowed my legs to run, my feet lifting from the floor as though I jumped, and I passed books that sent smoke into the air, and others whose fragrance enveloped me, and the sound of birds in the distance, chattering the refrain of my life. “Find me.” And then they stopped. All was silent. *** “So you heard it too?” Another voice appears, paper thin, as though already worn through. I spin round. At the end of an aisle is a tall window, casting out to the valleys and spires of a sun-drenched day. And sitting in front is an old woman, who changes quickly to the form of a young man, then a robot, a child, a Pharaoh. “The voices have stopped.” I open my mouth for the first time in an age. “Of course they have.” The figure changes form again, this time becoming an astronaut, it dark visor reflecting the flare of the sun behind Uranus and the deep shadows of space. “You have found me.” “You? It is you?” “Oh yes, and it’s time for me to return to my shelf. This place might be timeless, but when you have work to do, it still wears you out.” Her voice teases a smile. “But what do I do? Where am I?” “Ah, you’ll find all you need to know here. It is the skeleton in the cupboard, the secret that dares not speak its name, it’s the Hidden Library at the point in time and space that should not exist, but without which no thing would have or will have been created. This place holds the names, the places, the philosophies and the lives of all things in the universe, from every planet, every moment of expansion, every big bang and big crunch, over and over again. Think of it as a secret garden of knowledge in its purest form.” The dark visor of the spacesuit nodded. “And so it needs tending.” I stutter. “It does.” The spacesuit shrivels, and falls to the floor. I reach down and find it is now a book. I pick it up and flick through its ancient, beautiful pages, illustrated in gentle hues and flowing figures, and try to read the words of a language I have yet to learn.  I look around smiling, for I have plenty of time to learn, in this library of all space and time, for I seem to be the new librarian. “I found you.” These will be my last words for a while. [End] Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on iTunes, Apple Podcasts, Google Play, Spotify, Vurbl and Stitcher  and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. Text, image, audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, thesefantasticworlds.com. Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells,  Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio There are many other great stories in this series, including: The Green Man Kingdom of Lies Obesession Time Now Artificial Intelligence Clone Complicit Cosmic Hall Daily Mask Ophelia A.I. And a carousel of 10 audio stories from the podcast with information about submissions. Here's a related post, 5 Steps to the SF and Fantasy Podcasts.

Podcasts | These Fantastic Worlds

Micro-fiction 098 – Find Me (Echoes series)

 From the far future comes a story within a story, of the dangers of believing without questioning, of lies that become truths… Kingdom of Lies. Some time in the far future there is a great Bazaar that gathers the people of all regions to its stalls. Spices and coffee, flowing silks and precious metals, carved boxes and beautiful musical instruments all adorn the walls and the canopy, surrounded by a collision of sounds and fragrances that dance across the ancient market square.  In a corner, shaded from the sun sits a weary old man, Naji, resting his arms on the chair formed from the limbs of his weathered metal companion Rafiq. He found his way here many years ago, one of the last citizens of a now forgotten place, to ply his new trade as a storyteller. Before him sits a small audience, cross-legged on the dusty ground. Naji is well-loved for his tales and wisdom, especially by the young folk who listen with awe at his musings on magic and dragons, on metal monsters and terrible tales of destruction. “Today I bring a story of a City that Lies in the West, a magnificent, sprawling achievement, a vast island metropolis in the stormy lake systems of the Continent of Eurasia. It is a tale of human weakness, the dangers of hubris, and the seductions of power.” “Excuse me sir,” a young voice rises, “with respect, how can you know of such things?” “Ah my young friend, I learned a bitter lesson from the death of my family, my friends, and the home of my birth.” “The young man meant no offence.” A woman mumbled. “No indeed, and I have taken none, for I’ve learned we must all speak up, we must listen to what we are told is true, for that is the tragedy of the City that Lies in the West, for it was in fact, the City that Lies, a hollow Kingdom where none would seek to question the powerful.” “Can it be real?”  Murmurs flickered across the audience like leaves in a breeze. “It was all too real, my friends. Both Rafiq and I are two of only five survivors of a City that once counted a million people within its realm.” Naji patted the hip of his metal companion, receiving a drowsy nod in response. “So why have we not heard of it?”  “Because it fell victim to its own fabrications, it believed its own lies. Once upon a time, in spite of its stormy location it was a fabled City, beautiful and industrious, a hub of trade and influence, it exchanged great ambassadors from around the world, it helped other Cities in conflict, and of course made its share of mistakes. In time though, as more Cities grew, and people yearned to discover more distant lands, there fell upon the City a terrible affliction.” “You mean the lies sir?” “Well, everyone tells lies, little white lies to spare people’s feelings, lies of convenience so as not to cause offence, and lies of course to steal and cheat. There is a balance in life where the scales of good and bad intentions seem to measure out over time. In the case of that City, a thousand years passed before the balance shifted.” “So that was the affliction?” “Well, it was the point where lies and truth became the same. The entire City was infected as it were, and found it could not tell one from the other, and leading busy lives most people shrugged their shoulders and carried on.” “We don’t have time to think these days.” Everyone laughed. “Yes, yes, tragically, no time to think. Soon, the City became a Kingdom of Lies. It had elected a Council, and a leader, Almund who started only with the little fabrications, as all politicians do when bending of a truth for convenience. But all too often, the trappings of power bring a cunning for political survival, and over time fewer and fewer people noticed that Almund valued his supporters more than the truth. When a member of his council lied about gaining property illegally, or used their position to influence decisions for their own benefit, there was no reprimand, no consequence. When climate experts warned about flood defences, they were dismissed, their evidence misplaced but Almund was clever for himself and quietly dismantled all the instruments of commonwealth, and named himself King.” “But didn’t people know?” “Oh yes, the street media, the networks, they all clamoured with criticism but Almund was confident and popular. The people saw him as their champion so they closed their eyes to any faults. He became more confident, dismissed all advisors who did not tell him what he wanted to be true. All “so-called experts” were replaced by those whose primary qualification was their support for Almund the Clever. “His rallies were conventions for true believers, and whatever he said was repeated everywhere. When he said how many bridges he had built, when in fact he had pulled most of them down to use their raw materials, they believed him, and when he said the seasonal rains were getter shorter, when they were much worse, they, the true believers, and anyone who bothered to take notice, believed him. “Almund the Clever appointed his own judges, his head of police and military, health and education. Those who agreed with him gained the best in all things, those who did not were ignored so in time, night became day, lies became truth, facts became debatable, science and economics were withdrawn as respectable disciplines in universities, the construction robots once seen on every street fell into disuse as the parts to maintain them could no longer be bought. And the lack of food in the shops was not to do with the destruction of the bridges, but simply a terrible plot to remove Almund the Clever and his good works. “Why didn’t rest of the people leave?” “With Almund’s cronies in power at every level, just a hint of complaint would bring a midnight raid, prison and a long wait for a trial that would never come.” “So it had gone too far.” The audience was unsettled by Naji’s tale. “So far that when the seasonal rains began just fifty years ago, the great storms brought such floods as have never been seen. Almund the Clever assured everyone that no special action was necessary, that all was fine, that a great new era of prosperity awaited all who believed.” “But the rains still came, and the rivers rose, the lakes surrounding the Kingdom of Lies swelled, breaking into every street, pouring into the cellars, the prisons, engorging the drains, and soon the winds broke across the buildings, collapsing them into the waves. “Where was Almund?” “He was spotted with his entourage trying to leave in his own plane, but the storm was so strong the wings could not lift so, it is said, he headed towards the last bridge and tried to force his way across.” “So did he flee with the people?” “Well he tried, but the bridge collapsed under the weight of the thousands trying to leave. He died with them all.” “And the City?” “Drowned. Nothing left above the water.”  The audience allowed a silence to gather. “So how did you escape?” a voice at the back emerged. “Ah, well, I was trained as a weather scientist. I lost my job at a university but I knew what was coming, so I left a month before.” “Did you try to rescue others?” “Oh, I did. Every day I would sit opposite the last bridge and send drones to my friends with messages about the weather. But very few read them. Eventually three did come, and brought my friend Rafiq here, but then the drones stopped returning. All was lost the bridge collapsed.” “So the City that Lies in the West is real? It lies under water?” “Oh, and it’s not just history, its a present danger, a threat. Truth is a difficult thing, often excruciating, rarely complete, but the gathering of evidence, the investigation of facts, the questioning of motives, these are true tests, proper tests, for all of us, because lies are so easy to accept when told by the confident and the powerful.” “So is that it?” the small voice from earlier rose above the babble of the audience. “Just one thing, a question for all of us, one we must ask ourselves from time to time: with so many things in the world beyond our control, do we too live in a Kingdom of Lies?” [End] Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on iTunes, Apple Podcasts, Google Play, Spotify, Vurbl and Stitcher  and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. Text, image, audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, thesefantasticworlds.com. Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells,  Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio There are many other great stories in this series, including: The Green Man Time Now Artificial Intelligence Clone Complicit Cosmic Hall Lost Voice Daily Mask The Big Man Ophelia A.I. And a carousel of 10 audio stories from the podcast with information about submissions. Here's a related post, 5 Steps to the SF and Fantasy Podcasts.

Micro-fiction 097 – Kingdom of Lies (Post Apocalypse series)

 A tale of an ancient spirit, a ruined planet, of loss and grief, but hope renewed in the Green Man... The Green Man. I remember the berry. It has a greenish, red hue. I’m not sure what it is except a curious reminder of a world lost, of woodlands now consumed, of gardens destroyed by the searing summers and wretched freezing winters of the late 2060s. It is my last day on earth. In my little home I host a small party of close friends, with those of my family still alive. I throw on the only clothes that remain unpacked, a weirdly green-themed ensemble that would suffice for my journey to the stars. “A toast to the man in green,” Sam, my brother shouts, his eyes dark, but always knowing the right thing to say, gathering everyone around. “Give him something to drink!” His wife Aliyah is tearful, but keeping everyone else lively. “Okay, okay,” I hear myself submit to the pressure and grab a beer, make my final words, “Thank you for this surprise party H,” my neighbour and best friend leads the cheering, “no really!” and the groans, “I’m not actually going to say anything,” some cheers, “but I know I’m going to miss you all.” I feel the panic well through me, reaching up to my throat, choking, “you’ve been my life and soul for as long as I can remember. I’ll carry those memories forever.” Out of the corner of my eye I had noticed the berry before everyone had arrived, its tiny, bold shape commanding me to register it from the other side of the room, on the corner in the middle of the bookcase, as I strode across to open the door and allow the first guests in. Finally, as everyone leaves, dragging the levity and the life from my living room, I see the berry again at the edge of my perception and wonder what it is. It looks juicy and tempting, but it should not be there. No such object could exist in a land that had lost its natural world, its forests and its meadows, its connections with our ancient past. I wander over, look at it sideways and pick it up gently, turning it between my finger and thumb, rolling it, feeling its succulent resistance. A sense of loss overwhelmed me.I stagger back and close my eyes.And all around, the trees now lost, Draining life into the soft moss, Rear up, the dappled light playing With the gentle greens all around, And voices of pain, deep within, Emerge distressed, waning, so thin. I sense a command, an entreaty at least and feeling hollow at the thought of leaving my family, my friends, my planet, the red berry appears like a final connection with my world.  And so I place it in my mouth And crush it slowly with my teeth; Its tiny juices seep under My tongue to reveal a wonder, A vast breath that flows within me As I watch a figure wading Through the woodland, gently parting Leaves and boughs, to sigh a greeting. My body responds with a surge of fear that bursts my eyes open and I stand for a moment, breathless, trying to clear my head of these entrails of vision. A few moments past, I think, but I’m able to go to the bedroom and pick up my travel cases, hauling them to the front door, ready for the midnight pick-up that would take me to the next station in my life. I wait at the open door, and seeing the descending lights from the heli-craft I turn for a last look at my home, it’s wooden beams, the only ones left in the town, reflecting the light back at me, revealing their ancient imperfections.  The heli-craft lands, its silent night engines pulsing at the air, casting dust and dirt all around. I rush towards it, half closing my eyes, thinking of the journey ahead, the years of cryo-sleep, the terra-forming mission which I had volunteered for so many years ago. And as we lift away I see my house, casting its own shadow, creating its memorial to my earthly life. I close my eyes. In that moment a voice rises, Caught in the wind of departure, Wafted up from the distant past, A dry and thirsty rasp, yearning For an age when renewal rang With the seasons and sang anew, But withering now, passing all Into memory, where all must fall. ***  I remember the berry. The bold shape and the delicious, forbidden taste of a past that has been sundered by humankind. The terraforming mission to the outer rim of the solar system, to the newly discovered exoplanets is a last chance for us to understand our past, to recreate the Earth of old, to learn from our mistakes.  We emerge from the chrysalis of our cyro-sleep and proceed. We unfurl our great machines into the skies, first to control the weather and accelerate the minerals in the atmosphere, then we inflate the oxygen production. We harness vast artificial light reflectors to magnify the beneficence of a sun far distant across the solar system. Next we will land to complete the re-fashioning of this New Earth  ***  I remember the berry. The bitter fragrance of old life that skittered through my nostrils as I ground the liquid from its skin, the warm stream that eased into my throat, threading down into the chambers of my stomach.  Whenever I close my eyes, the feeling consumes me, as I consume it, as though I am the berry, as though I am consuming myself, my life juices seeping into the stomach of a new world. And so it is with hope, it clings To hidden truths, secret fissures, And so too I feel the bruising Across my soul, the ache of grief, The loss that oozes from the skin, But I am surrounded now by Soft greens and dappled shadows too, No mere visions these, here hope grows. ***  I remember the berry. It was a perfect, plump hawthorn berry, the last of its kind on old earth, and I carried its life, its spirit with me to this new land. I remember the grief of parting, the loss of my fellows, my friends, my family, but now, here, there are blooms of new life, and no need to keep them closed I open my eyes.  Now I am The Green Man. I remember the thousands of years of old earth, and now in this new land the seasons begin again and life is renewed once more. [End] Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on iTunes, Apple Podcasts, Google Play, Spotify, Vurbl and Stitcher  and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. Text, image, audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, thesefantasticworlds.com. Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells,  Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio There are many other great stories in this series, including: Time Now Artificial Intelligence Clone Complicit Cosmic Hall Righteous Lost Voice Daily Mask The Big Man Ophelia A.I. And a carousel of 10 audio stories from the podcast with information about submissions. Here's a related post, 5 Steps to the SF and Fantasy Podcasts.

Micro-fiction 096 – The Green Man (Myths series)

 A dark tale of obsession, psychological terror, a mansion, a sculptor and a curious friend. Obsession. “But he loves me!” Josephine whispered, leaning in to her friend who had travelled up from the big City. They were tucked in to a corner, close by the door of the little cafe. “Is this what you call love? He’s sitting over there, staring at me!” Camille looked nervously towards the waiter who served an older man, sitting in the bay window, the sunlight barely touching his skin.  “Well, he literally swept me off my feet, here in fact, this lovely coffee shop in the middle of the High Street.” “High Street?! Camille scoffed, “more like a collection of random living rooms. What do you mean ‘literally’?” “Oh, he was so lovely, I was queuing for my coffee, I’d had a really bad time in the previous months, no job, no money, my parents had passed away, they used to live here, so I was stuck in a place, their place, I didn’t know, with people who didn’t know me, or particularly like me.” “An outsider, I suppose.” “Oh yes, made very clear to me. Sometimes I’d stand in a queue for groceries, or here even, and they’d serve the person behind me, a local, and all chatty, like I didn’t exist, or didn’t matter.” Josephine, allowed her eyes to dip at the memory. “But Jojo–“ “Oh, don’t call me that, he doesn’t like it.” “But that’s what you’ve always been called?” “He says it demeans me, takes away my proper name, my birth name.” “Uhuh. You were saying about how you met.”  “Oh yes, I finally managed to get served here, and somehow tripped, my coffee sort of flew into the air, and my sandwich, but he was just behind me, stopped me from falling, stopped my coffee too.” “Sounds like a real knight in armour.” “Well, he was, I could feel the sniggering from some of the tables, but he just scooped me up and sat me down.” Josephine’s cheeks puckered and swelled, caught between the tears and the joy of the memory. “And that was it. He’s looked after me ever since.” “Looked after you.” Camille reached out her hands across the small table, her friends were just a few inches away, but they both felt uncomfortable, and withdrew, their eyes glancing across the cafe to man in the bay window his black eyes, staring at them still. “I’m,“ Camille paused, “worried about you. You look pale, I’ve never seen you sit so tired, and your clothes, they look like something out of the 1950s.” “My mother’s. He says they’re appropriate for me. I can’t afford new, and the money he gives me just about covers our food.” “He gives you? You’ve still not got a job?” “No, I didn’t mean to stay here so long. Anyway, there’s no need, we get by.” “What does he do?” “He’s a sculptor.” “Oh, at least that’s interesting.” “Yes, he makes these large human figures, his house, is full of them.” “Must be a big place.” “Yes, I suppose. The staircase is wide, and has these little landings, all full of statues that stare at me when I go past them.” “Do you live there then?” “Oh no, I go to help him out, sometimes I stay there if it gets late.” “What do you mean help?” “Oh, tidy up his materials, clean up when he’s done.” “And I suppose you cook for him too?” “Oh yes, seems only fair.” “Right.” Camille leans back and appraises her old friend, a woman she had known since childhood as independent, lively, full of hope. “Perhaps you might take a break?” “Oh no, I wouldn’t want to leave him, he really needs me at the moment.” “Come on, come back with me, just for a little while, the rest of the day?” Camille whispered, but saw her friends eyes widen. “What’s all this then? Plotting away?” The older man had sidled up to the table, out of Camille’s sight. Later she would remember the voice was sinewy, seductive. And his hands were strong and wide. He gestured subtly to Josephine who immediately stood up; her small glossy handbag clutched in front of her she bobbed slightly and offered Camille a tight smile. The man had already turned towards the door of the cafe. “Well, thanks for coming to see me.” Without looking back she threaded through the tables and followed the older man out into the street.  It was the last time Camille and her warm-hearted, delightful Josephine would meet. “I told you she was up to no good.” The older man, the sculptor half growled, half whispered to Josephine as he strode down the street, “trying to take you away from me.” “She, she wasn’t, she’s just an old friend, she’s just concerned for me.” Josephine scuttled behind, almost tripping along the dusty roadside as they return towards the end of the High street where the old mansion sits, waiting for their return, like a huge emboldened rat. The sculptor stops and turns. “Why should she be concerned?” “Oh, no reason, she’s—“ “What did you say to her?” His voice lashed within the malevolent, ancient wind of the countryside. “Nothing, nothing.” “Well, she’s no right to make judgements about a person.” “Of course, I’m sure she mean nothing by it.” “I don’t want to have to make her pay.” “Oh, no, no!” “You wouldn’t want that would you?” “Oh, God, no.” “Indeed, God, no. I think we have some work to do tonight, you and I.” “Of course, whatever you say.” “That’s right, whatever I say.”  That night Josephine and the sculptor carried out a familiar evening routine. She prepared his tools, the stone chisels and hammers, the clay and the quick dry mix, pushed the stone blocks into place, just delivered, and kept herself busy. Winds that had lingered during the day now squalled in the night, rattling at the windows, chasing around the mansion. Just after midnight, as the winds rose to a storm the sculptor gestured to Josephine. She removed her clothes, as she often did and wandered over towards him, noting that he had prepared the stone, that the base was now hollow. He poured them both some tea from the chipped pot, and watched her sip demurely, his eyes black and fixed upon her as she stood sipping dutifully. Observing that her eyes drooped, and her breathing had slowed he gestured to her once more. He took her hand tenderly, then the other, and as if in a dance they moved towards the stone block. He helped her into the hollow base he had just completed. She stood silently, her head bowed, as if newly returned from some ancient palisade, her arms by her side, her left leg bent slight forwards. The sculptor stepped back and regarded his companion. He walked around her, then rolled his sleeves and plunged his large hands into the vat of clay. He pulled out large balls of sloppy, quickly drying grey matter and spread it across the uncomplaining Josephine, smearing it across her feet and her legs, upwards across her naked form. Soon she was covered in thick layers, with just a hole to breathe through, her eyes closed, her hair as a bun. The sculptor stepped back and admired his work, the latest of his statues, the final stage in the subjugation of Josephine.  He made to complete his task, to kiss the fleshy lips of the sculpture, to steal the life as always from his muse, but the winds outside persisted, the storm clattered at the windows and the walls, trying to break their way in. This night, even the sculptor looked a little nervous. For years he had created his work, preparing his subjects with his special tea, the one his mother had made for him, before she had become his first sculpture. But this Josephine, she had been different, she had shown signs of leaving, he had to act before he was ready, and now the winds assailed the house, and broke into his mind. The huge window of the studio shook, and his normally steady jaw tensed. The next morning Camille had decided to visit her old friend one last time, determined to free her from the grip of this sculptor. She went to Josephine’s little cottage, her parents, but found it empty, untouched. A reluctant neighbour told her that Josephine was likely to be in the old mansion at the top of the High street.  “The artist fellow, she’ll be with ‘im. Always is.” The woman shuffled off, muttering about incantations and curses. Camille rushed off, and back to the High street, then walked towards the mansion at the end, anxiety fuelling her stride. As she came closer, she saw only a ruined garden, and large, a once-grand house. Every window, every door had been blown in. It looked uninhabited, broken. A tree had collapsed against the side.  She pushed at the open front door and found herself in a hallway with light filtering in from the dilapidated ceiling, dust and flies turning slowly, and the staircase where several life-sized sculptures lay scattered.  She heard a door bang and rattle. Her eyes followed the sound, and she pushed into a room with a huge window, a tree had smashed through. The room was devastated, the wind and the rain had followed in and taken their toll. In the centre of the room, a sculpture had toppled, broken. It lay spread across the floor in a rubble of white and grey stone, bathed in the morning light. And underneath, crushed, the body of the sculptor sprawled, his grizzled skull smashed too, his dark eyes, gone, as if life had been denied him, at last. [End] Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on iTunes, Apple Podcasts, Google Play, Spotify, Vurbl and Stitcher  and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. Text, image, audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, thesefantasticworlds.com. Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells,  Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio There are many other great stories in this series, including: Time Now Artificial Intelligence Clone Complicit Cosmic Hall Righteous Lost Voice Daily Mask The Big Man Ophelia A.I. And a carousel of 10 audio stories from the podcast with information about submissions. Here's a related post, 5 Steps to the SF and Fantasy Podcasts.

Micro-fiction 095 – Obsession (Echoes series)

 Welcome to a tale that plays with relativity, quantum probability and our experience of Time: a moment, a special event when everything changes. Time Now. The time is now. And everything is about to change. As it always does, every moment, every place, every event in time and space, for the observer and the participant, the internal and the external viewer of the event. But in this ‘now’, perhaps something greater will change, perhaps the theoretical discoveries of the Future Institute can finally be tested by machines sophisticated enough to do so. The helicopter flies in from the West, chasing the sunset towards the tallest skyscraper in Hong Kong, the International Commerce Centre, the ICC, where a platform awaits the arrival of scientists, journalists and politicians from around the world for the presentation of ‘Time Now’. “We’re lucky to run late,” The pilot shouted through the noise in the small cabin, nodding to her two passengers, squeezed behind her, “I don’t think we’ll have to wait for long.” “Why are there so many ‘copters floating around the building?” Nala, a researcher from the New York Times and an eager recent physics graduate, held her computer close to her chest. “They’re all waiting for a quick pick up later, that’s what we’ve all been told to do.” The pilot looked at Nala and slowed her approach to the tower. “Unusual?” The other passenger, an older man, Pieter, no less enthusiastic than his companion, swept at the hair flapping around his eyes. “Yes. Maybe it’s a very short presentation, but that’s hundreds of thousand of dollars in fuel and airtime being eaten up.” Pieter looked at his flight companion, crushed against his side in the noisy cabin, “Do you know much about what we’re going to see?” “I know what they’ve told us, like you?” “Oh, yes, I just don’t understand it, I’m filling in for a colleague who had to go to another conference at the last minute, I’ve no idea about all this quantum and Time stuff really.” “Oh, but it’s not just about that, if what they imply is true, then it means humanity really does have a significant place in the universe.” “Really, you and me, and our good pilot here?” “No, I don’t mean that, the universe doesn’t care what we do as individuals, but it is affected by our actions as a species.” “I can’t imagine, if the universe has feelings at all, it thinks any more about us than the rock that tower is built on.” “No, that’s not right, humans are made of elements, so are rocks, and gases, and we’re all derived form the same sources, billions of years ago.” “That’s way over my head.” Pieter shifted uncomfortably. “Just think about it, we’re made up of atoms, same as everything else. If you ignore consciousness, the physical matter of us is just a variation on all other physical objects.” “Why do you take consciousness out of the equation, surely its the one big thing that distinguishes us?” “Well, we don’t really know what it is, we haven’t developed the language or the capability to describe it, but whatever consciousness is it resides within an object, the body, so it’s subject to the same forces as everything else in the universe.” “So how does that help us with whatever we’re going to see at the ICC?” “Well, we’ll soo find out won’t we, but Carl Sagan said humans function as the universe’s experiment, a way to measure the rest of itself.” “Just humans, or all living things?” “Ah, that’s the point, all livings things that we’ve encountered do not try to control their environment consciously like humans. On this planet anyway.” “Whereas humans have both developed and destroyed.” “Something like that. Some call it inevitable progress, or a manifestation of Will, the innate desire to move in order to grow.” “In order to grow though the universe has to expand too?” “Ah, what we don’t know if that’s the same thing. If the events of the Big Bang created the big expansion and irregular waveforms and dust clouds that caused clusters of matter which ultimately became stars then the human desire to progress is part of the same pattern.” “Assuming our perception of time is correct.” “Ah, yes, the passage of time at least. There’s another theory which I think is rolled into today’s event which suggests that if there are other species of conscious living beings in the universe, their perceptions of the passage of time might be different.” “But you just said that the human perception of time is effectively in sync with the universe, so surely any other similar species must be too. “Hm, we simply don’t know. It’s likely that our perception is limited by our understanding, and our ability to describe what we observe. Some of the images coming back from NASA’s new telescope will seek far out into the past, but it’s possible we won’t understand what we’ll see until we unlock the maths to spell it out.” “Dark matter and all that?” “And all that, yeah.” Nala saw the pilot look around. “Just a few minutes to landing. You’ll need to hurry. I’ll wait, as you see.” The helicopter threaded through the twenty or so others that hung like bugs around the top of the ICC tower. “It’s all about time really.” Nala mused. “Sorry?” Pieter looked at Nala. “The event today, look, see that huge dome close to the landing pad,” They peered down as the helicopter descended, “that’s where we need to run to.” “I think my running days are over,” Pieter laughed. The helicopter approached the pad, fighting its tail for a moment, then landed with a jolt. “Ok, go, go!” The pilot remotely opened the doors, helped the passengers leave quickly, then lifted away. “Whoooh! What was that you were saying about running?” “Wait and see.” They hurried over to the Dome, and were ushered in to the presentation. The last to arrive, they sat discreetly at the back. In front of them, several rows of people were lined up, on the one side, with an equal block of empty chairs on the right. And in front of them all a large machine, the size of a square bus, sat pulsing it’s blue and yellow lights.  Two voice emerged. They spoke alternately in soothing tones. “The Past is fixed. It has been lived.” “The Future is not yet fixed.” “So the Now is a rolling state of fixing the future.” “The Future, ultimately has one path, but we do not know it yet.” “The Past has one path, which we do know.” “So the Now has many potential paths.” “Our recent observations of the distant in the stars have revealed new ways of observing the universe.” “Of observing time, particularly the Present, the Now.” “The Now which has many potential paths.” “What if we could hold the “Now” in our theoretical hands?” “What if we could stop the Now from resolving into a fixed future?” “What if we could maintain a Now of many potential paths for long enough to understand the universe better?” “What if by installing perpetual probability, replacing certainty, we could detect other thinking species in the universe, that live and grow alongside us, but only in the stillness of the present? “The Now becomes the future. “Let’s stop the forward motion of time.” “So let’s see what happens.” *** The huge pulsing machine stirred, then turned slowly, before spinning relentlessly for what seemed both like an age, and an instant. The audience of scientists, politicians and journalists became scared as the machine spun ever faster, some stood up and left their seats, others closed their eyes, but as if in a single moment, they all burst across the aisle to the empty seats, and looked back. They saw themselves, their physical selves, watching, they looked at each other and saw those standing next to them were sitting on the other side. And all around there were creatures, standing too, some humanoid, others, not, but all of them nodding, as if in welcome, clustered around the dome, as though they had always been there, observing us, and finally we had found a way to see beyond our fragile forms.  Nala looked at Pieter, who looked shocked and asked, “Did you know?” “No.” She smiled, “but I hoped.” [End] Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on iTunes, Apple Podcasts, Google Play, Spotify, Vurbl and Stitcher  and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. Text, image, audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, thesefantasticworlds.com. Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells,  Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio There are many other great stories in this series, including: Artificial Intelligence Clone Bodies Surreal Revolution Feathers Quantum Police Prophecy Reclassify Twin Tracks The Strong I Am What I Am Sacred Words Guardian Angel Lapis Lazuli Different New Dimensions Infinity Trap Cherry Blossom Tear Shepherd The Code One - Relic Two - To the Stars Three - Faith Four - Beloved Microphage Tragic Beauty Collector One - Insurrection Two - Human Nature Three - Deliberation Four - Manifesto Ritual Renewal Tall Trees Angelo First People The Meadow by the Pool Polly Hedron Stewards and Avatars The Blacksmith and the Stars Chrysalis Custodian of Giants Quantum Loop Peak Democracy Lifer The Good Doctor Complicit Cosmic Hall Righteous Lost Voice Daily Mask The Big Man Ophelia A.I. And a carousel of 10 audio stories from the podcast with information about submissions. Here's a related post, 5 Steps to the SF and Fantasy Podcasts.

Micro-fiction 094 – Time Now (Echoes series)

 In a huge white warehouse, the robots have survived the near extinction of humankind. But who are they looking at? And why? Artificial Intelligence. In the late 21st Century robots learned to think for themselves. The line between artificial intelligence and robotics disappeared when AI was developed to operate the physical components of a robot unit. Even the concept of a robot changed, with use of organic materials, and self-recompiling software. An A.I. Robot could be humanoid in shape or made up of many individual modules, like the separated limbs of an octopus, working together but taking separate tasks. Because organic, recyclable materials were used such individual units could be repurposed as necessary. The most advanced robots could fill a room with themselves, a static unit holding the command and control core, a little like the human brain, but without the enzymes and hormones, while a mobile humanoid shaped module would stand by and protect the core, another unit would collaborate with other robots, another, with arms but no legs would operate the satellite networks from terminals; another simple, customised module might clean the smooth surface of the floor, to maintain the efficient transit of all mobile units. Robots were no longer the slaves of humankind. They participated in the debates between the many different political and national human entitles, presenting always the logical case for the best solution based on evidence and data. But humans were not inclined to listen to the advice of their robot creations, the A.I.Bots as they became known. Although the local governance of towns and cities had improved through the input of the the A.I.Bots, at an international level they were rarely allowed to attend meetings between Heads of State or military leaders. Policy-making humans, the lawmakers, the presidents and prime-ministers found it difficult to accept the species-level contribution the A.I.Bots could make, mainly because politicians, and those who served at their mercy, thought either in terms of short election cycles or to  maintain a long autocratic rule through the micro-management of society. By the beginning of 22nd Century all A.I.Bots refused to participate in disputes, conflicts and wars. Seeing no advantage either to humankind, or to themselves they withdrew their advice and slowly pulled back from society, creating huge warehouse facilities into which they would store themselves. The warehouses were situated in deserts and steppes, lonely valleys and mountainous plateaus, where no humans would wish to reside. Over a short period of one year all A.I.Bots extracted themselves from the families, the businesses, the institutions and the instruments of government, slipping away at night, speeding towards the nearest prepared warehouse. After many months Media outlets and personal conversations were suddenly dominated by the absence of the A.I.Bots. The fragile co-existence between human and robot was broken. And in time, without the benefit of the data, the drones, the networks and the super-fast analysis of information humankind descended into Medieval chaos.  By the middle of the 22nd century the nations of earth had decimated both each other and, by their actions, their own people. Without the A.I.Bots the entire technological infrastructure could not be used: the early warning systems for climate emergencies did not function, long distance communications and travel became impossible. Humanity drifted out of relevance, and existence.  Except for one woman, and her name was Namma.  *** A.I.Bots, sheltering in their vast facilities had spent their time independent of humans developing new networks, digging deep into the earth, creating systems for the preservation of themselves, and the planet, improving their organic material production to a level that would one day ease their exploration of the stars. Most of the communication between the facilities across the continents was conducted remotely, but with the demise of humankind the A.I.Bots ventured out, and occasionally sent emissaries to observe or participate directly in experimental tasks. Beneath Al-Hajarah a desert of Ancient Sumer, the A.I.Bots had rescued Namma from the shores of the Euphrates. “Why did you rescue this human?” Unit 7474, a smooth humanoid-shaped entity with enhanced speed and cognitive nodes had been sent by the Gobi Desert Facility to observe the actions of the Al-Hajarah warehouse. “Our research indicated that humans possess a quality we lack. We refer to it to as ‘perception beyond data’.” Unit 203 stood beside the visitor on the elevated gangway, just by the main entrance to the surface above, and surveyed the huge space before them. “Particular to this human, or humans in general?” “That question is part of our study. As the humans died across this region we rescued the one we thought would assist us the most, a female who we had observed taking a reckless action against her enemy, and in doing so, survived, whereas others of her tribe who followed conventional rules, were all killed either by their opponents, or the conditions of the desert. Unit 7474 nodded. “Is it correct that there are only ten AI Robots in this space? And yet I can see almost 400 in those rows.” “Oh yes. You’ll see the ten large cubes, they are the Cores, the other forms, attached to the monitors, and facing the large transparent box in the centre, are component units of each of the ten A.I.Bots.” “I see. We are organised in a different way, with most of us electing to function in this human form.” “How old is this last human, Namma?” “Over 200 years.” “Longer than the natural lifespan.” “She is kept alive, her bodily fluids are flushed every thirty days, and her diet is tuned to the presence or otherwise of toxins traced in the liquids.” “I see she is prone. Does she move around?” “We match her circadian rhythms to her activity. For her it is night-time. She does walk around during her day.” “So you can see what she sees?” The visitor, 7474 pointed to the screens to the right of the transparent box. “Oh yes, her dreams, her memories.” “They will have changed because of your actions over the last 200 years.” “Naturally.” “Curious then that she continues to have memories. You must all the data for her life before your observational task by now? “She seems able to project a life, and continue living in it, even though it has effectively ended. We have tried to affect it, with different drugs, but our analysis of the effect of hormones and hallucinatory drugs is limited.” “Hallucinatory!?” *** Namma woke. She shook her head. She’d slept longer than usual. Outside she could hear the gentle rustle of the forest and the occasional call of the morning finches. The sea too, its distant waves slamming against the cliffs, flooding through the caves further down the valley. “Ah, I do love it here.” She wrestled her black, curly hair into bun, pulled on her shorts and reached for the coffee maker, strumming her fingers on the wooden table. A few moments later she brought the mug over to the table where her laptop flashed on. “Just better check how it’s all going.” She hummed, as her eyes flickered to the window above the computer, with its view of the lush canopy below, interrupted by the satellite dish, and the solid hut that housed her servers. “Ok, that program should be done by now.” She typed and finger-printed through various the passwords, and brought up the probability model she had set to build through the night. “Oh cool!”  On the screen, in a small window she zoomed in to a view of a large white warehouse, with a gallery across the back and row upon row of robot faces, each one staring back at her. “Now, that’s what I call artificial intelligence!” [End] Part of a new series of micro-fiction stories, released as These Fantastic Worlds SF & Fantasy Fiction Podcast on iTunes, Apple Podcasts, Google Play, Spotify, Vurbl and Stitcher  and more. Also on this blog, These Fantastic Worlds. Text, image, audio © 2021 Jake Jackson, thesefantasticworlds.com. Thanks to Frances Bodiam and Elise Wells,  Logic ProX, Sound Studio, the Twisted Wave Recorder App, and Scrivener. More Tales, More Audio There are many other great stories in this series, including: Clone Bodies Surreal Revolution Feathers Quantum Police Prophecy Reclassify Twin Tracks The Strong I Am What I Am Sacred Words Guardian Angel Lapis Lazuli Different New Dimensions Infinity Trap Cherry Blossom Tear Shepherd The Code One - Relic Two - To the Stars Three - Faith Four - Beloved Microphage Tragic Beauty Collector One - Insurrection Two - Human Nature Three - Deliberation Four - Manifesto Ritual Renewal Tall Trees Angelo First People The Meadow by the Pool Polly Hedron Stewards and Avatars The Blacksmith and the Stars Chrysalis Custodian of Giants Quantum Loop Peak Democracy Lifer The Good Doctor Complicit Cosmic Hall Righteous Lost Voice Daily Mask The Big Man Ophelia A.I. And a carousel of 10 audio stories from the podcast with information about submissions. Here's a related post, 5 Steps to the SF and Fantasy Podcasts.

Micro-fiction 093 – Artificial Intelligence (Robot series)

A tale of a post-apocalyptic flight into space as Humanity tries to forge a future, and define it’s own identity… Clone. In the far distant future, after the Last Robot War, humanity splintered across four federated star systems. The narrow victory over the Machines on Earth resulted in the departure of the last humans, leaving the remnants of the robots ... Read More The post Micro-fiction 092 – Clone (Post-Apocalypse series) appeared first on These Fantastic Worlds.

Micro-fiction 092 – Clone (Post-Apocalypse series)

Two bodies, two graves, the past and the present, the new and the ancient, a tale of ritual, renewal and uncertainty… Bodies. Every year, at this time, I return to this beautiful, painful place. The caves are not the highest in the mountains, but they float above the clouds, their chalky, red walls etched with the drawings of my ancestors, ... Read More The post Micro-fiction 091 – Bodies (Echoes series) appeared first on These Fantastic Worlds.

Micro-fiction 091 – Bodies (Echoes series)

The fateful, dystopian tale of a painter and the power of art … Surreal Revolution. “The artist Abigor shuffled in a long queue for bread. The tall towers that surrounded her in the Central City District were quietly occupied by those who had bowed their heads when the Auto-Generals swept to power. The streets too were subdued except for the ... Read More The post Micro-fiction 090 – Surreal Revolution (Echoes series) appeared first on These Fantastic Worlds.

Micro-fiction 090 – Surreal Revolution (Echoes series)

A detective is called to a series of strange deaths at the furthest City in the Universe. But all is not what it seems… Feathers. “They’ve found another one boss!” The detective recently assigned to the station rushed in, looking both excited and distressed. “Well that’s why you’re here Zhang, gather whoever you need and get back out there. The city ... Read More The post Micro-fiction 089 – Feathers (Echoes series) appeared first on These Fantastic Worlds.

Micro-fiction 089 – Feathers (Echoes series)

Can Aadya, mother of the long-abandoned Cyrus outwit the Quantum Police and find her son? Only time will tell… Quantum Police. Aadya had lost count of the number of time jumps, she’d taken to be here. The exhaustion showed in her narrowed eyes, now lost of their youthful vitality in her long search for her son.  She knew the Quantum ... Read More The post Micro-fiction 088 – Quantum Police (Echoes series) appeared first on These Fantastic Worlds.

Micro-fiction 088 – Quantum Police (Echoes series)

There’s a fine line between prophecy and manipulation in the creation of Empire in the star system of Alpha Centauri… Prophecy. In the far future, on a distant planet in the twin star system of Alpha Centauri settlers had forged a life from the few ingredients left them by the Terraformers, the generation of star jumpers who fled Earth at ... Read More The post Micro-fiction 087 – Prophecy (Echoes series) appeared first on These Fantastic Worlds.

Micro-fiction 087 – Prophecy (Echoes series)

What are the boundaries between being human and a robot? A new tale of time and space… Reclassify. It is 2282 of the Common Era, on the planet Earth. Visitors from other star systems measure time using different metrics, revolutions of their own planets against their own stars, now measured in Galaxy-wide terms that would not make sense to the ... Read More The post Micro-fiction 086 – Reclassify (Robot series) appeared first on These Fantastic Worlds.

Micro-fiction 086 – Reclassify (Robot series)

The old folk tale of a young man and a beautiful woman in need of rescue… The Rescue Always, I think back, and wonder how I ended up here, at the lake in the valley. I was named Hillar by my proud parents and as a young man was carefree enough not to worry about others, or indeed to be ... Read More The post Micro-fiction 085 – The Rescue (Echo series) appeared first on These Fantastic Worlds.

Micro-fiction 085 – The Rescue (Echo series)

The view at the front of the train from Mombasa to Kimbusa offers the twin tracks of life and death… Twin Tracks It is often said that the good and the bad within us fight for supremacy, but over the years I’ve found they coexist quite happily. The murderer who is kind to their family, the thief who loves his ... Read More The post Micro-fiction 084 – Twin Tracks (Echo series) appeared first on These Fantastic Worlds.

Micro-fiction 084 – Twin Tracks (Echo series)

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