Lazy Teenage Superheroes (short film)
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Category Archives: Science Fiction
The Witness, by James Steele
Illustration by Romeo Esparrago
The dying star above me is surrounded by luminous, red gas. I sit down and gaze up at it. The star flickers as it spins, and slowly, gradually, the red cloud spreads. Its shades of red deepen and eventually fade into the blackness of empty space.
I lie down and watch. The star throws off another ring of material, creating a wave in the cloud. It ripples through it in slow-motion crests and troughs that take hundreds of years to reach the edge. The star spins and flings another wave of material out in another direction. A new series of slow ripples push through the nebula.
After a few thousand years, the star calms down into a white speck surrounded by a slowly dissipating cloud. The nebula sets on the horizon of my moon and the sky momentarily goes dark.
The darkness lasts only a few moments, and then the stars begin passing by. They careen silently over my head, casting me in yellow light. Then blue light. Then red. Orange. White. Dull red. So many are going by right now that their light mixes together.
I’m leaving the galaxy. I’m sure of it. After so long I’ve become able to tell where I’m moving to, and if I’m right I’m just now leaving the edge of this galaxy. This must mean there is something I need to witness from the outside.
The moon turns. I wrap my fingers behind my head and prop it up. A swirling mass of blue and red light with twelve arms spinning around a core of pure white is rising on the horizon. The galaxy I just left. It’s shrinking rapidly as the moon speeds away from it. Another galaxy flies over my head into view. It enters the sky next to the galaxy I just came from. The new galaxy has no arms, but is merely an unformed mass of red and white.
The two galaxies soundlessly swirl closer and closer. I can tell from the star orbits that they are perpendicular to each other, with the blue and white galaxy horizontal and the red blob vertical from my point of view. The two swirl closer and closer. The red galaxy cuts into the blue and white galaxy’s paper-thin edge. Stars are pulled from their fixed orbits and flung above and below the blue galaxy’s disc. Red stars are also ripped from their orbits.
Stars collide and explode. The gases collect, condense, and form new stars. Some of these stars explode and release more gas, which condenses into yet more stars. The galaxies grind and cut into each other. Debris stars curl around both galaxies and fall into wide orbits. The cores just barely miss each other, and as the red galaxy reaches the edge of its victim, it slows down.
The red galaxy is pulled backwards. The blue galaxy pulls toward the red one. The two galaxies orbit each other. Stars flail about, orbiting far and wide. Many collide and explode, giving birth to hundreds of new stars. They gradually settle into new orbits, and form new galactic arms. The two cores orbit each other a few hundred light years apart.
Thousands of years pass. Millions. The galaxy has just settled down again. The two galaxies have formed a single galaxy of dark dust swirling between and around clusters of stars.
Then, the two cores collide. The sudden deepening of the gravity well sends a shockwave across the universe. Stars nearest the new black hole are instantly consumed. The core glows brighter with the sudden surge in feeding. The galaxy’s core changes from bright white to bright yellow. It oscillates from white to yellow to red, then to white over the next few million years.
Hard Suit Lock, by Sean Monaghan
Illustration (c) Romeo Esparrago
Andreas smacked into some tubes on the Donkicong’s fuselage, then clipped the edge of the airlock and bounced away slowly. It reminded him a little of watching Willard’s buckled and broken ship tumbling towards the Martian atmosphere.
“What’s the problem, A?” Bayliss said.
“My arm is jammed. I spun out. And I can’t fit into the airlock.”
“Jammed? I’m not reading a suit malfunction. Did you reach the wrong way?”
“I told you I’m used to soft suits.” Andreas used his free hand to adjust the jetpack and realign. His right arm stuck straight out, pointing at Enceladus. The elbow and shoulder rings had locked up and he couldn’t shake them back.
“You’re rated in the suit,” Bayliss said. “You showed me your certificate.”
“He’s always complained about it,” Madeline said. “And now I’m going to have to go out and drag him inside.”
“Hey,” Andreas said. “I’ll get it back. I’ll just reverse the sequence.”
“If it was that easy…” Madeline said.
“Quiet down.”
“I told you he was reckless. We should never have let him on board.”
“Quiet down,” Bayliss said. “But get suited up just in case.”
“Yeah.”
Bayliss wouldn’t fly with handlers in fabric, not since she lost two soft-suited crew to ring particle punctures. Andreas thought she was over-cautious, but he needed the work and she was willing to take a chance on people. He tried to shake the arm loose again. A hard suit was so different from the cloth suits he was used to. It was easier to move, no stiff pressurized layers to press against, but you had to move in sequence and that was the trick, remembering the sequence. Body memory, Madeline said, but she’d been in hard suits for years. You couldn’t just reach for something, you had to move a little left, a little up, a little right, just to get the rings to slide right, even for the simplest movements. That’s what he’d screwed up. Reaching for the Observer crate and the arm had locked. No amount of shaking was going to shift it.
Website: Monster Brains
“Out Of The Shadows” comic book covers…
http://monsterbrains.blogspot.com/2010/11/out-of-shadows.html
Last, by Gerry Huntman
(Illustration by Leo Lin/GaiaGear)
He didn’t remember his name, but he was sure he once had one. It disturbed him that his memory was faulty and his thinking was so unclear. He could smell burning wire, which indicated internal damage — this caused him to react quickly, as his life depended on swift action.
He picked himself up from the twisted metal and churned earth that he lay in and stumbled up a small mound — the motors that assisted his movement were laboring, which was a bad sign. He wasn’t well coordinated, and he felt as if his nervous system had been damaged in some way; an uneasy feeling crept through his being — it was starting to look like he may have suffered brain damage.
At the top of the mound he attempted to stand up straight and looked about the terrain of the world that he was in. The servo-mechanisms that supported the telescopic vision in his helmet whined and strained, but it eventually succeeded in allowing him a wide field of vision. Utter devastation. A landscape cracked with spewing magma and mountains that had spilled over plains. A large metal city in the distance was ruined, broken and steaming as if it had ancient fires that had never been extinguished. The atmosphere was devoid of breathable air, and he was glad that his armored suit was still feeding him oxygen and protecting him from the extreme heat.
His vision blurred for a few disorienting seconds, and his right leg twitched, nearly causing him to fall. He heard electricity arcing in his chest and noticed a readout from his HUD that indicated his backup systems were mounting. He was gravely concerned that if he didn’t find technicians and medics soon, he would die.
Seeker of Vengeance, by Alva J. Roberts
Illustration (c) 2010 Walter Simon
Thorlin struggled forward, the marble floor beneath him hard and unforgiving; he felt weak and cold. Blood covered his face and chest, most of it his own. He had tried… tried to protect the Dragonstone. He fought them, but he was not strong enough to do his duty.
Ilerya, Goddess of Light, had to understand and could not condemn his soul to eternal torment; he had tried. His blood-crusted hand clutched for his pendant, the image of Ilerya’s shimmering face emblazoned on the circle of sliver. His groping fingers fell short as one last gasp of breath rushed from his lungs.
* * *
Roland squinted, the bright summer sun blinding him as he walked through golden fields of wheat. He wore a white tunic and leather pants; his armor was packed away in the satchel he carried on his back. His sword rested comfortably on his hip. His steps were light and agile without the heavy armor weighing him down.
A well-worn dirt path came into view. Just a small break in the endless grass, but he stopped and stared at the brown, dusty soil as if it were a snake. He ran his hands through his dark-blond hair, a surge of nervous anticipation running through his body. He was home.
Home. It was a dim memory of safety and warmth. He barely remembered his village. His father died when he was twelve, and his mother, Mira, could not feed all of them. Roland, the eldest, took it upon himself to leave; that was sixteen years ago.
In all that time, the village of Veltin had not changed. Memories came flooding back to Roland as he walked. Everything was the same. The path still ran next to the Cold River inn, and the elders still gathered in front of it, trading tales of times long past. The village even smelled the same, a mixture of green, growing grass and freshly baked bread.
“Ho there, good sir. What brings you to Veltin?” a soft female voice called.
A young woman in an apron appeared from the side of the inn. She carried a large bucket of water that sloshed to the side as she walked. Her hair was jet-black, and she looked familiar to Roland, but he had no name to put with her face.
“I seek Mira, the weaver. And her sons, Thorlin and Daemon,” Roland replied.
“Oh… I am sorry for your loss. If you hurry to the cemetery you might catch the end of the ceremony.”
“Ceremony? What ceremony?” Roland asked, the words coming out in a rush.
‘The Man of Light’ by Charles Parramore
Illustration by Romeo Esparrago
The first time I saw the Man of Light, he was feeding sea gulls on the beach. The day was cold, bleak, and windy. The sun was little more than a rumor in the afternoon sky. I approached him with my hands buried deep in my pockets and my head tucked against the wind. He was an old man with a stark-white Santa Claus beard, a faded Army jacket, and an ancient pair of jeans with holes in the knees. The birds flocked around him so thickly that he was partially covered by their flapping wings. At a comfortable distance, I stopped to watch, delighted by such an unlikely sight for a day such as this. I had walked miles down the beach in the cold, my steps just beyond the breaking waves, heartbroken for the usual reasons. But the sight of this old man sharing his bread with dozens of ravenous birds caused me to smile for reasons I could not understand.
His expression puzzled me. He must have done this deed for joy, but there was nothing joyful in his manner. His expression as the birds flocked about him was far too serious for the deed he did. I watched him until his bread was spent, and the final bird had given up. He paid me no notice, and I would have continued on with nothing more than a nod of greeting if he hadn’t spoken.
“Hello, young fellow,” he said, smiling.
“Hello,” I answered. I noted that his smile was a beautiful thing. There was a kindness in his eyes I had not expected, although the sadness remained as well. The smile moved me to add to my greeting.
“Cold day for a bird feed,” I remarked.
“Oh, they’ll eat in any kind of weather, the little gluttons.”
“Wasn’t anything wrong with their appetite, from my view.”
Then we stood regarding one another awkwardly for a moment. It seemed, somehow, that we should have more to say, but neither of us knew quite what it was. Just as I was about to bid him farewell, he spoke again.
“How far did you walk down the beach today, young man?”
“I don’t know. Two or three miles, probably. I had some things on my mind.” I was not one to speak personally to strangers, and even this small confession shocked me as it left my mouth.
“Yes,” he said. “I could tell by the look on your face. I ought to know. I’ve had some thoughts in my own mind for quite some time myself.”
I found myself moving closer to the old man, so that we could speak without raising our voices to be heard over the wind and the surf. An onlooker could have taken us for father and son rather than the strangers we were.
“Do you always feed sea gulls on days like this?”
“No. Not always. I came out today to mull things over as I often do. I think about what might have been sometimes. I’ve been coming here off and on for a very long time, actually.”
“I came out for the same reasons, but only for today.”
“The ocean is a fine place for it,” he said. He turned his head to study it and I followed his example. For a time, we watched the waves in silence as they crashed like marching soldiers against the sand.
“Would you like to hear a story?” he asked. “It’s a true story, but impossible to believe.”
“I’d like to hear a story.”
“I will tell it as it happened.” His eyes took on a faraway look, and his voice never wavered.
* * *
“I once lived in a city you have heard of: a place of legend and mysticism. But it was as real as you or I. It was as real as those waters in front of us and the cold wind that bites our faces. I am the last living citizen of that city that was once the jewel of the Earth. It was a city of silver streets and gold-plated buildings. It was a city of peace and knowledge with wise governors and beautiful people. The name of this city was Atlantis.
‘Subterranean Museum’ by Robert William Shmigelsky
Illustration (c) 2010 Romeo Esparrago
Through the surface of cratered moon,
shining dimly out to open space,
celestial devices, collecting dust underground.
Among the first exhibits included:
the sandglass, Cupid’s arrow, the scale,
balancing pans of good and evil.
Floors down, one could stumble upon
the stables of the charioteer, Helios,
the dark wet cellar of Tartarus.
But undoubtedly, tucked in
at the back, the main attraction was
a narrow hall leading to rebirth.
Where walls of dark-blue crystal —
chipped, cracked, smashed, and flaked –
captured the colors and shades of their faces
as Gods, led by foreknowledge of Man,
followed the path of that narrow hall
and traversed into Past until undone,
leaving the world to be run by other devices. *
About the Author: Robert William Shmigelsky is an aspiring fantasy writer taking English courses at Okanagan College to improve his writing. Robert has been writing fantasy for himself in his spare time for the last seven years, but only now has begun writing for others. Besides reading and writing, his hobbies include computers and history. He has a dry sense of humor, for which he blames his stepfather. Also, he has a habit of making history jokes that no one but him understands. He is currently working as a certified residential care aide (nursing assistant) in beautiful British Columbia to support his writing. Email: shmglsky@msn.com Story (c) 2010 Robert William Shmigelsky
About the Artist: Romeo Esparrago is an artist with a sketchy past. Illustration (c) 2010 Romeo Esparrago
‘The Last Coffee Shop Philosopher’ by Koos Kombuis
Illustration copyright 2010 Romeo Esparrago
Last lecture delivered from the podium of the Department of Philosophy of the Free University of San Francisco.
- July the 4th, 2184
Friends, academics, and fellow mutants, I address you today in my capacity of new Chairman of the Socratic Society, on the first, and probably the last day of my tenure.
Thank you for electing me. Thank you for placing your trust in me. Thank you for trusting my intellectual credentials in spite of my outer deformities.
As you can see, I am one of the last of the old humans. Those of you who resemble me have become so rare that we are seen as “mutants”; though, of course, we are not a new variation of species, but the last representatives on Earth of a human life form that has been dominant for more than thirty-thousand years.
From my point of view, and from the point of view of those of you who resemble me, we are, of course, not mutants at all.
Permit me to explain the world as seen through my eyes. At the risk of being controversial, I want to enlighten you, I want to open your eyes to a perspective on our history which is fast becoming obsolete. In fact, this perspective has become so utterly unfashionable that this may very well be the last lecture of this sort ever to be delivered from this podium, or any university podium, ever.
In the presumed words of Thomas Beckett, and with due apology to T.S. Eliot, who so eloquently dramatized the demise of that great man: “Death comes to us all, my lords.”
I shall begin my lecture from a position of inaccuracy. I am thus making a declaration of ignorance – however painful for me, especially as newly elected Chairman of this prestigious Society, to admit to such a fallacy. Fortunately I am by no means alone in my uncertainty.
I don’t know, and I am not sure if anyone knows, exactly when and where the change began. Some say it is a recent development; others believe that the evolution of Man had already reached its pinnacle with the development of the large-brained, gentle-natured Neanderthals, who were shoved into extinction by the first competitive, patriarchal Cro-Magnons. Be that as it may. We can only begin to see the bigger picture now, in retrospect, the few of us who escaped the results of the latest massive reversion.
To describe the change as a “reversion” or, even better, a “regression”, is an utterly discredited statement, I know. But bear with me for the moment, while I lead up to my central argument.
‘Killing is What I Do’ by Jonathan Saville
Illustration (c) Romeo Esparrago
(The following is an excerpt from an, as yet, unpublished novel, ‘When Blood Runs Cold’.)
Peace would not come to him. The ache that the Abbot had repeatedly told him would lessen and fade away still stabbed at his heart. Four years! Four years of brutal, gruelling training of both mind and body. Studying the arts of potions and poisons and their delivery systems. Developing his skills with all manner of weapons, from the smallest darts to the large and cumbersome broadswords. He had been taught that anything, including his own hands, could become weapons of destruction. And Jon Firevan had learned well. Of those who had begun training with him, he alone survived. The rest had paid the ultimate price for failing to master their lessons. He alone stood poised to become the next Artinen assassin.
Today, Jon was practicing. The Artinen monks, an order that traced its beginnings back into the earliest mists of time, had trained him to find the shadows in even the brightest rooms and how to use them to become invisible. It took discipline to slow one’s breathing, still the mind, find the balance between light and dark, and then seemingly disappear. But the ache interfered with that concentration.
I’m trying too hard, he thought. I must let go of everything to become my own shadow. Finally he crossed over. He reached the shadow state where he felt and acted like a wisp of smoke from a dying fire. Jon felt and thought nothing. He was invisible, even to himself. Shortly thereafter he saw them.
* * *
Jon remembered later being a little surprised to see his mother with the Abbot as they came out of his office, but at that moment he was simply a mirror on the wall of time, reflecting and absorbing whatever passed his way. His parents had wanted him to become a teacher at the academy run by the order, and he had agreed until he understood that they really wanted him to become a monk first and a teacher second. His mother especially wanted him to dedicate his life to the church, so to complete her prayers and promises to the Abbot. Seeing her with the Abbot was not, then, all that odd. The conversation between them, however, was.
“We have a moment or two before my aide will join us.” The priest spoke barely above a whisper. “Ruth, are you sure you wish to pursue this contract with us? I understand your motives, but do you really understand the cost? Will you sacrifice yourself to us to be rid of someone who may be gone soon anyway?”
“Not soon enough!” Ruth responded hoarsely. “As for the sacrifice to you, dear Ruddit, well that’s something I have thought of for a long time.”
The two stood, staring into each others’ eyes until the aide appeared.
“You have a duty for me, Abbot?” she asked.
“Yes, my dear,” he replied. “Take Ruth to the spa and prepare her.
“She will be spending the evening with us.”
“Certainly, Abbot.” She smiled at him and turned to Ruth. “My name is Aerial. Please follow me. You are about to discover the definition of being pampered. There are few pleasures that cannot be found in the Abbot’s spa.”
The Abbot watched the two women disappear down the hallway. As he turned to reenter his office, he looked directly to where Jon was standing. For the briefest moment it seemed to Jon that the Abbot would walk over to him, but instead he returned to his office and shut the door quietly.