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Latest Stories

March 19, 2024
Fantasy Stories Wondering Monk

Just My Imagination

The alarm clock went off and started playing an awful tune. Tom opened his eyes and closed them back, squinting. He reopened one eye and stood up to stop the torture. The phone was on the desk, in the furthest spot from the bed. Although he changed his way of…
March 19, 2024
Science Fiction Stories Ocelotlzin

Earth Is Dead

Recording… It doesn't matter who I was; I probably lived a long time ago, and I am now just a voice someone added to the audio-visual records. What is essential is the recollection of events that lead to the current state. So, a little history needs to be…
March 08, 2024
Flash Fiction Benoit

Some Enchanted Evening

It was a rugby tackle with tears: Chrissy burst in, sobbing and babbling, hugging James. Her face was all wet, eyes wild. What…? My parents split up, Dad has moved in with his boyfriend and I cannot join them. I am shut out. I have lost my dad. Torrent of…
March 08, 2024
Horror Stories Marvel Chukwudi Pephel

In The Hands Of My Legs

The car pulled up in front of the large salon. The neon sign, that sexy broad thing, on the salon'sroof read "Mr. Gil's All-night Salon". The exhaust pipe of the car was pumping solid smoke, theswirls moving from the car and towards the salon.…
March 07, 2024
Mystery Stories Vanessa Leigh Giles

Casualty of Love in the Time of Coronavirus

Chapter 1 Until Death do us Part ‘Ring, ring!’. I answered the telephone and asked, “Hello, good evening. Who’s this? “Hello.” This is Dr. Smith from Red Cross hospital. “Is this Mr. Locke, John?”, he asked, hesitantly scratching his bald head. “Yes, doctor.…
March 07, 2024
Crime Stories Robert Pook

Bar Room Trigger

Another return journey on footpaths so familiar. He strides across each crack in each paving stone. Regular loose drain covers sidestepped. Mapping long ago mapped in Richard’s desolate mind. His pace hastened by the sight of the oncoming storm. Quickening…
March 04, 2024
Horror Stories Ano Chinemerem

Sanctity

Where should I begin? I could begin by telling you about this comely boy, whom every notable person around the streets agrees his smile could charm the bills off one. Between one smile, there was his goodness, his dreams and humanity—a little far ahead?— but…
March 04, 2024
Flash Fiction Emanuel Diaz

Et Mortui Partium

As Rafael stepped out into the rain, it wasn't the ordinary drops that fell from the sky. Instead, it was a storm of souls, each one taking the form of shimmering jewelry as it cascaded toward the ground. Rubies, diamonds, and sapphires twinkled amidst the…
February 29, 2024
Poetry Jing Li Ava

London

‘Am I in London?’ "I am." Where is Elizabeth? Happy living story All of your chapter Bounlance joy Please my heart Power hand Wise mind Our baby Vow vow Love all love Miss I miss Endless wonder Bring us together Love all love Miss I miss For everything My…
February 29, 2024
Flash Fiction Rob Pook

Life Sentence of The Smith

Born nine months after his country won the World Cup.A child prodigy.Cast off at age twenty-four.Husband, father, emigree, away on the other side of the world.The blue-collar life.The dreams of success.The search for fulfillment.The long years of empty…
February 29, 2024
Mystery Stories Joshua Lowther

The Operator

Jason looked over to his right, his eyes barely able to focus themselves on the subject of his attention. His neck ached terribly from the strenuous movement. He was tired. The captain’s gaze came to rest on the rookie sonar operator sitting tense at his…
February 29, 2024
Flash Fiction Salvatore Difalco

The Chute

At dusk, we left our unit with a soft pink bundle. I carried it through the wet streets and into the black woods. I said I’d take it all the way, the bundle, but that we had to drop it in together. My wife’s green eyes flashed. “Don’t make me do that.” I…

The alarm blares and plucks me out of dreamland. It’s mid-winter, still dark, and my feet are twin blocks of ice, hanging off my bed in the chilly apartment. I pick up my device and silence the alarm. The screen flashes a wash of electric color; I blink and roll onto my side, tucking my feet under the blanket. The room comes to me in shapes and bruised colors. Then I remember.

It’s the first conscious thought I have in the morning, routine as black coffee. I roll back to my device, click it awake, and watch the thin flex-screen rise from its base. My device knows I want to check the app before I issue the command.

The app. The one that’s consumed my time, my focus for the past six or seven months. It pops onto the screen.

OUTLAST

Blocky letters fill the green back-lit screen; the app loads. My heart thrums. Hands and feet prickle, turn liquid. My frosty skin now blazes under the heat of those seven white letters.

I wipe a sweaty hand across the blanket. I could never be a spy. My body betrays my nerves, my anxious thoughts, with an instant soak of sweat. It’s a flaw that struck during puberty and, unlike my acne, decided to hang around into adulthood.

A chorus of trumpets blast a victory tune and I read the familiar message scrolling up the screen.

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU ARE STILL IN THE GAME.

A pause. The app gathers data from across the world. I scratch at my wrist, knowing my microchip is sending data to the global cloud, knowing its harvesting information about me in real time—my location, health, vital signs. I don’t think about it much anymore. You get used to being watched after a dozen years of surveillance.

It takes a while for Outlast to compile the information it needs. The status bar crawls forward, sluglike. I like it that way. The anticipation ignites my curiosity, makes me wonder about today’s number.

The app stops churning and the screen changes. Another scrolling message.

133 MILLION 926 THOUSAND 129 PEOPLE WERE BORN IN THE YEAR 2004. YOU HAVE OUTLASTED…

A counter box spins numbers.

…30,581,020 OF THEM.

My heart seizes. So many more than yesterday…

The number always astounds me. Tens of millions of people born in the same year as me, gone. Kaput. Dead before their thirtieth birthday.

The counter box ticks up. Every few seconds, a fresh body piles onto the death toll.

This is the part I never get used to, watching death in real time. Human lives boiled down to a fleeting number on a screen. It coats my mouth with a grimy film.

And yet, I can’t deny my vague pleasure when I see the number climbing. I’m winning the game.

I pull myself out of bed and into my apartment’s chill. It wouldn’t cost much to heat the cramped space, but not much is a lot when you have next to nothing. I rely on the heat from my downstairs neighbor to permeate through the floor and provide enough warmth to keep my studio hovering above freezing. My thick, hooded sweatshirt does the rest.

I make coffee. It’s cheap, but iron-strong. I boil water for oatmeal and check the app again. The trumpets give me goosebumps.

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU ARE STILL IN THE GAME.

I wait to see how many people I’ve outlasted. The counter box slows to a stop.

42,007,831

I stare at the screen. Over ten million 2004 babies perished in the past ten minutes? Not possible. Usually it’s a million in an entire year. About 2,500 each day. Two per minute. Two deaths, not millions.

I gaze, bug-eyed. The counter spins upward. Fast. Too fast.

I slam the app to one side of my screen and pull up the news. My fingertips, palms, armpits trickle sweat. I scan headlines, frantic. No super volcanoes, no earthquakes. No alien invasions. No bombs dropped on Tokyo or Bombay.

Mind spinning, I close Outlast and reload it. The app greets me with ever-cheery brass and a new death toll:

47,852,203.

No.

It’s a glitch. Has to be.

My coffee has turned tepid and I have to catch the commuter train soon, but my feet won’t move. I’m tethered to my device and the dizzying numbers surging through the counter box.

I have to call Hailey. She’ll talk me down from my mania. Always does.

My voice is a bark when I command my device to dial. Hailey picks up instantly.

“Lee? Hey. Don’t you have to get to work?”

“Yeah, but listen, Hail. Something strange is happening, something with—” I pause, force out the word. “Outlast.”

I see her cringe. We never talk about the app, even though we’re close, even though I know she uses it too. Most users keep their obsession to themselves. The game has a dirty reputation. It’s meant to be played alone, enjoyed in sinful bites.

“What about it?” Her voice slow, a creaking train.

“The toll for 2004 skyrocketed in the past ten minutes. We’re talking a million people every minute. Is…is yours doing the same thing?”

“Lee,” Hailey protests, “you’re acting crazy. Why don’t you just—”

“Come on, Hail. Please. Could you check yours too?”

“Fine.”

Hailey mutters a few commands to her device. The screen splits in two, the left side showing Hailey’s dimpled chin and chicory skin, the other side loading Outlast. I hold my breath, body slippery with sweat.

The trumpets, the greeting.

The death toll.

YOU HAVE OUTLASTED…

…54,030,901 OF THEM.

The numbers surge.

“Holy shit, that’s almost half our year.”

“I told you, Hailey.” I shove my hands inside my kangaroo pocket and hug my torso. My shoulders rock away from my device, then back. Away, back. “Something crazy is happening.”

“Did you check the other years? Is it just 2004?”

Without waiting for my response, Hailey navigates to the app’s settings and changes her birth year to 2020. We wait for the numbers to load.

14,600,223.

Then, 14,600,224.

A slow tick. Normal.

A handful of dead pre-teens.

Hailey’s eyes deaden. Her cheeks pale to ash. “I—” she stutters, shakes her head like a clogged salt shaker. “I don’t know, Lee. Must be a glitch. Why don’t you go to work and forget about it?”

“Are you kidding me? Even if it is a glitch, there’s no way I can work today. I’m a total wreck. Can you come over? Please? I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Hailey sniffs. “Unlike some people, I care about paying my bills. Sorry. I’m going to head to work and try to forget about this whole thing.”

A knock. Coming from Hailey’s end.

“Someone’s at the door. Gotta run.”

“What? Hailey, no! Are you crazy? People from our birth year are dropping like dominoes and you’re answering the door? Please—”

“You’ve come unhinged, Lee. Maybe lay off Outlast for the day, okay? Let’s grab a beer at the Bassett tonight. My treat.”

“Hailey, dammit! Listen to me. Don’t open that door!”

“Bye, Lee.”

The call disconnects and Hailey’s image evaporates.

I slump into my kitchen chair and knock the coffee cup with my elbow. It hits the floor and I watch it through a fog, like it’s happening in a room on the other side of the world. The liquid slides across the linoleum and my eyes flick back to the device.

Numbers roll and I wonder if one of them represents Hailey.

I pull my hoodie closer. My skin is clammy; it reminds me of a dead fish. I sit, rock, mutter to myself like the crackheads who live in the elbows of Dixon Bridge. I wait.

For what? Time to pass? Everyone in 2004 to die?

A voice floats into my head. You wanted to win the game, right?

“Yes,” I say out loud to the air, to my bleeding coffee, to the device sitting in front of me. “Yes, I wanted to win. But not like this. Not until I reached one-hundred and four. Not until old age claimed my organs and shut me down. Peacefully. In bed. Surrounded by doting friends and family.”

“Not like this. Ruler of the blood bath.”

My brain’s a circus, spinning and twisting, a riot of color. I’ll leave town, I decide. I’ll take the next bus out west and lose myself in the canyons and scrub brush. Details later. I have to pack.

I jump to my feet. My left sock has absorbed some of the coffee, but there’s no time to change it. I have to move.

I start cramming belongings into my backpack. Some clothes, a couple granola bars, all the cash I had stowed inside an empty soup can in my cupboard. I zip the bag and glance at my device.

Over 70 million now.

Damn.

I coax the screen back in its shell and slide the device in my pocket. I reach for the doorknob at the same time a knock sounds on the other side.

 

End

Kate Bitters is the author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines.

Bitters writes in the style of magic realism, influenced by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Toni Morrison, and Neil Gaiman. Her short story was picked by the MPR program, Wits, to be read aloud by Mr. Gaiman during one of their shows in winter, 2015.

Kate Bitters is the pen name of Kate Leibfried, a freelance writer, book coach, and founder of Click Clack Writing, LLC. 

Her forthcoming novel is Ellie Half-Shadow and the Mayan Prophecy.

 

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