On the evening of June 20, the president sat alone in the Oval Office, reviewing intelligence reports. The peace talks in Paris were going well—at least enough to silence the protesters at home. His reelection committee had hit a minor snag, but they were managing it. As long as he could distract the public…
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“Night, Alex,” my buddies called as they climbed into their car.
I waved as they drove away, then headed inside to clean up. I brushed popcorn off the sofa and collected plates of half-finished pizza. The end credits of the sixth movie continued scrolling on the TV and I bobbed my head with the music.
The nauseating ammonia smell of squid flora is always the first thing I notice upon waking. Some days it’s faint, but today the wind brings the acrid smell right into my riverside hidey-hole. I peek out at the wreckage of the squid ship—dark, twisted metal covering a half mile of riverfront.
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On a warm April afternoon, a loud knock sounded at the front door. I set down an overflowing laundry basket and pulled the door open.
The short woman with cropped gray hair looked familiar. “I’m Rhonda,” she said. “I live across the street.” Right. In the three years since we had moved in, she had never introduced herself.
Rich pulled his chair out from the breakfast table and glanced across it at his grandson. Tommy had his hand over his mouth, struggling to stifle a laugh. Rich bit back a smile. Tommy really hadn’t hidden the whoopee cushion well enough. Oh well, what could you expect from an eight-year-old? He sat down. Blaaaat.
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“How long has your wife been missing, Mayor Collins?” Kelvin Lockhart asked, leaning forward in the leather guest chair. The move was as much about comfort as it was about being direct. The chair almost swallowed his small, wiry frame.
On the other side of the mahogany desk, Geoff Collins shook his head. “Quite an interesting euphemism.
On March 28, 2075, opening day for the Galactic Professional Baseball League, I had reason to be well satisfied with myself.
Intergalactic Sports Imports, the company I owned with my friend Ruby Trenholme, had just caught up on the delivery schedule for our first big contract: supplying game balls to everyone from the minors to the majors.
In my defense, when the aliens have the size and consistency of ketchup packets, it’s very easy to forget one in a flight suit pocket.
You know, that little bicep pocket where you stash the neural-connection ear buds?
On top of that, we’d been celebrating Zenibrian New Year—which is a pretty big deal…
When I was a kid, teleworking and remote learning didn’t exist. If the snow fell hard and fierce, we got a snow day. Meaning, no work for the grown-ups, no school for the kids. Heavenly bliss! That’s why, in 1983, I caused one of the biggest blizzards in New York City history.
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You might be wondering why I’m in an alleyway holding a blowtorch, about to cut into this steel door. Perhaps I should take you back to the days spent amidst flickering fluorescent bulbs, drab gray uniforms, and one-room holding cells. And no, I’m not talking about my old high school.
The Overseers call it…
“I’ve got a good feeling about you, Planet 77.”
My heart thundered with the anticipation of facing the water-hungry nightmare that had buried our planet. Our ship slowed as we breached the skies of Earth.
“Don’t forget the cloaking device.” Jones reached over my shoulder and flipped a toggle. “I’d rather not be deified this time.”
They say there’s nothing like a sea breeze on Earth. That it gets into your joints, pierces the soul. That it’s delicious, as if you could bite off chunks and let it melt on your tongue like Kroterean skyfruit.
But the fumes from Luna’s artificial oceans can make you ill for weeks
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