All posts by Otherworld Theatre

Gateways: “What We Do In The Cosmos” By Alex B Reynolds read by Ryan Bond



TRANSCRIPT:

Alex B Reynolds has been writing and producing comedic theatre in Chicago for 15 years. They have been a contributing writer for The Flaming Dames burlesque troupe, the Meet/Cute sitcom podcast, and the Paragon short play festival. Full-length plays include Old Hobbits Die Hard, Kings & Thrones & Shit, and The Incredible Hank for New Millennium Theatre Company. They are spending quarantine as dungeon master for a family DnD campaign, as a writer for Gateways, and a sleepless puddle of anxiety. This is “What We Do in the Cosmos”.

It wasn’t long into the 21st century that two things happened almost simultaneously – vampires were outed to humans as real, and space travel became commercialized. Anyone who was alive during that time remembers that it was…pretty rough. People were conditioned by enough natural and man-made disasters by that point in the early 2000s to accept our presence, but people were also scared to death and desperate to leave the planet. After a while, a combination of scientists, conservationalists and capitalists got together and educated the public on the benefits of not only our existence, but our contribution to the human condition. One of these contributions came in the form of space travel. It wasn’t feasible to send a human astronaut on a mission to Jupiter or beyond, because that would be at least a 10-year round trip. Vampire immortality came in handy for exploring the far reaches of space. Within a decade of the Space Vampire program’s inception, Earth was also given confirmation of life on other planets. The reaction of the humans that a Vampire made First Contact was…less than patriotic. And, to be completely honest, the reaction of the hungry Vampires coming across a living being after years in space was less than exemplary, either. But regardless of circumstances, making First Contact legitimized the Space Vampire initiative back on Earth, and suddenly a new class of our species was born. 

Here’s the thing about Space Vampires: I don’t hate them. I envy them. They can be great explorers in the cosmos, not stuck down here in dank, dark castles hunting humans or eating rats. They get to be out in space! Exploring new planets, traversing new galaxies, meeting new alien species and feeding on them. Did you know that the USS Adventurer 2 vampires went to Rigel 7, fed on some of the aliens there, and ended up with flame powers? So cool. And the vampires on the USS Adventurer 4 went all the way to Marklar, fed on the Marklars, and within minutes could manipulate the fabric of time? No wonder most of the Space Vampires never come back – if i could bend time and shoot fire out of my hands, I wouldn’t want to come back to Earth, either. Feeding on humans just gives you, what – nourishment? A blood gut? Boring! And hey, another bonus – Space Vampires are all that much farther away from the Sun. The first Space Vampire mission found out that it’s only the Earth’s Sun that hurts us. It’s like Superman, only the opposite, and terrible. Space Vampires are up there traversing literally every other star in the galaxy and loving it because it’s not searing the flesh off their bones. I don’t understand how one star can do that to us while another star won’t, but that’s probably why I wasn’t a specially-selected NASA Space Vampire…until now. 

Because space travel was so accessible, a person (or vampire) didn’t require a career of training in order to be approved for a mission. NASA never took vampire volunteers, however. Like with most things, we had to be invited. And I was. I received the embroidered invitation in the official government envelope, and even though I wasn’t due at Cape Canaveral for another week, I packed up and left that very evening. My

head was filled with possibilities. I couldn’t stay one more minute in a drab, dusty castle any longer. That being said, Florida is not a great place for Vampires. First of all, it is sunny all the time. That was definitely first on my list in terms of reasons to get off this planet and join the ranks of Space Vampires. So long, Sun. That kept a lot of our kind out of Florida, to be honest, which made the other significant problem the locals. When a person is as pale as we are in Florida, and wearing long sleeves and pants in 90 degree weather, the game is given away pretty quickly that there’s a Vampire walking through town. There was quite a lot of staring, screaming, but only a few slaying attempts. In general, the world had turned its back on the idea of slaying – it was definitely considered cruel and inhumane and akin to any other kind of vigilante justice enacted on humans by other humans. That didn’t stop some people from trying it anyway, but they were usually older and easy enough to put down. All that being the case, though, Florida was the best place on Earth to be right before leaving the planet forever. 

When Orientation Day finally came, I was seated in a large conference room with 5 other Vampires that would be traveling with me on this particular mission. A mission briefing was placed in front of each of us. Apparently, there was a suspiciously rhythmic radar signal coming from a planet called Remulak. I could have sworn I heard the name before. Before I could think too hard about it, I read on: It was presumed that not only was the planet able to support life, but that it was already inhabited by a rich and intelligent culture. This was very exciting. For all the advancements and alien contact that has been made on Space Vampire missions, the statistic is that only 35% of the missions actually result in contacting intelligent life. The rest find remnants of what was once intelligent life, or they find only microbial life, or vegetation. After hearing about all the glorious accomplishments of other Space Vampires, we all secretly laughed behind their backs. More often than not, those Vampires also chose to stay on the new planets they found, too. What were they eating? Were these vegetable planets full of blood carrots or something? That actually didn’t sound so bad. But it didn’t matter, because I was going to Remulak with my team to engage with intelligent life. And feed on them for superpowers. 

Our Orientation was led by a very official-looking member of the federal government. He was there to go over the bureaucratic nonsense involved with the mission, and most of us tuned out. He made us all sign release forms that I don’t think any of us took the time to read, but that ultimately boiled down to us not holding the government responsible for any space-related injury or death — the same kind of thing a person signs before they go horseback riding or bungee-jumping. He called us heroes and told us that our country thanked us for what we were doing, and once he collected the forms from all of us, he left. After a few more minutes, we were ushered out of the room by a Scottish brunette in a lab coat who brought us to a medical wing where we all had our blood drawn and rapid-tested. Whatever they were looking for, they found – or didn’t find – because the next step was fitting us all into our space suits. This whole process seemed to go rather quickly. I was expecting to spend a week or two doing training exercises, floating around in a zero gravity simulator, learning about what all the

buttons do on the space shuttle we would be in, but ultimately the Orientation took about 5 hours with a break for lunch. They had pig blood in little boxes with straws. I thought that was very charming, and I was told there would be more of those on the shuttle to last us the trip. After another speech by another official-looking government human in a suit, we boarded our shuttle: The Adventurer 20. My compatriots and I were strapped into our seats by technicians in overalls, the observation windows were all closed so that the Sun wouldn’t hurt us on the way out of the atmosphere, and soon it was just us and the shuttle. We barely spoke a word to each other before the countdown began. This was it. No more Earth. No more hiding from the Sun, no more humans trying to slay me, no more dark caverns and castles, no more eating rats or getting fined for hunting a human. Our time had finally come. The shuttle shook violently. I was pressed hard against my seat. Liftoff. 

I don’t know how much time passed before things finally returned to normal. My head was throbbing. My muscles ached. I looked around, and the other Space Vampires – because that’s what we were now – were all breathing heavy sighs of relief. We had made it out of the atmosphere. A voice came on over the communication speakers in the cockpit telling us that the craft was traveling fast enough that we had already cleared the Moon. It would be safe for us to move around the shuttle, and even take in the view. We would reach Remulak in approximately six years. I took off my restraints. I wanted to open that observation window and see the stars that I had been avoiding all my life. I wasn’t the only one. One of the other Space Vampires was already at the window, holding the shade and looking at us with a showman’s grin of anticipation. Once we were all gathered around, he lifted the shade. And suddenly, I understood everything. 

I saw three different stars at varying distances from our shuttle, two of them closer than the Sun had ever been. Scattered in open space between us and them floated almost a dozen other shuttles, each in different states of frost and decay, and each marked Adventurer 2, Adventurer 12, Adventurer 17, etc. I understood. Earth still had not made First Contact with an alien life form. Space Vampires never came back because they were here. In space. These other stars had the same effect on us that the Sun did, which meant NASA was, simply put, in the vampire slaying business now. As the fire filled my chest, I suddenly remembered: The Coneheads from Saturday Night Live. They were from Remulak. I laughed. And I burned.

Ryan Bond is a life long geek who is very active in Chicago’s genre-based performance and experience community. He currently serves on the Board of Otherworld Theater where he helps to bring high quality stories to life on-stage and on-line.  In the past has served in leadership positions for Wildclaw Theatre, EDGE of Orion Theatre, Hartlife & Our Fair City. Ryan has helped to create Guardians of History (a family friendly voice-activated immersive educational game for Alexa/Google enabled speakers & screens), leads as a Cub Scout Master and Eagle Scout, been an SxSW panelist, appears on podcasts as a gaming/geek expert, an infrequent theater performer, a 3x NaNoWriMo winner, a marketing director for a Firefly-based board game and even opened a geek-themed bar!


Gateways: “The Left Hand of Death” by Terry Galvan read by Courtney Lynn



TRANSCRIPT:

Plagued by Catholic guilt and a love of whiskey, Terry writes about social & environmental problems through the lens of fantasy and science fiction. The former anthropologist and Fulbright grantee currently contributes reviews and interviews at Chicago’s own Third Coast Review, and would very much like to sign an agent sometime before they die. Follow Terry @TerryGalvanChi https://terrygalvan.com This is “The Left Hand of Death”.

 

We vampires knew we were an ecological hazard. Even the most stubborn, close-minded, and reactionary of us admitted it. It only took a few decades to realize, living as a superpredator with no natural enemies or a natural way to die. 

When you become a vampire, you don’t really live anymore—you only hunger and thirst, and hunger and thirst, day after day, year after year. So we eat and eat and drink and drink, but we’re never truly satiated. We just get hungrier and hungrier, thirstier and thirstier. And unlike our mortal cousins, no death comes at the end of it. We’ve come to resent humans: die though they might, they know satiety and satisfaction. They know endings and beginnings, and, most enviably, they know the sweet kiss of death. 

But I digress. One must forgive an old vamp her ramblings. Where was I? Yes, we vampires knew we were an ecological hazard. It was more immediate and pragmatic than philosophical or existential: simple overpopulation. Like any apex predator, we hunted with abandon, never watching our backs because there was nothing to watch for. Not even Death Herself, that stingy bitch. Perhaps if we had anything else in common with apex predators—disease, control over reproduction, or, you know, the ability to die in any way—the ecosystem would have rebalanced on its own. But we’re the Left Hand of Death, and that’s not how we work.

For example, if you screw up a single feeding—get your fangs in the wrong artery, snap the neck with insufficient force, or god forbid, develop feelings for the damn human—instead of a nice meal, boom! You have another hungry mouth to feed. Newborns are notoriously needy, and you can’t just abandon them, because they’ll eat all your food. So you have to take them in and split the food, but because they have no goddamn idea what they’re doing, they’ll probably screw up and create more newborns, and so on and so forth. You get the picture. 

You’d think that we’d have decimated the human population by now, but those bastards reproduce like rabbits. And, like rabbits, humans eat everything. They eat flowers and seeds and plants and animals, they eat oceans and rivers, rainforests and mountains, lakes and prairies; they eat glaciers and tundras and fossil fuels and minerals buried deep in the earth.

We vamps, passionate about numbers and accounting (to distract from the endless hunger), have kept precise records of Earth’s biodiversity, charting the growth and decline of all species.

You’d have to stupid or mortal not to see the writing on the wall. While we were killing humans, humans were killing everything else. We knew once the humans ate everything and died out, we’d have nothing to eat. There’d just be thousands of us roaming the dead Earth, hungry forever.

So we did what every civilized society does when it’s overexploiting resources: we selected our best and brightest, built them a generation ship, and sent them off into the unknown to find other resources to overexploit.

My grandson was on that generation ship. We loaded enough fresh meat into the cargo hold to last them a few dozen light years, we calculated—but those calculations soon proved to be gravely inaccurate. See, while we’re very good with numbers, we’re bad at pretty much everything else, especially the social sciences. A psychologist or a historian might have predicted that the young vampires, suddenly free of the rigid clan structure and territorial boundaries of their seniors, would let loose a little. And that’s just what they did.

With unrestricted access to thousands of humans in the cargo hold, the vamps’ best and brightest went on a feeding frenzy, an orgy, a bender, a rampage, and decimated half their rations in less than a year. I don’t blame them, really; the opportunity for a full stomach—a truly full stomach—is so rare that it turns the best of us into animals.

My grandson, during this time, was engaged in a torrid love affair with one of the human women set aside for breeding purposes. I shouldn’t begrudge him this—if you’re not engaged in a torrid love affair involving vastly unequal power differentials and a questionable consent situation, are you even really a vampire?

My grandson of course promised to protect this woman in exchange for sexual compliance. For all you humans listening, a useful tip: yes, we always make these promises, and yes, we always break them. So, unless you have a kink for bleeding out, or, worse, spending eternity in constant hunger and thirst, I suggest you refrain from accepting our kind as lovers.

Once the bloodbath was over, and the vamps were satiated for the first time in their lives, a peculiar thing happened: both hunter and hunted, faced with the reality that they would all be dead or in hell if that happened again, sat across from one another and talked. Their bellies full, the vamps found they could think straight, and the humans, scared shitless, found themselves unnaturally eloquent. (Don’t ever think humans can’t work under pressure—if you think that, you haven’t scared them enough). 

So the two species pooled their intellectual resources to find a consistent source of food—for the humans, so the humans could feed the vampires. 

The vampires, it turned out, didn’t need air, water, radiation protection, or much of anything on alien planets. Even gravity was a moot point, so they headed off the ship without the rigamarole of space suits or air tanks. Only Earth’s sun burned them, they found, so they frolicked naked and joyous in the blue and violent and green light of foreign stars.

The vamps could ingest anything and everything without consequences aside from a bad aftertaste, so they searched for something to feed their precious cargo. After a few nasty experiments, they identified human-appropriate food, and spent long days toiling to forage algae, farm fungus, and fish adorable little cephalopods that were very high in protein.

And since they were trying everything in sight—knowing nothing in this wide universe, not even Death, could kill them—they eventually found a better source of sustenance than human blood. And then they came home. 

They landed in Antarctica. It took us Old Guard some time to arrive, waiting for the cover of the southern hemisphere’s winter, so as to not get scorched by midnight sun. Things got strange in the months leading up to our visit. Birds acted erratically, flying into windows and migrating in the wrong direction. Weeds thrived and native plants shriveled. Solar panels and satellites and electronics failed, and our compass stopped working halfway there. 

When we arrived, we saw why. Great industrial chimneys of unidentifiable alien metals plunged deep into the ice, gushing steam and sulfurous fumes. A city of tents and igloos surrounded the generation ship, parked right on the South Pole. The human cargo had multiplied, and vamps walked arm and arm with them, faces fresh and full and—content.

“Grandmama!” My grandson sprinted out of the village and embraced me. “Grandmama, I want you to meet my wife.” 

Behind him appeared an ancient human woman, laugh lines crinkling her eyes under hair silver as the moon.

“You didn’t eat her?” I glared at her, pretty even in old age. 

“Grandmama! No, I told you, we don’t eat each other anymore.”

“Hm.”

“And Grandmama, we have children. Generations of them.”

“How?” I spat.

“I adopted them, Grandmama, their biological father died some time ago.”

“Did you eat him?”

“Grandmama.”

What a strange sight it was. I, thousands of years old, trapped in the body of a twenty-four-year beauty; her, in the shriveled body I ought to—I longed to—inhabit. I couldn’t help but feel jealous as well as hungry.

“Here, I’ll show you.” He and his “wife” guided me to one of the steaming pillars. From a spigot he poured a steaming mug.

“Do you remember Spanish hot chocolate? Steel cut oats with cinnamon and honey? Milkshakes?” He offered me the mug. “Try it. It’s like all of those at once, but better.”

Inside was a liquid that glowed orange like hot coals. “What is this,” I hissed, almost dropping it.

“Grandmama.” He steadied my hand. “It’s magma. The blood of the Earth. Rich in iron and teaming with energy, more than the blood of the most pedigreed human. When you drink it—you’ll feel full.” He beamed, and the woman crinkled her eyes at him.

I shook with anger, with hunger, with jealousy. “We sent you to find more nourishment, so as not to kill this planet. Instead you come back to drink your own planet dry? You’ll kill the Earth! The birds, the radiation, the crust itself is going to collapse—”

“The Earth has been dying for a long time, Grand-Dame.” The hag spoke for the first time, using my correct title. “With all due respect, I know that’s the real reason you sent us, and the real reason I got on the ship, and it’s the real reason I married your grandson. I understand that your kind is the Left Hand of Death—that you exist to help things die. People, planets, stars. The sun knows a vampire will bring it to death’s door, and that’s why it burns you so. You are Death’s undying hands, and I am honored to assist.” 

I scoffed at her.

“If it means anything to you,” she continued, “your grandson has agreed to ‘eat’ me when it’s time, so we can be together, forever.”

I ground my fangs, looking between her and him suspiciously.

“Grandmama. We’re here to collect more humans—you know, to diversify the gene pool—and then we’re leaving.” My grandson wrapped his hands around mine, around the mug. “You taught me everything I know. Please, come with.”

I glared into the glowing mug. “Shame he didn’t turn you,” I finally said to the hag, and took a sip of Earth’s fresh blood.

Courtney Lynn is a Chicagoland area performer and director and is a graduate of Northern Illinois University’s BA Theatre Studies program. She most recently directed “The Centenarians” as part of Otherworld’s PARAGON Sci-Fi + Fantasy Play Festival. Other area credits include performing and directing at the Bristol Renaissance Faire, and projects with Hela’s Hand Productions and Fake Geek Girl Productions. When not performing, directing, or toiling away at her day job, Courtney can be found posting pictures of her totes adorbs rescued Corgi, Walter, on Instagram (@wigglebuttwalter), designing and crafting hats and fascinators for her business Say Something Hats, reveling in her love of Disney with Drunkenly Ever After, and creating costumes for cosplays and photoshoots. She is thrilled to be a part of this production and hopes you enjoy the show!


Gateways: “Letter to a Young Vampire” by Maggie Vaughn read by Nathan Shelton



TRANSCRIPT:

Magdalen Vaughn is an Actor, Writer and Science fiction devotee. She has been practicing all types of science fiction writing during the pandemic and she will be creating science fiction performance pieces during her MFA starting this fall. She loves working with the talented folks at Otherworld theatre, long be their reign! Find more at magdalenvaughnacts.com This is “Letter to a Young Vampire”.


I wake up, or, realize I am awake. Splitting headache. Sarah’s hand in mine, cold. No, actually– Sarah. She is pressed against me sobbing into my shirt, as I guide her fingers into my mouth. Sarah. She is swaddled in an orange blanket at the Miami Dade County hospital. Sarah. Where is she now? I cannot think. I press my palms firmly into the hollows of my eyes and open my mouth to scream. My head- it swims and pounds and- WHAT is that smell coming from the bathroom and coming from my… mouth? There is a pit in my stomach. There are exactly 856,832 pits of depth greater than 20 feet in continental Africa. The pit of an apricot is rolling inside the mouth of a Greek boy as his papou brings in the harvest of late July, 1648. 

I cannot stop the notions, the feelings and the vague afterthoughts. Deep darkness inside of me. I try to concentrate, identify where this hollow maze ends, or begins. I try to clear my head of the revolving tableaux. And it works, and I am standing alone in a bright field. Heat sears my feet but I cannot bend my neck to see, or I will not look to see what evil lurks beneath me. I scream from the intensity of the heat but I hear no sound. I feel my body being pulled downwards, into the ground, toward the heat, bleeding free-will from my backbone and 

I am home again, crumpled on my bed. Head still swimming, when one of the many memories dancing behind my eyes strikes me poignantly: Uncle Mark, who experienced psychoses from the age of 20; who could not hold down a job; who is dead on the floor with a gun in his hand and I know that I am Uncle Mark and I can feel the blood pooling around my face as my eyes close and- 

“Hello Vagner” 

A crystal clear voice shoots into me, cutting through a merry go round of half-lived lives. German, male, loud. It is not Uncle Mark, and my name is not Vagner. 

“Listen carefully. Rise and leave your room. Pay no mind to the mess around you.” 

I steel my muscles into the postures of sitting and standing. I stumble to my bedroom door, eyes half closed. I pinpoint the smell of blood and rot. I fall through the doorway, onto the ground where I heave to wretch. Nothing comes out of my stomach, the black hole that I do not know. 

“Get up. Move to your custom leather couch you purchased 10 years ago with Sarah in Oklahoma City. I’ve placed a letter there that you must read.” 

Eyes open, I look around, madly, for the voice I hear so clearly. No one. No one thing out of place in my town-home of 15 years except- bloody handprints on the wood panels below me. Then they are gone, and the dreary dimness of morning is replaced by a bellowing thunderstorm I can see through my living room window. Calm. A few moments of calm so I can stand up and believe everything is normal. I smell coffee and hear Sarah’s signature soprano flying along with Joanna Newsome. 

No… no no no. I avoided this insanity. I have never once hallucinated, or wished for death. I thought I was free to live my life happily and– 

“Vagner. The Letter”

There is dim light in the window again. A letter sits on my cracked brown loveseat. Weathered paper sealed with real wax. The symbol for infinity scrawled onto the front of the envelope in patchy ink. I open it and begin to read: 

One Vagner Volt, 

Note that I’ve misspelled your human name, Wagner. This is not in jest, nor do I expect you to accept it, but it is in keeping with tradition and it will follow you for the rest of eternity. One of the few traditions that we, the collective referred to as Vampire, keep is the use of names. To hold a name is to own yourself. To be Vampire is ruthless autonomy. Think of your name like your last beleaguered breath as you died into infinity, suspended forever around your head like a never-ending dream. Those of us not born on earth infrequently have heads as you know them, so that particular image is unique to you and a handful of other terran Vampires. I have used a variety of metaphors in letters to non-humans reborn after myself, as I have been the executor of introductions for three centuries, now. The last executor was a neutron star and could not use language. I know what you are thinking: who is this witty German? Have we met? 

No, and we never will. Your existence is one hugely disparaging romantic comedy. 

Of course by now, you know all of this, but it never hurts to put musings into words –unless it does hurt, of course, whether by force of irony or intended harm. What I mean is, to have a thought exist outside of yourself is to cast it into the future. Not that the humans would do much with information regarding our existence, as limited as they are in their effect on space and time; as limited as they are in their knowledge of space and time–but in particular their knowledge of dark energy– I digress… 

Humans are perfectly happy to believe that Vampire are vulgar fiction. Yet, they could eventually become aware of our existence, which would be disastrously cruel. Imagine, if humans were to know that the earth feasts on their flesh as ravenously as the common mosquito. As a collective, Vampire are benefited by this fact: that most ideas do not make their way into the working memory of society and are snuffed out as soon as they occur, even if fastidiously recorded via stone etchings or ink. But, some ideas do permeate human culture over time. If you were to probe your mind you would find a catalogue of these truths, but I do particularly miss writing these few down: 

  1. The only hope for making change is to affect small things, locally and immediately
    2. Extraterrestrial consciousness exists and is very aware of life on earth 
  2. The world IS a Vampire 

Still, I must ask you to protect this letter with your life or, more appropriately moving forward, your existence. You will never receive another. If we the collective should ever feel you might expose our existence to human beings, we will remove your name. Human beings would not cope particularly well with our immortality. Better that they should spend their lives eagerly avoiding death. You will find, I hope, that there is a certain serenity in being one with death as we Vampire are able. Death, birth and the mortal coil smoulder uniquely within us. Well, within those of us who once were mortal. 

Think of this letter as welcoming you to your new now. It will keep you grounded when you are alone in the darkness of space. Know that this letter comes with outright threats, yes, but also platitudes. The most important being that you, Vagner, are not insane. You have not lost your mind and you are not experiencing your late Uncle or Grandfather’s particular brand of psychosis. You are now Vampire. You are at one with time; you exist outside of it and within it; and you must consume consciousness in order to remain autonomous. However, you must also fight the urge to consume excessively. You must practice restraint, even

if your dark nature urges you to consume more. This, dear Vagner, is in the best interest of time itself. I speak, of course, about the true nature of Vampire. 

Our dark power fuels the expansion of the universe and catalyzes its recollection. I am sure you came across the concept in your human life, but the term ‘dark matter’ does not even begin to delineate the nature of the power you now hold; the power that lies at the center of planet earth; the power to change the amount of energy in our universe. 

We do not know how or why dark matter fuses with conscious matter, but we Vampire are the result of said rare equation. You see, every bit of matter around you is conscious, from your barber to the carbon atoms in your rubber soled shoe, though not every consciousness makes use of language. The nature of dark matter as we know it is to consume and retain that consciousness, thus accumulating a wellspring of memory from past, present and future. In that omniscience we Vampire swim. We are connected to it, and we are irrevocably drawn to its source: collections of dark matter all throughout our universe. 

And still, consciousness always fights to retain its perspective. 

Without fusion, dark matter is quite limited in range of motion. After the big bang, dark matter was distributed throughout the fabric of space, and has since existed in a fixed state. Dark matter cannot travel through space time without fusion; without fusion, it can only consume conscious matter by collapsing space time itself. This, as you can imagine, takes quite a bit of time to accomplish. 

When dark matter does fuse with consciousness, perhaps as a survival mechanism of itself or of its conscious host, we observe that it both mobilizes and protects itself. Fused dark matter may, for a time, be in close proximity with other discreet or collected dark matter and not immediately coalesce. In short, our free will and mobility allow Vampire to avoid the powerful attraction that these fountains of time have on one another, and the disastrous consequences that will always follow for conscious matter surrounding them. Dark matter will fuel the fiery end of our present timeline; it will consume potential energy and with it, potential futures. When Vampire consume matter, like humans or the moon for example, we do the same. We must at least strive to delay the end of our timeline, to preserve the consciousness of all matter in the universe and to further its expansion. In short, we must, to our best ability, be dynamic pawns on the chessboard of time. The goal for our kind is to find our own private patch of space; to move only when in danger of subsumption. 

This is much to comprehend, but in time, when you search your mind, every answer you could possibly need will be available to you. The voices of Vampire, and all of the collected memories of dark matter, scattered across the darkness of space, are available to you. But you should never know the company of those like yourself, for it is far too dangerous for us all, and the only conscious matter you will encounter from here forward, you will likely consume. Thus, Vagner, you must leave earth. You cannot and will not perish in true void. You will know when you are near another of our kind. You will feel it in your bones, the heat of a thousand suns, pulling you to join it, hoping to be reunited with itself in perpetuity. The earth has consumed much in its dark existence and it will consume you if you linger. 

There will be moments of agony and bliss throughout your remaining eternity if you so choose, but there will be existence. 

To conclude, my dear savant, leave earth as soon as possible. There is nothing left for you here. You consumed Sarah last night when you fused. Yet, you are not insane. 

Forever Yours, 

Vainer Vilke

Nathan Shelton is a professional actor, writer, director, and special effects makeup artist living in Chicago.  He has worked on numerous theatrical, tv, and film productions including Above Ground, The Rake, Scum of the Earth’s latest music video: Dance MotherF*&#er, and the Oscar nominated indie film, Winter’s Bone.  His production company, ARCANE, is currently working on a multitude of devious dark projects, including a horror radio theatre anthology series called The Frightmare Theatre Podcast.


Gateways: “The Vampires of Earth” by Jim McDoniel read by Ansel Burch



TRANSCRIPT:

Jim McDoniel is a writer of monsters and mirth, not always in that order. He also writes radio plays. He holds a Masters degree in Writing and Publishing from DePaul University. He is a writer for the podcasts Our Fair City and Unwell. He was a finalist in Deathscribe 10 for his piece, “Monstruos.” and a five time Midnight Audio Theatre Scriptwriting Competition winner. Jim is the author of an amazing novel, An Unattractive Vampire available from Sword and Laser publishing. This is “The Vampires of Earth”.

 

When humans left Earth, the vampires could not follow. Journeying into space exposed them to the unrelenting power of the sun and no amount of shielding could keep the solar radiation at bay. Not even the humans had solved this problem but had taken their chances in their haste to get away. The vampires did not have this option and found it…difficult…to deal with on their own. They had always depended on mortals and the ingenuity that went hand in hand with a short existence for such innovations.

And so the undead fell upon what remained. Those humans who had stayed behind—the ones too poor or sick or stubborn to leave—were wiped out in a matter of months. By the time the vampires realized they should conserve or cultivate what they had, they were gone. Cows went next. There were so many of them, big and slow and full of blood. Pigs. Cats. Dogs. Horses. The animals that humans had bred by the millions for their own hunger or amusement fell beneath the fang and were silenced.

A decade was all it took to denude the earth of the large mammals. Another to end most birds and reptiles. By this time, the problem was apparent but unsolvable. Anything that could be caught had to be eaten—even if the sustenance it provided was small. Rodents were barely a snack. Amphibian blood was more often rejected by the body than accepted. Insects and worms were pulped by the thousands for the mere drops of sustenance they contained. The green blood of crustaceans turned out to be deadly, no one had ever resorted to eating a horseshoe crab before. There were a few places, in the far north and south—where large ocean animals still roamed. Whales and seals were kept in small fisheries where they could be tapped without killing them outright. Still their numbers were few and they reproduced slowly. It was far easier to prey upon one’s own. The youngest and weakest were culled.

It was nearly too late before the mistake was recognized. Newer vampires had always been more comfortable with technology. For them it was as natural a part of the ecosystem as trees or rain. If advancements were to be made, it would come from them. The elders scooped them up and pressed them into service. There were barely a hundred left. Few of the young ones had an aptitude for science but they had to make do anyway. 

The middling vampires now found themselves preyed upon starting with a century or more and slowly working their way back. Reprieves were made for the odd centenarian who showed an aptitude for modernity but this was as rare as daywalking. Eras rolled backward one at a time. By the time rockets had been redeveloped, the Renaissance frayed at the edges; by the time the first tentative steps into space were made, it had completely unraveled.

Shielding remained the problem. Vampires who went up came back as ash. New metals and new alloys and new composites; all returned with ash. Finally, they hit upon the idea of filling the capsule’s habitation chamber with water to absorb the sun’s radiation. The first vampire to survive space was Hala of Tyre—chosen especially for the purpose because she was expendably Middle Ages but also her name’s meaning, the light around the moon, represented hope for the undead. 

More vampires journeyed into space. There was no shortage of volunteers—those who took part were reprieved from the menu. Not that this always meant safety. Water was not necessarily conducive to travel—on a trip round the moon, water shorted out all the electronics causing the vehicle to crash into the lunar surface, stranding the occupant forever. Another test subject was simply launched into space with no destination—just a transmitter and fuel for acceleration. The last message received came from somewhere within the Kuiper Belt before all went silent. Still, progress was made. The vampires did not have to worry about air or cold or pressure or G forces. Their only barrier was the sun and once that had been solved, everything fell into place very rapidly.

Two hundred years after the humans had left earth, the predators followed their prey. The remaining vampires—the very young and the very, very old—boarded generation ships and flew off, leaving the earth to the arthropods and rodents too small to have been much use. A dozen vessels, each a kilometer long, filled with vampires and water, scouring the aether in search of human blood. The humans had been aiming for Luyten B, the most likely habitable planet in the stellar neighborhood—only 12.2 light years away. Or put another way, a hundred thousand years. But what was that to an immortal? 

The vampires slept in metal crypts, dreaming of the blood. Unless they didn’t. More than half the ships fell to cannibalism not even a quarter of the way through the trip. Another two experienced decompression and lost all their water. An asteroid struck another’s engine. It drifted off into the deep, unable to alter course.

Lifetimes passed. Millenia and Eons. And then at last, at long last, sensors blipped; lights flashed. The ships began to slow. The young vampires now indistinguishable in age from their near useless forebears went to work checking star charts and readying landing modules. The ships could not themselves descend but small capsules could be crashed onto the planetary surface with groups of twenty or so undead in each. Lots were drawn to determine who would go down with the first launches. Fights broke out and the ancient ones learned they no longer held the physical advantage over their younger kin. Twenty-eight of the oldest, most revered, and most hated vampires gave their blood to sate the hunger of those who had to wait. The lucky chosen boarded the entry crafts and fell to the planet surface.

They emerged, hungry and confused, on the dark side of the new planet. There was life—tough, plant-like corals that glowed luminescent. Worms rose out of the ground like wheat, sucking at pollen on the wind. One of the vampires eagerly tried this new fare only to vomit up its black glowing blood. It was incompatible. They needed to find the humans.

No cities had been visible from above the planet. If the humans were here, they had gone underground. Fortunately, iridescent cheeping lichen led them to large fissures. They descended beyond the opening and found themselves in a large cavern where anchored among the stalagmites were the fleshy, bulbous trunks of scale-topped trees. Scarlet sap oozed from their pores. One of the vampires took a tentative lick and shuddered with ecstasy. This was what they had traveled the interstellar advance for. The vampire ripped hungrily into its pulp. The thing rattled with pain, a sound which echoed through the floor of the cavern, but it did not stop the frenzy as the others joined in. There was not a flow of blood to be found but rather a single reservoir of congealed ooze at its center from whence it could be squeezed through its sponge like body. The undead ripped their way to the central cavities and slathered themselves in the first fresh blood they had tasted in over a hundred thousand years. 

There was more than enough in that one plant for each to have their fill. But it had been so long, so very long. They turned toward the neighboring trunks, each now rattling and puffing with the stench of fear—an aroma almost as intoxicating as the blood itself. The shaking dislodged one from its anchor point and it flopped to the ground, rocking comically back and forth like a turtle on its back. The vampire laughed even as the scale-like fronds at the thing’s head separated and lengthened—first into branches and then into arms. 

A vampire was in its mouth before anyone could move. Muffled screams merged with the sucking sound of the plant creature. The others ran to his aid but only by pulling apart the trunk could they extract their companion and by then it was too late. Suction had already crushed and broken the head and upper shoulders, flaying the skin and crushing the bone into a slurry within its central cavity. It drank everything into it, every molecule extracted for its own nutrition.

The central cavern filled with rattles. The creatures freed themselves from the outcroppings they had cemented themselves to and pushed forward on their snail-like feet. Two more vampires were pulled inside mouths and drained of their substance. The rest fled back up the cavern toward the entrance only to find the light of the rising red sun blocking their way. 

The remains of humanity bore down on their ancient enemy. They had fled without shielding, mutated and changed, forced to modify themselves to endure the solar winds. Generations and generations, living and dying and adapting over a hundred thousand years. And now in this cave, they found those from whom they’d fled, spindly and weak—poorly adapted to this new world. Warbles of joy broke forth as they advanced upon the vampires with hungry anticipation. 

Ansel Burch is the curator for the Gateways series as well as the producer for the comedy variety podcast, Starlight Radio Dreams. He is also mixing drinks with fate on YouTube as “Dungeon Barkeep”. Keep up with his work and all the amazing stuff he’s making at www.indecisionist.com


Gateways: “What the Moon Said” by Leah Lopez read by Lauren Davies



TRANSCRIPT: Today’s writer, Leah Lopez is a Chicago writer and the playwright-in-residence at EDGE of Orion Theatre.

“So, it’s magic?” I replied.
“No. And yes,” my uncle returned, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses back up to his nose.
I turned the heavy gold medallion in my hand. It looked like a doubloon.
“You’re not very helpful,” I sighed, avoiding looking at the envelope he had placed in front of me an hour ago. Instead, my hand gripped my coffee mug, no longer hot, and downed it in one gulp with a grimace.
“Science and magic are the same in theory, Jules,” he explained. “A round earth, herbs used by women thought to be witches to cure the sick, potato batteries, sending messages over wires, picking up wifi signals. People say they don’t ‘believe’ in climate change or dinosaurs or the moon landing or vaccinations. What’s the difference in story between the fantasy you write and the science fiction you’re lumped with all the time?” he asked.
“Long hair and elves,” I said, slightly sarcastically.
An hour ago on the day before my 30th birthday, my uncle Fritz showed up at my house with a weathered manila envelope and coffeecake from the day old section of the grocery store. I come from a family of scientists: physicists, geologists, biologists, astronomers. Fritz is an astrophysicist who studies dark matter and was two years older than his sister, my mother. He has two ex-wives, four children (microbiologist, two paleontologists, and a dentist), and dogs he names Charlie. He doesn’t have more than one dog, but just one dog at a time, always named Charlie. A parade of never-ending Charlies. I used this once in a short story and he hung it up in his office. Tore the pages right out of the anthology and stapled the pages in order. He had to buy two to make it work.
I eyed my phone.
“A wiki page on string theory will not make it any easier to understand,” he said with his mouthful of coffeecake.
I sighed again. At least I had some keywords now.
“What is the choice I have to make? You present sentimental history in the form of family letters written to me from when mom and dad died and then a veritable golden ticket to another dimension to maybe see them alive. Were I to write a science fiction story, it definitely wouldn’t make interdimensional travel look so emotional,” I said more to myself than to him.
“It’s more transdimensional than inter,” he said. “And you once said that good science fiction knows how the science works in the story, which is why you chose fantasy, so your version of this story would have a magical gnome bringing you an enchanted acorn,” he said, then laughed at his own joke.
“Stick to astrophysics,” I shot back, taking the letters out of the envelope.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” he said. “It might not work, but we won’t know until you give it a turn. Three turns to be exact. We had plans for other devices that worked differently, but those were lost in the crash with your parents.”
“Great, now I’m in a comic book,” I said, completely sarcastically. “Why does our family have such weird hobbies?”
He gathered his coffee and other papers he brought to explain how it all worked and threw his backpack on over his shoulders. He kissed the top of my head and said, “Jules, you’ll figure it out.” And with that bit of casual advice, he walked outside.
“You suck and I hate you,” I shouted after him from the doorframe. He waved to me over his head, still walking across my overgrown lawn. “And why wait til I’m 30? And why did you make it a stupid doubloon? Next time don’t bring stale cake!”
I walked back in and slumped in my chair.
In all honesty, the letters were more difficult to process than the prospect of seeing my parents alive. They maybe potentially who knows for sure exist in another dimension I could maybe potentially who knows for sure travel to with god damn pirate money. But the letters. The letters were in front of me, real and full of grief. They were tiny ribbons of memory linking me to a time I lived through, but barely remember. Thumbing through them, I could see that they had collected them from around the time my parents died when I was just 5 years old. They were all addressed to me; they were filled with stories of the three of us, of when I was the daughter in a little family and not the orphaned cousin, niece, granddaughter of an only-ever extended family.

Dear Julie, For Little Juliana, To Julie-Bell, Dear Jules.

“One time I babysat you and we ended up at the Art Institute and a burly security guard yelled at me for letting you run around, but you loved the paintings and then we had ice cream. You liked mint chocolate chip.” Uncle Simon, zoologist

“You were the most beautiful baby. Your apgar score was 10 and your dad said your cord fell off at exactly two weeks, right on schedule. I never heard you cry.” Grandpa Gene, doctor

“You loved yellow roses, just like your mother. She had them in their wedding and you had yellow roses painted in your room.” Grandma Stella, botanist

“I’m sorry about your parents. You are very good at writing on the sidewalk with chalk and you like to pretend fairies lived behind your house.” Cousin Ada, mathematician

These were little notes jotted quickly on cards. It must have been during a wake. They were sad and raw and tinged on the sides with grief. Many of them still in present tense, the burden of past tense too heavy. I sucked my breath in as I scanned my memory of all the backyards of all my family. Every single one had yellow rose bushes, tiny threads of remembrance woven into our daily lives.
I ignored all of this for several days. Eventually I avoided the kitchen all together since seeing the letters and the gold medallion strewn across the table made me think about the way my life could go once I made a decision. I had what I wanted, I argued with myself, all I ever wanted. I had a house, books with my name on them, good friends who were there for me, family who loved me. And there sat this tiny coin that could upend everything I knew in my life, everything I held dear, for the chance at something I couldn’t even begin to understand. For the chance to wake up tomorrow and hug my parents, let them see who I grew into.
“You aren’t guaranteed tomorrow either,” my cousin Ada told me another handful of days later as she poured over the cards. “Seriously, Jules, did your parents dying teach you nothing? Every oncoming second has a million strings attached to it depending on which one you pull. I could leave now and be hit by a bus, stay and choke on a cookie, make it home fine and be bored. They’re all weighted the same.”
“Since when did you become a philosopher,” I shot back. “Let me have the arts, ok? You stick to the sciences.”
“I’m just saying that there isn’t a better choice here and so you should go with the obvious one,” she explained as if it were simple. But people who don’t have to make the decision could always boil the emotional parts down to simple and easy and obvious.
“And which one is that,” I asked, avoiding eye contact, because maybe I was overthinking it. Probably not. But maybe.
“Go see them,” she said gently, her hand over mine.
“And if I don’t come back,” I asked her, all the worries rushing into my voice as my throat closed and my chest tightened. All the unspoken fears she could read on my face about meeting two people who reached mythological status in my life, in all our lives, and find that I didn’t measure up. That smashing the past into the future was too much of a decision for any one person.
“Then it was nice knowing you, cuz,” she said, and then she punched me on the arm. “Can I have your house if you don’t come back?”
“Go home and be bored,” I said to her.
“See?” she said, grabbing cookies on her way out, “choose a string and pull it, Juliana. Easy.”
Except it wasn’t easy, I said out loud later that night on the back porch in conversation with the moon. I held the gold coin up, let the light reflect all the decisions. I had everything I wanted in this life save two people who maybe existed in another. Now, with nothing left to gain here, I suddenly found myself with everything to lose if I go there.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and chose a string.

Today’s reader, Lauren Davies is a Podcast host and historical researcher, focusing on the criminal justice experiences of the Suffragette movement. She lives in South Wales.


Gateways: Minion of the Grind by Vishesh Abeyratne read by Alex B. Reynolds



TRANSCRIPT: This story is written by Vishesh Abeyratne. Born and raised in Montreal, Vishesh holds a BFA in Playwriting from Concordia University. His plays include Indifference (Newmarket National 10-Minute Play Festival), The Procrustes Pitch (Between Us Productions, New York), Exposure (published by YouthPLAYS in Los Angeles), and Divide and Rule, which was one of the recent winners of Infinitheatre’s Write-On-Q! playwriting competition in Montreal. A self-avowed geek and lover of all things speculative, Vishesh loves to read and write science fiction and fantasy when he is not writing plays. This is “Minion of the Grind”.

My fellow workers,

Thank you for joining me. It is an honour and a pleasure to be here among such fine upstanding men. Men who won’t sign away their futures to some machine and take money from the government to sit on their couches and drink beer like the empty joyless wretches that they are! I’m grateful that you’re here tonight – all three of you.

I am a man very much like you. I am a man who has been wronged very much like you. And I’m here tonight to tell you my story.

I went back to my old job trying to regain my position. I felt like an idiot, a real stand-outside-your-ex-girlfriend’s-house-with-a-boombox-to-get-her-to-take-you-back kind of idiot. But I went anyway. I wasn’t going to have my job replaced by some stupid robot.

“But Ludd!” You might be wondering. “If the government’s finally given us a guaranteed minimum income and almost every job has now been automated, what the hell are you so bummed about? You can do whatever you want with your life! You can volunteer in your community! You can travel around the world! You can write a novel! The possibilities are limitless! Why the long face, bro?”

I am quite possibly the saddest, most boring human being on the face of the planet. I’m not good at anything. I have no special talents. Making coffee at the 10th Cup Stop was my job and I was content. I knew how to operate the machines and I made delicious drinks. People appreciated them. At least, I think they did. They had no complaints, which is a ringing endorsement in the service industry.

Until one day the federal government finally decided to give us all a universal basic income – three thousand dollars a month to live on. And what do you think happened? People quit left and right – can you believe it? – just because the government paid them more to do nothing than they would earn in an honest day’s work. It’s the company’s fault, really. They could have enticed them to stay by paying them more, but no. No, that would have been too expensive for them.

And then my worst enemy joined the ranks of our corporate chain – CM-259. That piece of junk was installed in every 10th Cup Stop outlet across the country and around the world, and stole my job! I stood there and watched it make a perfect venti-mocha-frappuccino right before my eyes and I knew I was finished. I tried to turn to my friend Keisha for solace, but she was too busy working on her rap demo to pay me any attention. Harris was sketching drawings in his notebook, and Rajiv was whispering a monologue to himself from a play he’d been working on.

And they looked happy about all this! Happy! Why would they be happy with a robot singlehandedly destroying our livelihoods?! Where was their loyalty to the company who had given them jobs, routine, a sense of purpose in life? I can think of no greater affront to the benevolence of a giant corporation than to find your own sense of purpose.

We were all laid off that day. Everyone celebrated by throwing a party right there in the café. Even customers joined in! Keisha was the DJ, of course. Her new single blew everybody’s mind. I’m sure she’ll have time to write many more now that she’ll be sucking on the government’s teat full-time. I couldn’t stand it, so I went home and got drunk and passed out.

When I regained consciousness I felt ashamed of myself. I knew I couldn’t give up that easily. I marched right back over to that coffee shop and demanded my old job back. I fought my manager with arguments about the value of human labour and how we can be empowered by hard work. I’m not super articulate unscripted, so I had to use Ayn Rand to get my point across. But none of it sank in. She just kept giving me these looks of pity, telling me that it wasn’t up to her, that Corporate made this decision a long time ago.

She asked me if I had any interests or hobbies or passions – anything I’ve ever wanted to do with my life but couldn’t because I had to work. She kept saying, “Ludd – don’t you understand? You’re free now. The door of your life is wide open. You’re free, Ludd. Go home.”
But I refused. I told her that my job was all I had, that my ability to make a perfect venti-mocha-frappuccino, my signature drink, was all I had. She told me that CM-259 could make an even tastier frappuccino in under a minute. And I snapped.

I issued the boldest challenge I’ve ever issued anyone. I challenged CM-259 – to a barista-thon. Or, rather, I challenged my manager on CM-259’s behalf, since CM-259 can’t talk. I bet that I, Ludd Terkel, could make a perfect venti-mocha-frappuccino in half that time. If I won, I would get my old job back as the sole human barista at the 10th Cup Stop. If I lost, I would turn around and never return to the store. She accepted – I suspect to humor me.

Well. I don’t think I need to tell you all what happened next. The damn thing whooped my ass. In my rush to complete the drink, I forgot several ingredients and I spilled it all over myself. CM-259 clocked in a perfect drink at twenty seconds. I’ve never been more humiliated in my life. For the second time that week, I went home dejected and distraught.

I tried to hang myself, but wouldn’t you know it, I couldn’t do that either! The rope snapped and I fell and broke my tailbone. Maybe if they made some damn contraption to do the job, it could even kiss me goodnight before I fall asleep forever.

Fellow workers, ours is a tale of woe. We have been left behind for the lazy and the selfish. For those who have forgotten that there is nobility in the Grind. The Grind gives us discipline. The Grind gives us strength. Before it we bow, and we let it lay waste to our bodies and souls until we are made whole again in our exhaustion. We are its servants, and it is our master. Who are we without it to guide us?

If they will not give us our jobs back, I say we take them back.
I say we go into every 10th Cup Stop in the city and smash those machines to bits!
Willing drones, under my command, let us unite as one!
FOR THE GRIND!!!

Today’s reader Alex B Reynolds began their acting career as Sherlock Holmes in the second grade, and has since been seen around Chicago in such roles as Gandalf the Grey, Luigi Mario, and Skeletor. They are so grateful to return to the Gateways Reading Series, and can otherwise be heard on the “Meet/Cute” sitcom podcast, the Filmthusiast “Final Cut” podcast, and on whatever customer support line is paying their bills this month.


Gateways: “Deadend” by Molly Southgate read by Gaby Fernandez



Andy knew she was dead. That still didn’t stop her from jumping when she heard the automated voice saying three words she had never thought she would hear. “Welcome to Heaven.” Although she didn’t believe in life after death, on some strange spiritual level, she had somehow moved on. Where she had moved onto, however, had yet to be determined. 

“Hi there, Andy. Please stand up and make your way through the door,” the gentle robotic voice said. Until the voice pointed it out, she hadn’t realized that she was lying down, or that there was a large white door next to her. The room looked like it could go on forever, just an endless blank space.

“Go on. Stand up. Think of me as your helpful assistant, navigating the afterlife. You can call me ASA,” the voice said. Andy quickly stood and brushed herself off. “How did I die?” Andy asked as her voice quivered with fear. “You were very sick. Since it was such a painful time for you, we erased the memories of your illness.” Immediately, Andy’s hands flew to her face, then her arms, then her legs. However, she couldn’t find any sign of the illness. Asa gave a tinkling laugh and said, “If you’re looking for imperfections you won’t find any. Everyone is perfect here.”

“Did you take anything else?” Andy was skeptical. Her brow furrowed in concern. “Only memories of the pain. Search yourself. You’ll be able to conjure images in your mind of people giving you gifts and staying by your hospital bed. Now please walk through the door.”

Andy tentatively grasped the door handle. It was cold and slick beneath her hand. A startling contrast to the warmth of the room, even with her only wearing a shapeless linen dress. “Asa? What’s on the other side of this door?” She asked cautiously. A silence hung between them for a moment. “The other side of the door has everything you could ever want,” Asa said. 

Intrigued, Andy turned the handle and walked through. When she stepped out of that room what she walked into was far from her version of heaven. Instead of the calming beach she was picturing, it was a carnival. Children were running by screaming at the top of their lungs, the cloying scent of cotton candy was thick in the air. She looked over to see a crowd forming around a group of brightly dressed clowns juggling bowling pins while riding unicycles. “Asa? What is this?” Andy asked, horrified. Andy could hear the smile in Asa’s voice, while Asa answered warmly, “Your first vision of the afterlife. November 22nd, 1995. You were four-years-old. This is younger than most people’s first vision. Most people don’t remember anything before they were five or six.”

“Well, that’s because I remember when my great-grandma died and my Aunt Samantha tried to make me feel better by telling me that when you die you go to the world’s biggest carnival. I’ve always held that memory close,” Andy said. “You’ve imagined the afterlife many different ways throughout your life, and we’re going to visit each one,” Asa said excitedly. Andy grimaced in response. “Oh, God no. I really don’t feel like doing a psychological deep-dive right now. And there’s some embarrassing stuff from my teen years in there.”

“Very well. Maybe at some point, you’ll want to try again,” Asa replied, slightly disappointed. “Please walk through the door.” As she said this, another plain, white door appeared. When Andy stepped through it, her world changed. She was now standing on a beach, her bare feet burning on the hot, white sand. The sun gently warmed her skin as she stared at the jewel-toned waves of the water. “Here we are. Your perfect afterlife. Before you explore I would like to let you know that there are a few rules. Number 1, you must not speak or think ill of another member of this afterlife. Number 2, you must never eat or ask for any apples. Number 3….” Asa droned on and on until somewhere around rule twenty Andy stopped her. “I’m sorry, but, what happens if I break these rules?” 

There was a long pause. “Why, you get sent back, of course. Three strikes and you’re out. Back to Earth to try again. Don’t worry, though. I will warn you, if you are about to get a strike. There are only 150 rules to follow.” 

“Okay?” Andy’s voice wavered slightly. Her chest felt heavy, she wasn’t a perfect person on Earth by any stretch of the imagination. What would she be like here? 

The next day Andy sat up in a soft bed and yawned. The pillowy comforter was olive green, with delicate fleur de lis stitching. The lavender walls were adorned with pictures of Andy at various ages throughout her life. She didn’t know how she had gotten here. That seemed to be happening a lot lately. “Asa?” Andy called out, expectantly. “Where am I?” Asa’s cheerful voice popped back on. “You needed to rest. Transitioning from life to death can be taxing. So, what would you like to do today?”

Andy took a moment to think, “I want to see my family.” A thick silence hung between them before Asa broke it with a chipper voice. “Oh. I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see, each of your family members broke three rules. I was forced to send them back to be reborn. Their lives were completely erased.” Andy faltered, her mind was spinning. “Okay. Who else is here?” 

Asa replied, “Two elderly people, a small child, and you.” 

“That’s it?” Andy was shocked. “For now. Until the next batch of the dead gets sorted into their ideal afterlives.”

“No, that can’t be right. I don’t want to stay here anymore. Send me back.” Andy felt like crying but the tears wouldn’t come. “Why the hell can’t I cry?!” She wailed. Asa’s usually bright voice sounded dismayed. “Most spirits prefer not to cry. I can adjust your setting, though, if you choose that. If you say you want to go back one more time you will get your first strike. That’s breaking rule number seventy-three.”

Something dawned on Andy. “Wait, I can get sent back if I break the rules, right? In that case, Asa, I want to go home.” 

A deep booming voice roared throughout the room.  “Strike one.” It was a perfect plan, Asa would advise her, whether intending to or not, and Andy would break every rule to get her chance at rebirth. “Asa, what is the next rule I can break?” Asa’s voice popped back on. “I am not supposed to advise you. Ask me again and I’ll be forced to give you another strike,” she warned.

“Asa,” Andy started… 

The sadness in Asa’s voice bled through when she interrupted, “Do not ask me again. You are not the only one who will be sent somewhere else.” 

Andy pondered this for a moment. Maybe by doing this she could set them both free? “Asa, what is the next rule I can break?” She asked confidently.

“Strike 2,” The booming voice she had heard earlier blasted out, making her eardrums vibrate.

“Asa? Are you still here?” She tentatively asked. A different voice responded, “I am Asa. Your previous Asa has been deactivated, they were defective. Your strikes have now been reset to zero.”

Two hundred and seven years later: 

The booming voice that always followed a rule break blasted out, “Strike 2.” 

“Asa?” Andy whispered. Yet again, another new voice responded, “I am Asa. Your previous Asa has been deactivated, they were defective. Your strikes have now been reset to zero.”


Gateways: “Anything You Want” by John Harden read by Rob Southgate



TRANSCRIPT: John Harden is a screenwriter and director whose work has screened & garnered awards at top-tier festivals around the world. John’s work is informed by his love of speculative fiction and his background in visual arts, design, journalism and marketing. He is a San Francisco Bay Area native living in Santa Rosa, CA.- johnfilms.com, Twitter handle @giantspecks 

Charlie wondered why it was taking so long to fab the ingredients for his tequila sunrise. The kids would be coming around 10:00 am, and he liked to have a little buzz on. It relaxed him, and made him more fun. And if he was having fun, he rationalized, the kids were having fun, and they were probably learning more, too. His students never seemed to catch on, and there was no one else to answer to since Jane had left. 

Finally the fabricator went “ping” and Charlie opened the door to find a 750-ml bottle of tequila, a jug of orange juice, a glass filled with ice, and a hand grenade. That explained it. “Grenade” was right next to “grenadine” in the list. One errant mouse-click had put him in mortal danger. While Charlie had been waiting for his cocktail, the fabricator had been dutifully cranking away, assembling enough high explosive to blow his head off. Manufacturing those tightly-coiled molecular bonds is what had taken so much time. And energy, which explained why the lights had been flickering. 

For a moment he considered tossing the grenade over the fence into Pinkerman’s backyard. Leaving the pin in, of course: he wasn’t a psychopath. But for all Charlie knew, the thing might have a hair trigger. It might even be rigged to explode when touched. Oh-so gingerly, he closed the fabber door again and pressed the recycle button. 

He could hear power tools. Pinkerman was back at it. Charlie put on shoes. 

Jim Jr. was on the sidewalk, bracing a sheet of corrugated metal while his dad screwed it to their picket fence with his drill. Like the panels next to it, this sheet was eight feet tall, and they’d notched the top edge into a row of triangular points. 

“Hey Jim. Looking pretty Mad Max over here.” 

Pinkerman grunted. “Can’t be too careful.” He crouched, and placed another screw. Charlie could see the gun sticking out from the back of his workbelt. 

“You know, if you’re really worried about security, fabricate some solar panels for your roof. Then you’ll still be able to eat the next time there’s a blackout.” 

No answer. “Hey, I was wondering––“ 

The noise of the drill interrupted him. Charlie waited for him to finish. 

“Is Jim Jr. coming to class today?” 

Jim Jr. had only just turned 12, but he had fuzz sprouting on his upper lip and to Charlie’s eyes was growing visibly beefier by the day. Now, not-so-mini-Jimmy squinted at his dad, looking for guidance. 

The elder Pinkerman fished for another screw. “I don’t know. I don’t go to work anymore. I can’t hardly expect him to go to school.” 

“It’s not the same thing. You don’t want him to be stupid, do you? Send him over.” 

Charlie wondered if he’d offended Pinkerman, or if silence indicated agreement. Anyway, Karen Fisher was over at Charlie’s front gate with her daughter Sophie. Other kids were arriving, too, some on foot, some dropped off from cars. Those parents had found gasoline somewhere, or expended the copious time and electricity needed to fabricate it. 

Mrs. Fisher was her usual jittery self. She’d always been socially awkward, but the past year’s events had really tightened her strings. She thanked Charlie, yet again, for continuing to teach Sophie and all the other kids when he wasn’t even getting paid. He replied with something self- deprecating in a vain attempt to put her at ease. She kept fussing with her purse, saying that she wished she could give Charlie something. 

“Nobody needs anything, Karen. We all have fabricators.” 

“Sure, sure.” 

Charlie could see her purse was stuffed with loose cash. It looked like she’d robbed a convenience store. As soon as fabricators had become commercially available, just about the first thing everyone did with them was to make mountains of twenty-dollar bills. Charlie, no better than anyone else, had done it too. Karen was still at it, bless her heart. Cash transactions had been outlawed for almost a year now. 

Fourteen kids in total showed up. It made the living room pretty crowded. Jim Jr. came, which pleased Charlie more than he’d expected. The rest of the kids mostly were from Charlie’s 6th grade class, the one he’d been teaching in the fall up until the school building was condemned. Deferred maintenance and heavy rains had led to a partial roof collapse. Replacing it was well beyond the abilities of the volunteers, mostly parents, who made up the ad hoc school administration. Supposedly they were still looking around for someone who would do the work. 

Charlie spent an hour on history and another on pre-algebra. While the kids ate lunch in the backyard, he managed to successfully fabricate not one but two tequila sunrises and down them both. After lunch break English class got pretty loosey-goosey, with Charlie riffing on the kids’ creative writing assignments, and a long discursive discussion that Charlie had to cut short when little Sophie asked Charlie why his wife had moved out. Charlie changed the subject and then ran out the clock having the kids read their stories aloud. 

Jim Jr.’s thing was about a grumpy, insulting wizard who would never let his son use the magic wand. If it was a cry for help, it was a pretty well-written one, and surprisingly funny. Somewhere under that subcutaneous fat lay a soul. Charlie praised the story, probably a bit too much, to encourage Jim Jr. and to assuage his own guilt for having underestimated him. 

The kids left around 2:00. Tired and hungry, Charlie plopped down at the PC and found a tasty- looking burrito. It wasn’t TruFab-certified but then again, it was free. It did carry something called the PatternSafe Guarantee, which he Googled and found some conflicting information about. He went ahead and fabbed it anyway. It came out looking just like the picture, it didn’t set off the poison or bio buzzers, and it smelled delicious. He unrolled the tortilla and carefully inspected the contents for foreign objects. By that point he was starving, so he ate it, throwing caution to the wind. 

Caution was getting thrown into that wind pretty much on a daily basis, he mused. But that almost sounded brave. Charlie didn’t feel brave. Just anxious. And lonely. 

Having survived another meal, Charlie spent the rest of the afternoon doing housework and drinking beer. He recycled each empty can in the fabricator as he went. He might be a drunk, but his house was gonna be spotless. No tell-tale pile of empties here. He played music. 

Loudly. “I am an impeccable drunk,” he announced to no one, adopting a high-born British accent. “Impeccable!” Like a train, way up the tunnel, Charlie knew a day was coming for him when he’d admit that Jane was never coming home. Who would he polish the countertops for then? 

The house was dark when Charlie awoke on the couch. He fabbed two aspirin and a glass of water and dragged his ass to his bed. He’d barely settled in when he heard the noise on his front porch. 

Thump. Again. Someone was definitely out there. Still a little buzzed, Charlie got up and moved to the window with all the stealth he could muster. It was dark out there, but he could make out the hunched form of a man on his front steps. Just sitting there. 

Charlie found his phone and dialed 9-1-1. Three rising tones and a lady’s voice told him the number was out of service. 

He skulked to the living room, and in a hissed whisper said “Make me a gun.” The PC’s monitor flicked on. Charlie was dismayed at the smorgasbord of deadly force it was serving up. He scrolled a bit, looking for a smaller, less scary-looking pistol. 

Then he stopped. This was not the kind of guy he was. Pinkerman might call him a pussy all day long, but Charlie wanted to think the best of people. On some level, he felt he’d rather live true to that belief even if it got him killed. You know, rather than live in fear of his fellow man. Charlie got up, went to his door, and asked, “Who’s there?” 

“Sorry, Mr. Pearson.” 

Charlie put on the porch light and opened the door. 

“Jimmy? Jesus. What time is it?” 

Jim Jr. shrugged. “I don’t know, 8:30? Were you sleeping?” 

“Of course not.” 

Jim Jr. had had an argument with his dad. Dad was mad a lot, lately. No one was hiring contractors. 

“These days, if we’re working at all, we’re only doing it because we want to,” Charlie said. “I’m still teaching because I think it’s important. Hey, here’s an idea: ask your dad if he can help us rebuild the school. We can’t pay him. But, he can be the foreman and boss people around. He’ll like that, right?” 

Jim Jr. smiled, and nodded agreement. 

Charlie coughed, and cleared his throat: “I’m dying of thirst. You want something?” 

“What do you got?” 

“‘What do I got?’ I got a fabricator. You can have anything you want.”

 

Rob Southgate is a professional actor in commercials and films, a professional podcaster, and a professional public speaker. He is currently preparing the debut of his first book and busily booking a national tour of the SMG Podcast Marathon. Rob loves sharing ideas with others and creating opportunities for his creative associates. Along with his wife, Martha, Rob started Southgate Media Group as a creative outlet and a way to incorporate all of their interests and their past experiences. SMG is home to over 100 podcasts, blogs, and video channels. If you think Rob has a lot going on, ask him about his amazing daughter, Molly.


Gateways: “Their World, Astral” by Isaac Rathbone ready by Courtney Lynn



Highlights of Isaac Rathbone‘s work include Captain Ferguson’s School For Balloon Warfare (Off-Broadway and remount at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival), The Gnome (Barter Theatre), Breakfast For Dinner (NYC Fringe Festival), and Undeclared History (Hofstra University). He is no stranger to speculative drama, as his genre one-acts such as Deb & Joan (about a lovesick android), A Ship of Strong Timber (a space captain goes mad at the on-set of a voyage), Bensonhurst (the Minotaur myth set in South Brooklyn) and Free Space (the ultimate dystopian Bingo game) have been produced throughout the US and UK.

 

Pamela Muller sat comfortably on a D train that was not a sweltering, crowded mess. The coffee in her clean travel mug was excellent. Her husband made it every morning, and as always he had nailed today’s pot. She had a full breakfast but wasn’t feeling sluggish or bloated. Her train buzzed along, without any delays.

A cooling breeze rustled the marigolds that Ralph Harrison had planted along his stone walkway. Ralph got into his Ford Focus and headed to work. His travels zipped him over the small rolling hills and past the family farms that made up the landscape of Southeast Pennsylvania.

Pamela scrolled through her phone, doing some quick brush-up research. Her accounting firm had recently acquired a new tech client with a huge government contract. Pamela’s team had a video conference with the client’s HR department. She still didn’t quite understand what research they were involved in. But she would be working with their administrative office which was located somewhere in Southeast Pennsylvania. 

As Head of Facility and Maintenance at World Astral Technologies, Ralph had to be in a little earlier than usual. The company hired a New York accounting firm to help carry the office workload. HR was using the research division’s conference room to get the ball rolling. Doctor Colson, the head of research had grumbled a bit, but the Wi-Fi was better there than anywhere else in building. Ralph didn’t mind the early start. His job provided a comfortable living, while allowing him to pay the mortgage and save for his three wonderful daughters’ college accounts.

Pamela got off at 59th Street. She was hoping her commute home would be this smooth. She and her husband had reservations at a new Portuguese restaurant and tickets for an advanced screening of a new foreign film. She walked among the crowd of morning commuters but stopped before she headed up to the surface.

Ralph’s oldest daughter was learning to drive and kept re-programming his radio stations. After scanning through the channels, he stopped on a song. One he had not heard in many, many years. A smile grew on his face and his chest began to flutter a little.  He sat parked in the motionless sea of newly applied blacktop and painted white lines of the company lot. Even though he didn’t like his music too loud, he turned up the volume to hear the opening piano chords of David Bowie’s “Rock ‘n’ Roll With Me.”

Underneath the Subway stairs a young man, with a voice that was both dirty and beautiful, sang a song Pamela hadn’t heard in many, many years. An emotion stirred within her that stands at the corner of nostalgia and regret and doesn’t know which street to take. Even though she didn’t like being late for work, she stayed and listened to the young man sing David Bowie’s “Rock ‘n’ Roll With Me.”

Ralph hustled through the hallway of the research wing, trying to figure out how to download a song to his phone. He needed a series of updates before he could make the purchase. His wife was so good with this stuff, but he didn’t want to wait until he got home. A gnawing obsession within needed to be satiated with that song.

Pamela hustled into the office, ignoring her sub-ordinates who were gathering their laptops and legal pads. She couldn’t get the song out her head. After the meeting, she was going to put in her Air Pods, pretend to make a personal call and listen to it. 

The conference room in New York was projected onto a giant white screen. Ralph checked in with the HR folks to make sure that the temperature and the network were good to go. Once he got the thumbs up, he stood outside the door and used the faster Wi-Fi connection to make the upgrade. On the screen, Pamela could be seen taking her seat. She was mouthing the lyrics to the song that Ralph was now humming in the hallway outside.

In Manhattan, Pamela heard a faint popping sound coming from Pennsylvania. Others in the meeting heard it too. Their counterparts, seen on a large monitor, began turning their heads at the commotion. Someone was yelling.

Ralph looked up to see Doctor Colson running passed him. He was hysterical and screaming for everyone to get out of the building. There was a flash.

The screen in New York went bright white. There was a flash inside the conference room.

When the brightness subsided, both conference rooms and hallways were empty.

Pam opened her eyes and found herself on all fours, looking down at an unfamiliar linoleum floor. A tarnished travel mug had fallen and a wide, steaming puddle of coffee was spreading itself out. Her instinct was to grab a handful of paper towels. But when she stood, she couldn’t locate any. She had never been in this kitchen before.

Ralph awoke sitting on the edge of a king-sized bed. He looked around the strange bedroom, trying to figure out where he was. A woman yelled from downstairs. After some clumsy navigation, Pam and Ralph found each other in the kitchen. 

“Ralph? Ralph, is that…” Ralph nodded. They hadn’t seen each other in twenty-seven years. And here they stood. In a strange kitchen. In a strange house. In Morris Plains, New Jersey. 

They were having some kind of shared experience. But not dreaming or hallucinating. Ralph mentioned that there must have been some accident. Needing immediate answers, Ralph fumbled with the unfamiliar cellphone in his pocket. Pam easily unlocked the screen of hers and started figuring out passcodes.

Ralph wandered over to the fridge and saw some school artwork signed with the name “Ollie.” Under a Donald Duck magnet was a picture of Ralph, Pam and a little boy.

“I got it!” yelled Pam. “My parents’ anniversary.”

She searched the phone contacts and joined Ralph at the fridge. Ollie looked nothing like either of them. He had bright blonde hair and deep blue eyes. He had no resemblance to any of Ralph’s daughters either.

“He’s adopted,” said Pam. “See? Contacts in here for some agencies and social workers.” They began to call out the name Ollie but got no answer. After awkwardly touching base with Pam’s mother, they learned that their son was having a grandparent’s weekend. When her mother asked what they had planned for the day, Pam responded that they might take a quick drive to Pennsylvania.

They rode in the Ford Escape that was in the garage. Ralph drove. As they cruised along, they talked. In between the attempts to make sense of their situation, they exchanged some anecdotes. Even laughed a little at each other’s jokes and observations. There was no silence. They treated themselves to some terrible fast food at a drive-thru. They both hadn’t eaten anything like this since they turned forty, but having a survived a dimensional transfer deserved a treat.

Ralph looked in the rearview mirror at the empty car seat. It had been some time since there was one in any of his vehicles. Pam also observed the presence of Ollie. She thought about the Ford they were in. Their big house. Moving back to Jersey closer to her parents. A kid. 

“How did we get here?” she asked. 

Ralph attempted re-hashing the story of Doctor Colson’s accident. She interrupted.

“No Ralph. How did we get here?”

He swallowed hard and asked her to look at the music that might be on her phone. She didn’t have to. She knew. 

 

They had been freshmen at Rutgers. Ralph commuted. Pam lived on campus. But they found each other at the same events. Same parties. Same hangouts. Ralph summoned the courage to ask her out and Pam summoned the courage to say yes. They ate at a chain restaurant and saw a movie. On the way back to Pam’s dorm, in Ralph’s beat-up Ford Tempo, she started poking fun at the CDs in the car. They began to laugh at each other’s music tastes when Pam turned on the classic rock station. “Rock ‘n’ Roll With Me” by David Bowie began to play.

“Are you cool with Bowie?” she asked. He was, in fact, very cool with Bowie. Ralph parked the car in front of the dorm and they listened to the entire song. Ralph turned the radio off before another song or commercial ruined it. They wanted to reach out to each other, but neither made any attempt to. There was a distance between them. After exchanging pleasantries, the distance expanded as Pam left the car and transferred that summer to Boston College.

In the time they were in now, in the world and the life that they shared, Pam and Ralph had kissed each other that night. There was no doubt about it in their minds.

A caravan of cars and trucks pulled into the World Astral Technologies parking lot. Doctor Colson, unshaven and wearing jean cut-off shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, welcomed everyone. He assured these refugees of trans-dimensional displacement, that all would be set right. They staggered into the building, all in various states of confusion and anxiety. 

Behind them all stood Pamela and Ralph Harrison of Morris Plains, New Jersey. The entrance of the building lay just beyond the motionless sea of the parking lot, which needed new asphalt in Ralph’s professional opinion. Their lives, which had fulfillment and joy and support and love, were waiting for them. But they didn’t know if they could make the walk. They delicately took each other by the hand, softly touching in a way that each of them secretly desired for twenty-seven years. Ralph turned his head to Pam and she smiled.

“There’s no one else I’d rather be.”

Courtney Lynn is a Chicagoland area performer and director and is a graduate of Northern Illinois University’s BA Theatre Studies program. She most recently directed “The Centenarians” as part of Otherworld’s PARAGON Sci-Fi + Fantasy Play Festival. Other area credits include performing and directing at the Bristol Renaissance Faire, and projects with Hela’s Hand Productions and Fake Geek Girl Productions. When not performing, directing, or toiling away at her day job, Courtney can be found posting pictures of her totes adorbs rescued Corgi, Walter, on Instagram (@wigglebuttwalter), designing and crafting hats and fascinators for her business Say Something Hats, reveling in her love of Disney with Drunkenly Ever After, and creating costumes for cosplays and photoshoots. She is thrilled to be a part of this production and hopes you enjoy the show!


Gateways: “Hearts, Stars and Horseshoes” by Rob McLemore read by Nathan Shelton



TRANSCRIPT: Rob McLemore has been consistently fascinated with sci-fi and fantasy for as long as he can remember and works it into just about everything he writes.  The majority of Rob’s work consists of comedy, both sketch and serial, and can frequently be heard with Locked Into Vacancy Entertainment.

Terry and Jay stood for a while in silence, staring at the sight on the floor in front of them.  Neither was sure exactly what to say.  They repeatedly exchanged glances to confirm that what they were seeing was in fact real and not the remnants of the previous night’s indulgences.  Finally, after an uncomfortably long period of time, Terry broke the silence.  “Should we poke it?”

Jay shot him an immediate look of disbelief.  He was about to object, then paused, realizing he couldn’t actually think of a more appropriate course of action.  He closed his mouth for a moment then added, “Is it alive?”

The pair knelt down to take a look at the small form on the floor.  It looked enough like a person, albeit only a few inches tall.  It had a scraggly beard and wore a red coat, shiny black shoes, and a fancy little hat.  As fascinating as it was to see, the allure was slightly tarnished by the fact that it was sprawled out on the floor with its mouth open and its tongue hanging out.  Upon closer inspection, they discovered a small puddle of drool had formed around its head and that it was, in fact, still breathing.  They glanced at each other once again.  Finally, Jay said what they were both thinking, “Is…that a leprechaun?”

As hard as it was to fathom, Terry couldn’t ignore the coincidence.  They were in Ireland and they were in the presence of what could only be described as very tiny person.  He tried to think back to what had happened the night before for any rational explanation.  What he could remember involved stopping in at a local pub, meeting another group of backpackers, striking up a conversation with some locals, a lot of alcohol, and, eventually, the party making its way back to their room.  All the other details were fuzzy at best.  If it was a practical joke, it was a very well executed one.

A number of questions ran through both of their minds, but before any of them could be spoken, the tiny figure twitched.  They froze, their eyes fixated on the creature.  It twitched again, stretched, then, after letting out a yawn, slowly sat up.  It groggily blinked at the two people staring wide eyed at it.  “Morning,” it said.

The pair screamed.  Not out of any sense of direct fear, as the tiny man was anything but intimidating.  However, more so out of a realization that their grasp on the concrete notions of reality they had spent their entire lives cultivating was suddenly shattered by a night of drinking and a simple greeting.  The leprechaun burst out laughing.  This was something he was quite used to and had come to find absolutely hilarious.  The reactions from both parties eventually died down and the room returned to an incredibly awkward silence.  “Not a particularly talkative bunch, are you?” it asked?

Terry remained motionless, stammering to get a coherent thought out.  Jay, however, acting purely on instinct, grabbed his backpack, and trapped the creature inside of it.  He quickly zipped it shut then pulled his hands back, watching as the bag tumbled around and a string of barely coherent profanities streamed out.

“Why would you do that?!” Terry demanded.  “There is a mythical creature in our hotel room and your first thought is to toss it in a sack?!”

“I panicked,” Jay offered meekly.  “Besides, aren’t you supposed to catch leprechauns?  Isn’t that part of their legends or something?”

Terry stared at him blankly.  “Lucky Charms commercials are not legends.”

“I’m serious,” Jay retorted.  “I remember something about how they’re supposed to give you wishes or good luck or something if you can catch one.”  Jay picked up the wriggling sack and held it at arm’s length.  “Did you hear that in there?  We’ll let you go once you give our three wishes or whatever.”

The bag stopped moving.  A sigh could be heard from inside.  “Do I look like a genie to you?”

Jay turned beet red.  He was about to unzip the bag when Terry grabbed his hand.  He had his phone out and, after scrolling through multiple sites, piped up.  “Actually, it says here that leprechauns are supposed to grant three wishes so long as we promise to let you go.  And what’s more, while they’re known for being tricky, they can’t outright lie to us.  So, leprechaun, do we get some wishes for catching you?”

Another string of curses wafted out as the bag once again began thrashing about.  “Curse you humans and your stupid pocket screens!  Everything was so much easier before you lot could just summon up whatever you wanted to know with a poke of your lousy finger!”  The bag continued to thrash for a while longer, accompanied by more yelling and cursing until, eventually, it wound down.  Panting, the leprechaun relented.  “Fine.  What do you want?”

Jay lay the bag back on the ground as he and Terry pondered for a moment.  This was hardly how they expected their morning to turn out, so they hadn’t put much thought into their greatest earthly desires.  “While we’re thinking on that one,” Terry said, “can we ask you a few questions?  Like why are you in our hotel room?”

“And how come you’re not wearing green?” Jay added.  Terry smacked him on the shoulder.  “What?  I’m curious.”

A chuckle emanated from the bag.  “You two were a right lot of fun at the bar last night.  Wee folk like myself don’t tend to mingle with your kind, but we have to admit, you do know how to have a good time.  When everyone ended up checking out, I figured I’d just spend the night here.  I didn’t imagine either of you would be up before I was on my way.”

“We’re early risers,” Terry replied.

“Apparently so.”  The leprechaun continued.  “And as for your question, slappy, we can wear more than just one color.  Being a leprechaun doesn’t come with a uniform.  Now, make with the wishes so I can get out of here.  Your bag smells like a dried-out cow.”

Terry and Jay huddled up.  The chances of anything like this happening ever again were miniscule, so they wanted to make absolutely sure they didn’t mess it up.  They ran through every wish-making lesson they’d learned from popular culture.

“Wording is crucial,” said Jay.  “We have to be absolutely certain we don’t monkey’s paw our way into some horrible fate because we aren’t specific.  So, like if we wanted an amazing sandwich, we have to detail exactly what makes is amazing and eliminate any possible negative consequences.  We can’t just say ‘I wish for a good sandwich.’”

“That’s one!” the leprechaun cackled.  There was a sudden pop and a relatively appetizing ham and swiss dropped on the floor.  “What else do you have in mind?”

“You idiot!” Terry shouted, shoving Jay.  He snatched up the sack for himself.  “Now we only have two wishes left and…a sandwich.  Let’s just think up what we want then write it down so we don’t accidentally mess things up any further.”  Jay silently nodded.  The pair paced back and forth, trying to figure out exactly what to wish for and how to most appropriately word it.  Terry grabbed a pencil and a notepad and sat, staring at it intensely.  His mind was a complete blank.  After ten silent minutes he blurted out, “I’ve got nothing!  All your life you dream of something like this!  Now, here I am, and I can’t decide on anything!  God, I wish I could think of something!”  Jay looked at him in shock.  He slapped his hands over her mouth, but it was too late.

“Done and done!” the leprechaun gleefully shouted, snapping his finger.  “One left.”

Both of them slumped on the floor.  This was not going as planned.  Jay repeatedly slammed his head into his knees.  Terry, however, shot up.

“Ok, so maybe I screwed up that one, but at least it worked.  I know exactly what to wish for.”  Jay paused his slamming.  “He’s a leprechaun, so he has to have a pot of gold,” he proudly stated.  “Think of it.  We can pay off our loans, keep traveling, basically never worry about money ever again.  How about it?”  Jay pondered for a moment, then nodded in agreement.  Terry picked up the sack.  “Leprechaun, we wish for your pot of gold!  That is a thing, right?”

“It certainly is.  One pot of gold, coming right up!”  The leprechaun clapped and suddenly Terry, Jay, and the stuffed backpack were standing in the middle of a field near the coast.  The scenery was gorgeous, but nothing compared to the giant black pot sitting in front of them, filled to the brim with gold coins.  They dropped the bag and ran over to the pot, looking at the incalculable wealth that was suddenly theirs.  Both of them burst out laughing, hugging each other and tossing coins in the air.  They could have done this for hours, but were interrupted by the leprechaun loudly clearing his throat.

“You got your wishes.  Now, time to live up to your end of the bargain and let me out,” it said.

Jay rushed over and hastily unzipped the bag.  The little man hopped out, dusting himself off.  Terry and Jay were so ecstatic they both picked him up and hugged him.  Then each other again.  Then burst out laughing some more.  The leprechaun watched amused.

“I suppose I’ll be getting on my way,” it said.  “Though, before I go, just one more thing.”  It pulled out a stick and pointed it at the two.  “Empty your pockets!”  They stopped laughing.  “You heard me.  I want everything you got on you.  And those shoes too.  In fact, toss in your shirt and pants too.  Put them the pot and back away!”  Neither did anything.  “I wasn’t asking.” the leprechaun said sternly.  A small fireball shot from the stick and landed between the pair.  They looked back at him in disbelief.

“Are you…mugging us?” Jay stammered.

The leprechaun laughed.  “How else do you think we get all that gold?  I can probably get a few more pieces from what you have.  Oh, and a little tip for next time.  Wishing to get a pot of gold is one thing.  Wishing to keep it is another.”  And with that, it was gone. 

An hour later, Jay and Terry were still sitting by a road in their underwear, hoping a car might come by.  As they waited, they wondered how exactly they had come to this situation.  And, as they did, one thought remained inescapably clear:  Leprechauns suck.

END

Nathan Shelton is a professional actor, writer, director, and special effects makeup artist living in Chicago.  He has worked on numerous theatrical, tv, and film productions including Above Ground, The Rake, Scum of the Earth’s latest music video: Dance MotherF*&#er, and the Oscar nominated indie film, Winter’s Bone.  His production company, ARCANE, is currently working on a multitude of devious dark projects, including a horror radio theatre anthology series called The Frightmare Theatre Podcast