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Wendell felt as though he had shattered into a thousand pieces and each piece, each shard, had scattered throughout time and space. His consciousness flickered from shard to shard, brief moments in different worlds and time. He had stopped wondering why, because the why no longer mattered. The constant shifting had become his reality. He could only just remember the time before it began, and he was starting to believe that there would be no time after it ended.
A willy-willy blew in from the desert, over sun-blasted paddocks to the outskirts of a boom-and-bust town. It stopped at a place where the road dog-legged before an ancient, stone-hard eucalyptus tree. The dust devil scoured the leathery leaves and steely bark with grit until, finally, its energy dispersed. In the settling dusk, it remained, as it always had, a dark sentinel hunched between the road and the riverbank.
The two adventurers found it in the side bazaars of Byzantium, that already ancient city which would eventually be known thrice named.
As the Crusaders stole and violated their way across the city that had once been the grandest in the world, the pair came across an old Armenian who bargained his life for the map and a compass.
Hello. My name is Frederick Fawkes; I'm an Australasian, meaning in my case my father was a Kiwi and my mother was an Aussie, so I carry both passports. Rather, I did. This is my personal statement to the judge and jury before the jury deliberates.
I wish I knew how or why I got into parapsychology. I've forgotten.
Water caressed the creature's silver body, ebbing and flowing with the outgoing tide. Its scales glinted rainbows in the sunlight, and its fins pulsed and vibrated as it shivered, despite the warmth of the tropical water in which it lay. The creature turned an elongated head from side to side, two large orange pupils dilating to allow extra light to penetrate both eyes as the setting sun dimmed. A cry issued from blubbery black lips as a spasm of pain racked its body.
“Just another illegal,” said Bill our immsuper “On the north side, at Ngunnawal.”
It only took our electro-magnetic heavy vehicle minutes to get there, yet a crowd had already gathered — some of them starting to do our job for us.
It never ceased to amaze me how people would do this, using crude techniques when our “official” technology was much quicker.
I know something's wrong. It’s the rain you see. It’s not what it should be. It’s green — that’s right, green. Pollution maybe? I really can’t say. Another thing — as I watch — the sun — while trying to peep between the rain — changes — from a familiar orange-yellow to a dark blue. There’s a loud bang — the Earth explodes into trillions of fragments. I survive this because I’m standing outside — yes, outside of everything. I’m here but not here, if you know what I mean.
Coming In Issue 212
A Magical Ring
by Ovidiu Bufnila
by Mickey Hunt
Poor Mrs Rosenbaum
by Benjamin Hayes
by DW Walker
by Elizabeth Rhodes
The Memories of Lorna Davis
by Sean Mulroy
Who Loves What The Most?
by Wes Parish
Online Since Feb 1998
I, Robocall - by Allan Dyen-Shapiro
Walt Disney & The Duck Lord - by Wes Parish
The Hole - by Leslie Blake
Irina Galinskya's Log - by David Adès
Disconnection - by Kevin J. Phyland
The Sleeper - by Marg Essex
Gifts That Keep On Giving - by Benjamin Hayes
Pokemon - by Jason Fischer
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The Three Laws Of Robotics