Issue #718 Keith’s SciFi Musings Thursday, August 29, 2024

First of all, and this is important, guys, this is not the end of SciFi Musings.

Not by a long shot.

I’m just moving to a new neighborhood. But cooler than that, I’m moving to a new neighborhood that will be custom-designed by yours truly. A neighborhood custom-designed and tailored specifically for my sci-fi, fantasy, and horror imaginings. And I hope you’ll come along.

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Oh. You need directions, right? Here you go:

Or you can go here:

In the meantime, kicking this thing off here on We Are Speaking has indeed been a blast. I have had so much fun just spitballing story ideas; some of them are complete, and others are not quite. But the idea here was always just to get them out there before they rust.

I first began this section of the site on January 1, 2023, and have cranked out a new story/post every Sunday since then. Now, those stories have all been migrated to their new home. This is not because this hasn’t been a great place to start, but it’s time to let my sci-fi/horror/fantasy offerings stand on their own feet in their own universe.

Quite frankly, We Are Speaking was always meant as a vehicle for Pam and me to share our socio-cultural-political views, and we are thrilled with the response we have been getting, especially in recent months.

But political commentary and sci-fi short stories don’t always play so well together in the same sandbox, and that’s OK. It really is.

So, I do hope you’ll drop by while I build this new neighborhood. The residents may appear a little strange at first, but I think they’ll grow on you.

All of the weekly posts will be free, but I hope you will support me financially by:

• Upgrading to a Paid Subscription for no more than $5/month.

• Investing in my books and subscribing to Detroit Stories Quarterly.

Full information will be available on my next post on Sunday, September 8, 2024.

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Issue #698 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, August 11, 2024

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---

The Reaper and Me (Part 1)

I guess he thought it was funny. You know, Jack the Reaper?

He always said it was important for death to have a sense of humor. I’m not so sure I agree, but then I haven’t been around as long as Jack, and I haven’t seen the things he’s seen. When it’s been your job for eternity to pay folks their last visit, I can understand the desire to want to lighten things up a bit.

It has been three years, one week, and five days since Jack first told me the reason for his visit. Because after that first lengthy conversation, we shared in a coffee shop, the one that just opened up on Third and Ash just a couple blocks from my apartment (not much humor was shared on that day), Jack decided maybe it shouldn’t be my time after all. Much to my relief, but I had questions.

“Don’t you have to get some sort of approval from somewhere before you can go changing the schedule like that? Not that I don’t appreciate what you’re doing, but it just seems…”

“The decision has always been up to me. It just works better that way, giving us the final call if we feel like we need to make an adjustment to the calendar. Death and bureaucracy just don’t mix. The Big Guy understands that, same as he understands most things. Anyway, you’re off the hook. For now.”

“Wait…us?”

So let me back up a bit.

We were never supposed to end up in a coffee shop, but it was one of those situations where I knew I had to think quickly because the alternative wasn’t looking so good. It was a nice spring day featuring a clear blue sky and just a slight breeze, and I was sitting on my front porch in my slippers, smoking a joint. Time was 8:06 am on a Saturday – you gotta love digital watches – and I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, just glad it was the weekend.

Then the atmosphere unzips itself right in front of me, and this short, shabby-looking guy comes strolling through this sudden opening in the air, looking directly at me with this crooked grin attached to his face like it was stitched on, hands clasped behind his back, gray ponytail halfway down his back. The first thing I thought was that you don’t see too many Black guys wearing ponytails these days. The second thing I thought was maybe Ricky had dropped a little something extra in this month’s supply of weed. Because this shit could not be happening.

“Morning, cousin! And nope, Ricky didn’t add anything to your joint, although I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s one of those I wish his time was a little sooner. But gotta follow the calendar, right? Anyway, speaking of that calendar, it says here that Ricky got way more time left than he probably should, but YOU, my friend, your lottery number has ARRIVED!”

So I was feeling nervous and scared as hell on the inside because it was rapidly becoming apparent to me where this train was headed. But on the outside? I was all Detroit. I took a long drag, then cocked my head to the side. Squinted my eyes tight.

“Don’t play the lottery, and I ain’t your damned cousin. That’s my brother’s trip. Yo, what you say your name was again?”

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Issue #691 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, August 4, 2024

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---

But the grinding wouldn’t wait. It only grew louder, and it had to be coming from his office, because it was right there in the middle of the room.

Except that it wasn’t. Because there was nothing in the middle of the room except what had always been there.

“Hello..?” he said.

The sound paused. Had it heard him? Then there was a painful metallic groan, like that noise a teetering building makes in one of those action movies when it’s been hit by some sort of explosive and is about to crumble into itself. Jonas loved action movies.

“Hey! What the hell you doing in there this time of the morning, Jonas? You know what time it is?”

The neighbor. Jonas knew the neighbor’s name, but to Jonas he had always only been ‘the neighbor’. Almost as big of an asshole as his brother. Almost. He must have come outside to the backyard porch, which wasn’t more than 20 feet or so to the left of his office window on the other side of the chain link fence. These houses were built way too close together, he thought.

“It’s not me,” replied Jonas in a voice that was too frail and distant to be heard by the neighbor. “I don’t know…I don’t…”

He saw something. Or he thought he had. A glimmer, a twisting ribbon of aluminum and light that sparked in and out of his disbelieving view. Jonas squinted his eyes.

“Hello…?” he said again.

The glimmer, which had only been about the size and shape of a very long strip of bacon at most (if you could imagine a strip of bacon contorting in and out of itself), began to stretch longer and wider in the middle of the air. And the more its dimensions expanded, the more the groans became loud and insistent. Jonas clapped his hands over his ears and began shaking his head as he closed his eyes.

“You need to stop,” he said in an anguished whisper.

And so it did. Just like that. Jonas opened his eyes and noticed the glimmer was still there, bigger and more solid in shape, not flickering in and out of view any more. The groaning sound had been replaced by a low level hum, like a room full of contented bees.

“Jonas!”

The neighbor again. Jonas ignored him, as he often did. Must have been feeling better.

“Thank you,” he said to the glimmer.

The sound of contented bees humming increased in intensity for about five seconds, then dropped back down to its original level. Jonas smiled. The glimmer, which had been vertical, switched to horizontal, and then stretched itself into a U-shape, roughly resembling a smile.

Jonas laughed. It started off small, more like a chuckle, but then it swelled into a full-throated guffaw as his almond-shaped eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Seriously, Dad?”

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Issue #683 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, July 28, 2024

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---

The first time it happened, Jonas was sitting at his desk in his cramped disaster space of an office, sipping on lukewarm coffee and catching up on his emails. Leaning back in his antique, chipped, and very squeaky wooden chair, the one he had inherited from his late father who had also been a writer of fiction (only he had been successful at it) he was frowning just slightly at a message just received from his mother asking him why he still hadn’t been in touch with his younger brother after his car accident. Isn’t that what Big Brothers are supposed to do? She asked.

Not when your little brother is an asshole, Mom, and Kyle is a Grade A asshole. The asshole survived the accident. Oh and by the way he was drunk. Again. And ran into a tree. A little girl was on the other side of that tree. That tree saved her life. Kyle’s girlfriend, who inexplicably is a decent human being, told me that Kyle didn’t seem to care about how traumatized the little girl was at almost being hit by a car piloted by a raging alcoholic screaming heavy metal lyrics at the top of his lungs. So the hell with Kyle. Wasn’t my idea to have a little brother. That one’s on you, Mom. So YOU deal with the asshole.

The end. On to the next message.

Anyway, it was just after 6 am, and it was that time of long summer days in Michigan when the sun was already up and out and poking through the shades of his small window, which looked out at the overgrown mini-wilderness of Jonas’ backyard. That was another point of head-shaking dissatisfaction for his mother, the fact that Jonas did not believe in mowing the lawn in his back yard (the front yard was immaculate) because he felt like, you know, why should he? More fun to see what happens when urban nature is left to its own designs. It was his house, small as it was, now completely paid for, which was a small miracle in these days when homes weren’t meant to be paid off. Same thing with cars. And since it was his house, as his logic went, it should be his rules.

He took another sip of his almost-but-not-yet-cold coffee from a large, strangely-shaped black mug that read “Detroit Rules the World” in large white letters on the side. His earlier frown eased into an appreciative smile and then a chuckle as he read a humorous message from his buddy Earl who was always sending him weird videos.

And that’s when he heard it. Or at least he thought he did. It was a heavy grinding sound, like metal clashing and mashing with rocks. The sound happened suddenly enough on an otherwise relatively quiet Saturday morning that it made Jonas drop his cell phone where he had been viewing Earl’s video of some ridiculously tall girl with purple skin (how in the…?) and silver dreadlocks doing magic tricks with a basketball in the middle of a busy street.

“Wha…? Hey,” he said, looking around.

Which is why Jonas wasn’t sure if he had heard the noise, even though he knew he had. Because a sound like that had to have come from somewhere, had to have been made by something. But when he went to look out his window, because at first the sound seemed to be coming from that direction, the sound shifted its origin and was now coming from behind him. He spun around, eyes growing wide, searching his office.

“Wait…”

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Issue #665 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, July 14, 2024

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---

The loneliness was killing me.

Every day – well, Monday through Friday at least – when I would take the train to work, all I could do was just sit there and stare out the window, watching the scenery slide by, as I listened to you chattering, laughing, whispering. Sometimes even yelling, screaming, and crying.

Didn’t you even see me sitting there? Didn’t you even care? I was the only one.

But so what, right? Because you just kept talking. And talking. And talking. And…

And I had to wonder, who talks this much? What kind of person can never shut up? And what kind of person is it on the other end of the line that indulges that endless stream of chatter? Day, after day, after…

Once upon a time, silence was golden. Now it’s simply been left for dead at the side of the road. Because you are always talking, even when you have nothing to say.

What about folks like me? What about we barely handful of a few who don’t have anyone at the other end of all those words, waiting to receive, to respond, to let us know we were heard?

But you did hear. You did! Somehow you knew, and you cared, and now, thanks to you, I have my very own Smart Phone Buddy. For those of us who want to join the conversation, even when there isn’t one to join. Now I, too, have a companion phone that is programmed to respond – and respond appropriately! – to anything and everything I say. For example, if I’m sad? The voice on the other end (sounds like a real human!) empathizes with my sadness – unless programmed to respond otherwise. Like maybe saying, “Stop being such a little bitch and buckle up!” or something like that.

But most importantly? My Smart Phone Buddy will never. Ever. Let me hang up.

I didn’t mean to murder the silence. It was only done in self-defense.

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Issue #654 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, June 29, 2024

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---

The Black History Month Museum

NOTE: This was first published in BLAC Magazine on Nov. 10, 2022. All stories previously published in BLAC have now been re-printed here for safekeeping.

“Wait. Stop. Go back.”

“Huh? What are you…?”

“Go back!”

The squealing brakes were a painful reminder of what Jeremy had planned to get fixed nearly a month ago but …well…things. As in ‘things happen’. Or maybe things don’t happen when your money’s tight, which was why Jeremy still hadn’t gotten several needed repairs done on the vehicle. That’s what they called the car, rusted and rust-red in color but still chugging. But it could still get you from Point A to Point B.

Today, Point A had been the home of Jeremy and Rebecca, located on Clairmount Street just east of the Lodge. Only white folks there for now, but indications that could change in a matter of years. Not necessarily good news for Jeremy and Rebecca, who called themselves getting in on the ground floor in a neighborhood they could afford. 

In the city. Because f— the suburbs. They were young and determined not to be those kinda white folks. They wanted the real. It’s also what they wanted for Sarah and Sherman, their two little ones who were back at Point A with Rebecca’s sister, Trish, who said she’d keep an eye on them. An artist, she rented the second floor.

Anyway, Point B was supposed to be the grocery store near 7 Mile and Livernois, because they still weren’t quite ready for the ‘real’ of the much closer neighborhood store. Same thing with the laundromat. Maybe in time. Small steps on a clear and pleasant summertime Saturday afternoon.

“I thought we were going to the store?” said Jeremy in the tensely forlorn way of someone who has been married long enough to know what certain tones of voice mean and what he wishes they didn’t mean.

Rebecca frowned at her husband, who stared straight ahead through the windshield as the vehicle sputtered and chugged into park on a side street not far from the house. A side street he sometimes used as a shortcut to Point B and other local destinations because he liked to avoid the freeways whenever he could. Jeremy didn’t remember the street name but he drove it all the time so what did it matter, right? He was focused more on keeping his temper in check. Too often, Rebecca complained that his spirit of adventure wasn’t what it once was. The most recent argument started when Jeremy responded that adulthood was probably the reason.

“Some of us had to grow up,” he said.

So maybe he shouldn’t have said that which explained why he chose silence this time in the face of his wife’s heated glare – even though all he had said was that he thought they were supposed to be going to the store. Point B. Stick to the plan. Stay the course. Best way to accomplish things. Not by meandering about, following whatever whim and whimsy struck you at the time.

Couldn’t they just go to the store?

Rebecca pointed out the back window, the tip of her pale finger capped by an orange and blue-colored fingernail, her plentiful homemade jewelry tinkling on her narrow wrist.

“Look,” she said, her voice sounding a bit warmer than he would have expected, almost hopeful.

Jeremy followed directions via the rearview mirror.

“So what am I supposed to…hey…when did that get there?”

“Exactly. Now go back.”

This time without questioning, Jeremy put the vehicle into reverse and slowly eased it back along the side of the street for half a block, recognizing they were going against traffic. Once he turned off the engine, Jeremy looked at Rebecca and half-smiled. He patted her knee, then nodded toward the stately two-story grey stone building that was situated in the middle of what only yesterday had been a vacant lot. 

Jeremy was certain it had been a vacant lot because yesterday he had driven by this same spot on his way to visit Sam and help him with the neighborhood garden he had been cultivating. He would have noticed something like this. Right?

But it wasn’t just the structure that commanded attention, with its imposing architecture that seemed glaringly out of place amidst noticeably more modest brick bungalows across the street, some of them abandoned. It was the large red, black and green sign out front:

Welcome! Detroit’s Own Black History Museum Is Now Open. HISTORY LIVES!

“So don’t tell me; you got bored and decided to build this last night, right?”

Rebecca grinned, then rolled her eyes.

“C’mon, you. Let’s go explore. The store’s not going anywhere.”

“And this is?”

Rebecca raised an eyebrow.

“Have you ever seen this before? In the three years and four months we have lived in this neighborhood have you ever seen this or anything that looks like this? Have you ever seen a museum just appear out of nowhere?”

“OK, OK. Let’s go. Geez.”

Rebecca hopped out the passenger side door like a kid arriving at Disney World for the first time, her long, ankle-length tie-died skirt flowing behind her like a huge butterfly wing. The closer she got to the building, the wider her smile stretched across her face, revealing two rows of near-perfect pearl-white teeth.

The look on Jeremy’s face was closer to fear. He was experiencing a harsh metallic buzzing between his ears that he couldn’t explain and that seemed to ratchet up in intensity the closer he got to the museum.

“Something isn’t right about this,” he said quietly, almost to himself. 

“What did you say?” said Rebecca as she began practically skipping toward her discovery. Her voice seemed to be coming from far away, at the far end of a tunnel.

Jeremy shook his head slowly.

“Something isn’t…”

“Come on,  Jeremy, Geez. You’re starting to act like an old man and you’re only 32!”

“I’m 34 and I’m your husband so you should know that. Where is everybody else? Are we the only ones visiting this museum? There’s nobody in the parking lot which, by the way, is something I didn’t see was there until just now. Did you notice that parking lot?”

For a brief moment a look of confusion clouded Rebecca’s rainwashed hazel blue eyes, as if she had been shaken awake out of a short nap. She looked at the empty lot, which was now to the right of the museum and seemingly brand new with sparkling white parking spaces and asphalt that looked as if it had just been paved that morning. 

“There’s no cars, Rebecca. If this is such a hot attraction, and it should be, then why isn’t anybody else here on a Saturday afternoon in the summertime?”

Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head sharply, as if trying to clear some fog that had settled in her brain.

“I don’t…”

“Hello there! So good to see you!”

The museum doors, located at the top of five concrete steps heavily decorated with various signs and symbols, were now open wide. A heavyset smiling woman with skin the color of coffee-no-cream stretched out her arms to the couple in greeting. She wore a majestic red and green-patterned African gown with a cherry red headwrap to match. Rebecca’s brief confusion faded like mist as she bounded up the stairs to greet the woman, who pulled Rebecca into a smothering embrace. Jeremy noticed – or thought he noticed – the woman’s eyes flickered and sparked like pinwheels as they regarded him from over Rebecca’s bare shoulder, embedded in a broad face that couldn’t seem to hold its shape. He could have sworn he recognized the woman from somewhere…

Aunt Jemima…?

 Suddenly the metallic buzzing sound that had been running riot between Jeremy’s ears disappeared.

“Come, Jeremy! Come on up here and give Momma J. a hug! I can tell your wife isn’t the only one who needs some love.”

Jeremy frowned, resisting the near-magnetic tug trying to drag him up the stairs to join Rebecca who was motioning almost frantically for him to join her. Pleading…

“How did you know my…”

“Come, Jeremy. This museum is just for you and no one else. A special treat! Just for you!”

Jeremy shook his head, backing away. The inviting warmth in Momma J.’s face moulded the caramel flesh into something  less recognizable as she spun around and dragged Rebecca inside.

“Jeremy please,”  she said, before disappearing into the museum. The huge wooden doors slammed shut.

Once inside, Rebecca felt her skin turn cold as her mind struggled to make sense of the surrounding ‘exhibits’ behind a wall of glass dividers inside a room that seemed somehow to stretch as far as she could see in any direction. There were no other visitors except for her and Mama J., who held her close as she watched a re-enacted scene of a terrified white man about to be lynched from a tall tree as smiling Black parents and their children cheered while licking ice cream cones and other treats. On the other side of the room, she watched a young white girl in raggedy clothes fleeing for her life as a pack of snarling dogs gained on her. Several Black children sat on a nearby well-tended porch, seemingly oblivious to the ruckus as they sipped lemonade and shared a plate of cookies. 

She looked at Mama J.

“Who are you? What kind of museum is this?” 

Mama J. offered Rebecca a grotesquely distorted and out-of-proportion smile as she leaned in close, her breath like a furnace.

“Which exhibit would you like to be in, my child?”

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Issue #647 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, June 22, 2024

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---

First published by BLAC Magazine

6:51 p.m., 2021 

New Year’s Eve

So Bobby and I are supposed to go to this party with a buncha folks that he knows (probably ain’t been for longer than a week) who told him this was the place to be for New Year’s. I believed him because Bobby’s always been the one to know where the party’s gonna be. He’s just good like that. Always has been, ever since we were kids. He was the one who could bluff his way into the best parties with way older kids and then convince whoever was at the door why they should let me in, too. 

It’s been a while since those days, like close to 30 years or more. And truth be told, Bobby and I haven’t hung together or even talked that much since we reached that age where technically you’re supposed to be adults. But, 2021 has been a year, just like 2020, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned through all this it’s that ain’t nothin’ promised. Or, whatever you thought was promised might not be promised anymore. It’s all up for grabs, which is why I figured this wasn’t the year that I wanted to spend all by my damned self (again) with a beer fallin’ outta my hand while I’m tryin to stay awake on the couch watching the ball drop in Times Square. I wanted to get back out there, back to the world like that Curtis Mayfield song. So, I rang Bobby up.

He sounded surprised to hear from me but in a good way. After we got semi-caught up, tellin’ each other some of where we’d been and what we’d been up to, but leaving out a few things, too, he gave me an address that I recognized as being on the west side.

“Yo, can you pick me up? My car’s been actin’ funny and I gotta take it into the shop. It’d probably get us there, but I’d rather not take any chances. Especially not with the way it’s snowin’ out here, right?”

He was right about the snow, and I nodded even though I knew he couldn’t see me from his cell phone. Still, it was funny the memories that brought back; Bobby was always havin’ trouble with his cars. Even the ones he borrowed seemed to always have something wrong with them. 

“Yeah, all right. Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll be there around 11.”

Same old Bobby.

11:05 p.m.

I picked him up from an apartment building in the section of Midtown that still looked like the old Cass Corridor, down but not out. Watching him come shambling out the doors toward the car, half limping, half jogging through the snow, let me know he had probably left out more than I had when we were getting caught up on each other’s lives. He still had that lopsided grin though, which warmed me up. I was glad to see him.

He hopped in the car, then slammed the door so hard I thought the window was gonna crack.

“Damn, bruh! Go easy on the merchandise! This thing ain’t paid for yet, you know?”

Bobby threw his head back and laughed, which relaxed me a bit even though it probably should have worried me instead. 

“Just drive, nigguh. I ain’t tryin’ to break your little delicate foreign car. Not on new year’s, anyway. But what a way to start the new year, right? Breakin’ your buddy’s car? Yo, what you need is to buy American, something that won’t break so easy. But anyway.”

He laughed again, then pointed straight ahead through the windshield. He was wearing gloves so frayed they were about to fall off, and I had to wonder what kinda party we were headed to, where you could get in dressed like that. But, no way would I have said that out loud and hurt his feelings. It just kinda hurt me that Bobby was in this shape and I hadn’t even known about it.

“So where we goin’, man?” I asked, tryin’ to sound cheerful.

“I gave you the address, right?”

“Damn. Yeah, right. OK, here we go. 2022, here we come!”

11:17 p.m.

We slowed up in front of a rundown house on Clairmount that looked like nobody had lived there for years; two of the front windows on the second-story level were boarded up, and the front screen door was hanging open. The porch light was on, but the porch looked suspect and there were no lights on inside. There were a lot of cars parked up and down both sides of the street, enough to suggest something was going on somewhere even if it wasn’t inside this house. 

“Doesn’t look like there’s anywhere to park that’s close if that’s the house, but that can’t be the house. Ain’t no lights on and it looks like hell,” I said as I turned the corner down a side street.

Bobby nodded, looking solemn.

“Yeah, I guess it does look kinda messed up. Yo, that’s the address they gave me though, so…”

“You got somebody’s number you can call? Just to check? You never know, sometimes people can get things wrong even if they don’t mean to.

“I probably shoulda asked, but naw. She didn’t give me a number. Just said to show up.”

“She…?”

Bobby chuckled.

“Yeah, well, you know. Say, maybe if we hang here for a minute, then drive around the block again and see if anything changed?” 

11:35 p.m.

When we made our next pass around front the house was lit up like the Christmas tree downtown, and a packed crowd was hanging out on the porch, which now looked almost brand new. The screen door was closed but the door was open and I caught a glimpse of more bodies packed inside of a house that looked like I imagined it did when it was built nearly a century ago, just like most of the other houses on the block. The folks were laughin’, smokin’, and drinkin’ like the temperature wasn’t below 20 degrees and the snow wasn’t thick in the air getting ready to add several more inches to what was already on the ground. 

And now there was a parking space in front. It was the only one I could see anywhere around, and it was under the streetlight. The perfect parking space. I looked at Bobby, eyebrow raised.

“This ain’t just me, right?”

Bobby shook his head real slow.

“Naw, bruh. Believe me, this ain’t just you. Let’s go around one more time.”

“Good idea.”

When we came back around, the space was still there, and the party was still jumpin’. I pulled up alongside the open spot and eased my foot onto the brake, the motor running, still making up my mind whether this was a good idea when Bobby’s face lit up. He pointed toward the porch.

“Hey, there’s that girl who told me about the party!”

She was tall and slender with her hair done up in platinum, blonde, braided twists mixed in with black and brown. Despite the temperature, she wore a short, shimmery, sleeveless, silver dress and furry, white, stocking-type boots that reached above her knees. Right after Bobby yelled out his recognition, it was like she heard someone call her name, even though the car windows were rolled up and the music was loud enough to be shaking the whole block. Her eyes, which looked like they belonged to a cat, locked onto Bobby. She gave him a near-blinding smile as she beckoned with her forefinger, then began to grind her hips along to the music. Her locks began to rise from her scalp, writhing back and forth in slow motion. I remembered a movie I saw one time about this woman with a head full of snakes. Medusa…?

“What you waitin’ on, man? Let’s park this thing!”

“Bobby, you don’t see what’s goin’ on with that girl’s hair?”

Bobby gave me a look that I haven’t forgotten to this day, and I never will. His eyes looked wild, angry, and scared all at the same time. And desperate. For a moment it looked like he was trying to say something, but the words wouldn’t come out. Then his eyes went flat, and there was this metallic tone in his voice that was colder than the weather.

“Man, I said park this thing”

11:56 p.m.

New Year’s Day

I never did park the car, but I told Bobby if he wanted to go then he could. But I wasn’t coming. I thought maybe he looked sad, but it was just for a second before he called me something I wish he hadn’t and left me sitting there after he slammed the door behind him. 

That was the last time I ever saw my friend. I still remember the braids on that girl’s head drifting back down to her shoulders as Bobby got closer, while her body started grinding and pulsing viciously like a maniac dance — or like it was hungry for something. The rest of the crowd had stopped whatever conversations they were having as Bobby stepped onto the porch. Their eyes began to glow, some green, some red as they focused their attention on the newcomer, circling in around him tight. Then the music stopped, and all I could hear was a low rumble of murmurs and hisses. Sounds like steam leaking from a pipe and another sound I don’t ever want to hear again squeezed through the rolled-up windows of my car.

Bobby’s scream was cut short as his body was swallowed by theirs, and I mean that literally. They swallowed him.

From somewhere, a bell rang, echoing through the swirling snow. But it only rang once, and then the house went dark.

A new year had begun.

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Issue #639 Keith’s SciFi Musings June 16, 2024

NOTE: In celebration of Juneteenth, I am reprinting the story I wrote last year about the holiday.

From the PBS.org website:

Notice the section I put in bold because it’s nearly as important as the actual holiday itself. Today, Juneteenth is recognized as a federal holiday, and many of us celebrate the day when enslaved people were given the news that slavery was over. This bit of historical information is presented to us as a reason to celebrate, and granted, the end of slavery was most definitely a good thing.

To see more of Keith’s SciFi writing, please see the “Shameless Plug” at the end of this post!

But imagine having your freedom put on pause for two and one-half years because those who had enslaved you were so pissed off at having to let you go that they just decided they weren’t gonna do it until they had to. For them, it wasn’t much more than a white racist male temper tantrum. But for those they enslaved, it was more than 800 additional days of hell for no other reason than because white people felt like it.

And so, because I’m not always such a forgiving type, I have what I guess you would call these alternative fiction dreams of what it could have been like if, as a measure of repayment to the enslaved people for all those days of freedom that were stolen from them: white people were somehow forced into slavery for that period of time. An eye-for-an-eye kinda thing. Or maybe a little longer. Maybe, like, 200 years or so longer?

I dunno. Seems cruel, right? But then…I mean…

How would the former slaves have handled that switch, though? If they woke up one morning in the Big House, wearing these fancy clothes, white folks scurrying and bowing all around them, making sure their every need was met? No doubt it would have been confusing, even somewhat terrifying initially, trying to make sense of it all. Looking out the window and seeing all those white folks in the cotton fields, or strolling down to the cabins to peruse your property. Maybe deliver a whipping or two.

But then, once they got the hang of this superiority thing, how would it all have turned out? Would we have become them?

Or would we have taken all the slave ships, set sail toward home, and leave the white folks to fend for themselves in a damnation of their own making?

Yeah. Happy Juneteenth.

This is your chance to support Keith’s other sci-fi writings, publications, and books!

Before it all, Detroit was built by a collective imagination, at war with and in love with itself simultaneously. 
A perverse thing of beauty and of horror, it has always been a city defined by dueling passions.
Detroit Stories is our attempt to expose that beauty and that horror—
That white-hot friction gave birth to an idea that some have mistaken for an illusion. 
But our city is no illusion—you just have to know what you’re looking at. 
Otherwise, you just might go blind, or find yourself staring back at yourself 
Through an empty funhouse mirror.
So here—try these stories on for size. 
Now, take another look. 
There. 
Now can you see it?
Thought so...

Purchase your copies of “Detroit Stories Quarterly” issues.

On Planet 10, mayonnaise is illegal. Used as an essential ingredient in the highly addictive drug MayoMadd, mayonnaise has long been banned for the safety of the colonies which has been free of the MayoMadd craze for years. So then where did the mayonnaise come from? And who had enough pull to sneak it back in? Or is somebody manufacturing it, and if so where are they getting the ingredients? And who is behind the new drug Roscoe 21? Why is this happening?

That’s what Vid, a dry-witted detective from Planet 10’s wretched Vivacious 5 sector, has to find out together with his partner Vee, the former star news reporter from The Daily Screamer.

“The Mayonnaise Murders, Part 3” is now available on Amazon!

Issue #631 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, June 9, 2024

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---

First published by BLAC Magazine

Oct. 19, 2021

                   “You think Granma’s crazy when she says that, don’t you? Don’t lie. I can see it all in your face, the way it’s screwed up tight like a rat. So if you’re gonna say it, just go ahead and say it, Marlon. Won’t change a thing, ‘cause truth don’t change. But you gonna believe what you gonna believe, no matter.”

     I could feel my stomach starting to squeeze, just like it always did whenever my grandmother and I had this conversation. Which is why I wished she would  drop it because we both knew she didn’t have much time left, and I didn’t want us spending our last days, weeks or months together arguing about whether or not there was some long lost race of white people on the other side of the wall.

     I don’t even care, to be honest. But Granma swears it’s the truth, and that she saw them – lots of them – when she was a kid growing up in pre-dawn Detroit before the wall got built. She even says that it was the white people who built the wall, not us. But that didn’t make sense, because…how? The last recorded sighting of a white person in Michigan was in 2245 way up north somewhere, and that may have been the last white sighting anywhere in the country. We were in touch with other walled communities, and none of them had any evidence of white people appearing anywhere after 2245.

     White folks built the wall? Yeah, right.

     Granma was old for sure (one hundred years old and eight months to be exact, and she was tiny and reminded me of an almond) but I knew that the wall had been around for way longer than that. According to the municipal history ledgers the wall has been here for close to 500 years, and was built by the original Detroiters in 2350 to protect against ‘encroaching environmental dangers’ is what it says. Even if white people had wanted to build a wall and there had been enough of them around at the time, they simply wouldn’t have had the technology or even the energy to pull something like that off. Not if the ledgers were correct about the bare survival condition they were in during the last hundred years or so of their existence. And since the founding historians were my ancestors on my mother’s side (Granma was on Dad’s side) then I preferred to take it as gospel.

     Granma did not take it as gospel. Not even close.

     “Y’all need to know we ain’t the only ones here! You think it’s always been like this because this is all you’ve ever known. But I am telling you there are white
people out there, and I am also telling you this damned wall ain’t as old as everybody says! It’s those implants got your heads all screwed up. I swear I don’t know why you let the Council get away with that.”

     We were sitting outside in the common area on a small cushioned bench beneath a large red umbrella behind the senior facility where she had been staying for the past couple years. There were several tall trees, and the grass was a lush, dark green and was always cut close. Multi-colored arrangements of all sorts of sweet-smelling flowers were scattered about the yard in a random design, and there was even a bubbling brook that meandered its way through the postcard beauty. The sky looked almost too blue, as if it had been imagined.

     Trail Winds was the most expensive senior home in the state, and it showed. Nevertheless, I felt guilty nearly every day for having had to put the woman who raised me into this facility, even if I didn’t have a choice. And hearing her rants about the return of white people didn’t make me feel any better.

     Not only did Granma insist that there were white people on the other side of the wall, she also said that the final recorded sighting is a false record.
But as old as she is means you can’t always believe what she says, or at least that’s what I tell myself.
After all, she was one of those who chose not to get the implant once they were made available. Unlike those of us who either chose the implant or were
implanted at birth (the implants were offered voluntarily by the Council not forced on us like Granma seems to think), her memories  would sometimes get infected and cloudy. That meant there was no way for her to check her memories for one hundred percent accuracy like the rest of us. 

     Which is why most citizens from Granma’s generation chose the implants. She was one of a bare handful who resisted. Everyone else was excited to get them because not only would you develop perfect recall with exact detail, you would also experience overall wellbeing 24-7. Who wouldn’t want that?

     Folks who didn’t trust feeling good all the time like my grandmother, that’s who.

     Those from my generation were all given the implant at birth so we didn’t  have anything to compare it to. But we had nothing to complain about either because we always felt content – for the most part.

     Anyway, there are no records anywhere that give credence to what Granma says about there being white people still in existence outside the wall. The city has been sending out exploratory crews twice a year for as long as I have been alive, which is 34 years, and not once have they ever some back with evidence of any form of life beyond the wall aside from some weird-looking plants and animals that never seem to last more than a few days once brought inside the wall.

     But she’s also my grandmother, so what the hell am I supposed to say?

     “I never said you were crazy, Granma. And that’s because I’m not crazy. You and I both know if I was fool enough to call you crazy you would hop out that bed like you were 50 years younger and beat my ass like a rented stepchild.”

     I was trying to make her laugh, and normally that line would have worked. But instead, her eyes flashed as if there was lightning inside as she reached over to grab my forearm and squeeze harder than any century-old woman should have been able to do.

     “When was the last time you could think for yourself?”

     “Granma, come on now, why do we have to…”

     “Because you don’t even know. Think about that. I’m the last surviving citizen didn’t take that implant. The last one who had a choice. Every single member of your generation got that damned implant at birth. And where are those implants made, huh? Who makes them?”

     “It doesn’t really matter, does it? They were approved by the Council, and the Council would never approve of anything that would hurt us. You know that. You used to be a member of the Council!”

     “Yes I did, baby. And then they kicked me off.
And do you want to know why?”

     I really didn’t, but I knew I didn’t have a choice. Might as well play along.

     “No, Granma. Why?”

     “For asking that same question. And because when no one would tell me, I  found out for myself. I found out by sneaking outside the wall.”

     I could feel my heart starting to race. 

     “But you can’t do that, Granma,” I said, my voice sounding weak. “It’s not safe! We need to stay inside…”

     “For our own protection? That’s what I thought
too, Marlon. Even though I didn’t have the implant, I still believed what they told me. Until I saw the city on the other side of that wall. Where the implants are made. ‘You’re a brave one,’ is what they said. ‘The first to see and know. And you will be the last. Because no one inside will believe you.’ And then they laughed. I never felt so scared in all my life.”

     She leaned closer and started to whisper.

     “This wall isn’t for our protection, it’s for their comfort. And this isn’t Detroit. We lost Detroit generations ago. Where we are now ain’t nothing
but a zoo. Detroit is outside those walls.”

     As I left the facility for the last time, I felt a tear trickle down my cheek. It wasn’t what I wanted, but the law was clear. And I guess I had always known that this day would come, sooner or later, when I would have to sign the papers. The facility administrator assured me I was doing the right thing, but that didn’t make it any easier.

     She was still my grandmother, and I will miss her terribly.

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Issue #622 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, June 2, 2024

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---

“Where you goin’, Freddy?”

“Downstairs. Look for Sherman.”

“But your mother’s about to put dinner on the table. Why don’t you give her a hand, then you can go downstairs after we eat.”

“But…”

“Boy, I don’t wanna hear it. Now get in there and help your mother. You can set the table. The basement ain’t goin nowhere, and I don’t wanna hear another word about that Sherman.”

“But something’s wrong, Dad. I think he may be in some kinda trouble because…”

“Freddy.”

“Mom?”

“Dammit, now you’ve got your mother all upset. You see that? Freddy, you’re ten years old, which means you’re getting too old for all this nonsense.  Your mother and I been playing along with you these past few months because we know it’s been hard for you making friends at the new school, but I think maybe we…”

“But Sherman is, my friend, Daddy! And now he’s gone and you guys don’t even care! He could be hurt, or maybe lost somewhere…”

“Lonnie, please do something.”

“I’m tryin’, Vonetta! Don’t you think I’m tryin? You’re the one said just last week maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing him having this Sherman for a friend. Child ain’t neither one of us ever seen or heard supposed to be living in the basement of our own house. You the one said…”

“Fine. Fine. So I didn’t think it would be a problem last week. You win. The child has always had a crazy imagination so maybe I thought if we just let him have this instead of stomping on his creativity. But now…”

“Stomping on his creativity? Vonetta, having an imaginary friend in the basement got nothing to do with creativity. It’s got something to do with - and I know you don’t wanna hear this - but it’s got something to do with him needing some kinda help. I told you this before but you…”

“The child is not crazy, Lonnie. Just because he’s not like the other kids don’t mean he’s crazy. Maybe he’s just missing his big brother Felton. Maybe…

“That boy was only two years old when Felton got killed. Barely even knew him well enough to miss him, so I don’t know how…what was that? Vonetta? What the hell was that?”

“Sherman’s back, Daddy. He’s coming upstairs.”

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Issue #615 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, May 26, 2024

                                                            Stars In Her Eyes

                                                            By Keith A. Owens

“But I found them!”

“Girl, gimme those glasses now. Ain’t no way you just found some glasses like those.”

“Daddy, I didn’t steal them, I swear! I found them on that bench next to the bus stop! Besides, I’m not the one who steals in this family. That’s George.”

“Arielle? You do not wanna make me say this one more time. And leave your brother out of this.”

Until that moment, George, who was already approaching a wobbly 200-plus pounds of chocolate brown Pillsbury Doughboy at the age of 13, was trying his best to pretend he was asleep on the living room couch in front of the TV where Bugs Bunny danced, pranced, pranked, and teased. But being called a thief, regardless of whether it was true, required a response. So he grunted, then raised a chubby finger into the air as if to issue an important proclamation.

“I ain’t,” he said sleepily.

“Say ain’t one more, time, boy. Go ahead. Say it,” said his father, his eyes like twin warnings.

The children were his mission, and the mission in this stress-worn Detroit neighborhood was to raise them as proof; proof that flowers still grew from the shadows and cracks. Defiant in technicolor splendor amidst the gray ruins. His will would be done, even though George had already rolled back over onto the couch, his face mashed blissfully into the cushion, feigning deep sleep. The father, closer to 300 pounds (not wobbly), grabbed a switch from off the wall next to the kitchen table and took three earth-shattering steps toward the living room to wreak grammatical havoc on his only son (as he had done so-many-times-and-counting prior to today with no noticeable result).

“Dad!”

The left leg of the father, big as an oak tree and just as firm and unforgiving, was raised into the air in preparation for landing that perilous fourth step which would bring him within striking range. It remained poised in the air, frozen in space and time, as the father (somehow balancing all 300-plus pounds of righteous parental anger on the other oak tree) refocused his eyes from the now miraculously alert and awake only son George to his baby girl, Arielle, who regarded him with near disgust from just to his left. Her small coco-colored arms were folded adult-style across her bird-like chest, covered by a lime green T-shirt that yelled NOPE across the front in large black letters.

“For saying ‘ain’t’, Dad? Seriously? For saying ‘ain’t’? You say ain’t all the time!”

“I don’t. And if you don’t hand over those glasses then I’ll deal with you soon as I get finished with George.”

“Daddy you never get finished with me! You just always pick up beating me where you left off!”

“Shut up, George. I’m talking to your sister.”

“Daddy, your foot still up in the air. You gonna put it down?” said Arielle. “And you do say ain’t all the time. I be hearin’ you when you talkin’ to your friends on the phone. Especially when you talkin’ to Big Fred. Always talkin’ about what you did when y’all was kids on Belle Isle with those girls. How you made me and George on Belle Isle? Really? You think I don’t be listenin’, but…”

“You don’t want  me to put this foot down, Arielle. You do not. And I’m an adult so when I say ‘ain’t’ it’s different. If I let you reach adulthood maybe you’ll find that out. But right now you’re not in adulthood you’re in my ‘hood, so don’t get smart with me. And stop talking like you don’t know any better. Do not test me, girl.”

“You made that one too easy, Daddy. I don’t have to get smart ‘cause I am smart. But these glasses. Look at them, though. Look at how they shaped like stars. OK, maybe not like how real stars are shaped up in the universe and all that because I’m doing good in science and I know about that. But like how they’re shaped like, you know, regular stars. Like that Bootsy with the big teeth and the funny hat you listen to in the car all the time. See how they keep changing colors? And how they glow? Look.”

Arielle was standing directly in her father’s interrupted path, her stance a challenge, holding up the glasses towards his face with both hands, offering them for voluntary inspection and maybe a peace offering. Not surrendering them in response to her father’s demand, but as a child’s plea to be heard.

Look.

Slowly, the father lowered his now de-weaponized left leg. There would be no dreaded fourth step. But now something had changed in his stern expression, the hardwood lines etched years deep into the nighttime blackness of his face, yielding to a softer emotion as curiosity stepped in. He leaned down, extending a heavily muscled arm led by an open hand missing two fingers.

“Lemme see.”

“Here.”

The father took the offering gently, then stood back up and examined the strange-looking frames from all angles. He shook his head slowly.

“Strangest thing. Never seen anything like these.”

“Put them on, Daddy.”

He regarded his daughter with one eyebrow raised, a crooked smile easing across his features like dawn.

“Might make you look kinda cool,” said George, who was now perched anxiously on the edge of the sofa, paying close attention to everything with wide eyes.

The father chuckled.

“Yeah. They just might.”

So he put them on. And then he waited. And Arielle waited. And George waited.

And then the father laughed. It began as a child-like giggle but then rolled like a tidal wave up his throat exploding into a spontaneous eruption of joy fantastic.

“Children? You all need to come take another look at your city. I think just maybe we’re gonna be all right after all.”

Look.

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]

Issue #607 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, May 19, 2024

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---

It was the strangest thing. Honestly.

I was driving down the freeway headed home from work and was about to take the exit that would take me home to the west side of Detroit. I had been taking this same exit to head to the same home for nearly 15 years, to the point where the car could probably drive itself if it wanted to. The education of repetition, or something like that.

Anyway, that’s where I made my mistake - where a lot of drivers make their mistake - thinking I knew the way home so well and had taken this trip so many times before that I didn’t need to pay that much attention anymore. Just listen to the music, hum along, and drive. Hell, I could probably even close my eyes and

That’s the last thing I remember. I’m hoping I was just amusing myself with the thought. But at this point, it doesn’t much matter whether I followed through on that idiotic thought as a one-off challenge to myself and to my overall boredom with the drive, the job, and life overall, or whether the thought just remained in park inside my bored little brain.

Because let’s just say I missed my exit. In a very major way.

Next thing I knew I was no longer in my car, nor was I on the freeway. From what I could tell I wasn’t even in Detroit anymore, and probably not in Michigan either. I was still wearing my rumpled gray suit and white shirt, and the awkwardly-tied knot in my gray and blue-striped tie was still hanging low beneath my unfastened top button. But that was the only thing familiar. I was standing in this long, long line of people that stretched forward as far as I could see into what I can only describe as endless, featureless whiteness. Like a big white room, but with no windows, no furniture, no walls and no angles. Just…whiteness.

Plus there were no smells, which is even harder to describe than all whiteness. Because when you’re smelling nothing, how the hell does that smell? And yet, that’s what it was. It was so quiet for those first few minutes that I was starting to think maybe the place was soundless too, even with all these people. But then the guy in front of me turned around, almost as if he’d heard what I was thinking, and smiled. He was short and stocky, wearing a black Alice Cooper T-shirt, blue shorts and sandals.

“So is this the line for the transition then? Do you know? I asked the lady in front of me a while ago, but she doesn’t seem to know either. I’m pretty sure it is, but I just wanted to know for sure.”

“Wait. Transition? Are you saying I’m…I’m dead?”

The guy chuckled, then shook his head.

“Naw, I’m pretty sure we’re not dead. I had a friend who died once for a short while, but the doctors managed to pull him back. No white room where he went. Whole different waiting room. I think he said it was blue. My name is Chuck by the way.”

“OK, now I’m confused, Chuck. Because I always thought being dead was the same thing as making that transition. Making that transition is just Black folks’ way of easing the pain, trying to convince ourselves there’s this really nice place that comes after. Just like how we say ‘joining the ancestors.”

Chuck laughed, then shook his head again.

“You’re not gonna believe this, but I think there’s a whole other waiting room for that too. Not sure what’s on the other side once you get checked in though. I guess you get to see your family members. I mean if that’s what you want. My family wasn’t that great, so that’s probably why I’m here to spare me having to deal with those idiots all over again for eternity. Shit, just send me to hell instead, man. I’m serious.”

“OK, sorry to hear that. But then if we’re in the transition waiting room…where are we transitioning to?”

Chuck’s smile looked sympathetic, like a parent trying to figure out how to explain that there’s no Santa Claus to a kid.

“I don’t think we’re exactly transitioning to a place, my friend.”

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Issue #599 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, May 12, 2024

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---

“You can’t do that, you know.”

Bernie’s wife stood at the door of the garage with her arms folded across her breasts regarding her husband with an expression that couldn’t seem to make up its mind between fear and revulsion. It was not quite 6 am on a Saturday morning in the early part of summer, and she was wearing a worn terrycloth robe that used to be a bright and smiling sky blue back when she and Bernie had been happy with one another, but which now was more of a mere faded imitation of the color that once was. Her voice was tense, but still somewhat soft. Despite the fact that so much had been lost between them, she still clung to a faint, whispering hope that maybe Bernie would at least hear her out. Despite it all, those 20 years together had to count for something. There still had to be some love beating in there somewhere, she thought. Or at least a shred of trust.

He had to listen to her.

“Bernice. I’ve barely started on this project, and even I don’t know how it will turn out or what it will look like. Not exactly. Not at the end. I mean, I know right now it looks like… but that’s the adventure! Don’t you see? Can’t you even give it a chance before you start with your criticizing? It’s always the criticizing with you now. It didn’t used to be that way. And I’m doing this for us, you know. To keep us safe.”

This time the expression of shock on Bernice’s face wasn’t hard to read at all as she took a tentative step into the garage toward her husband who was seated on a solid woodwork stool with his back toward her as his massive hands massaged and squeezed a man-sized block of what looked like some sort of putty mixed with foam - and flesh. Her eyes stayed locked on the evolving image as she spoke, this time with her voice raising noticeably.

“For…for our safety? You’re building this thing to keep us safe? Bernie, do you even hear yourself? Do you hear what you’re saying? How can this thing that you’re building even…”

But then it moved. Shifted, writhed, pulsed. Just the tiniest bit. There was a hissing of breath.

“Bernie. Please.”

For a brief moment, Bernie turned to look at Bernice, his beloved wife, in a way that she hadn’t felt in so many years. His smile was broad, uninterrupted by all the bad memories. For once, and again, he was actually seeing her. Bernice smiled back, then took another small step forward. She reached out her hand to the only man she had ever loved.

“Bernie…”

She saw the small tear as it trickled down the side of his beautiful dark face, the face that had seduced her once upon a time when each other was all they needed, and that’s when she knew there was no going back. He mouthed, “I love you,” then turned away from her for the last time.

The thing took another breath.

“This time he really is in our own image…”

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Issue #591 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, May 5, 2024

You're not supposed to go out on the Riverwalk at night which, of course, is why we went. Me and Little Sister. Because the best way to make sure that a kid will do something is to tell that kid not to do it, especially two kids like us. I guess you could say we specialized in finding new and creative ways to do the wrong thing.

 It's not that we were bad kids. Not really. Well, OK, yeah. But still, we were fun, and that is not something you can say about most folks you meet, right? Most folks, once they're grown, just go about their lives doing what somebody they don't even really like tells them to do because they have to work at some job to make money to pay rent and buy food and whatever else for year after year, and then they die.

The End.

BUT. I kinda get it. I mean, if you're an adult. It's hard to be fun and responsible at the same time, because the two don't always get along. But if you're a kid? It is your responsibility not to be responsible. You have the rest of your life to blend in and come in last place in the rat race. But for those few, bright shining years before you become too busy dying to live, that's the only time when you will ever really see. And if you remember anything about when you were a kid, then you know what I'm talking about; there are those things out there that you can see because everybody else sees them too. Things like the RenCen, Belle Isle, the Detroit River, and the sky. But then there are those other things...

Which is why I woke Little Sister up at 2:16 am on that Friday morning in August. Actually, I don't think she was asleep because she got up too easily and her eyes were too bright. But that's beside the point.

"C'mon. You gotta get up now."

"Stop shakin' me, Tommy! You always shakin' me."

I shook her again because I was the older brother and I felt like it. So Little Sister took a swing at me which I didn't see coming. Caught me right in the lip. Nine years old and she didn't back up, back down or apologize. Just gave me that look, like "Do somethin'." I had to grin. She had always been a tough one, and I knew I could have done way worse as far as siblings go. I had friends stuck with little sisters and brothers that they wished they could have traded in for a better model like Little Sister, or maybe just drowned them in the river. Yeah I know it sounds grim, but if you think kids don't have thoughts like that then you don't know much about kids - or you don't want to.

Anyway, she got up. Swung her little, short pajama-clad legs over the side of the bed and stared at me. Already any evidence of that hot temper was gone from her eyes, like a storm had passed, and she was showing off that crooked smile that looked like it was copied from the Amazon logo. Not to advertise Amazon because I'm not a fan, but it's the best way I know to describe it.

"We goin' to see it?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Yeah. I promised you we would, didn't I? But we gotta go now. That's why I got you up. But you weren't even sleeping, were you?"

She shook her head.

" 'Cause I knew it was gonna be tonight. I heard that voice again."

I started to ask her about it but I got that chill all over again just like the first time it happened and decided not to. If I needed to know who this voice was that had been reaching out to my sister the past few weeks then I guess I would find out, but maybe I didn't want to know. Or maybe I already knew. Because the first time Little Sister told me about hearing that voice was the day after I had seen it.

It happened right down there at the Riverwalk by the carousel. It was close to midnight and I had snuck out of the house to meet this girl from school. She kind of dared me, telling me that if I really wanted to get with her then I had to prove it. This was the way to prove it. I told her I was pretty sure you couldn't even get on the Riverwalk after 10 at night, but she said that was only if you didn't know how. So I asked her how, and she told me that was for me to figure out. She would be waiting.

I figured it out, as any determined and horny boy would. But the girl wasn't there. I waited a long time too, but she never showed. The moon was out and it was still summertime warm, not much of a breeze. Nobody else was out there and it was almost too quiet, so I decided to head back home. I imagined all the ugly things I should say - or do - to that girl the next time I saw her. Luring me all the way out there on a dare, just so she could laugh about it with her friends and tell them how she got this stupid boy to sneak all the way out to the Riverwalk in the middle of the night.

Yeah. I knew that's what that was about. I probably even knew that's what was going to happen when she dared me, but I still felt like I had to do it. Because what if she had been there? Then she'd be telling everybody Tommy was too chicken to show. But now I was feeling like this was not the place I needed to be this time of night and that I'd better get my ass home before...

"Tommy...? Why don't you stay awhile? It's such a nice night, after all."

So imagine the one time in your life when you were as scared as you could ever be. Imagine that time when something happened that made your breath get caught in your throat and your heart race into overdrive. Now double that, and you're close to feeling what I was right then.

When I heard it, I had just turned away from the river and taken a few steps toward home. The voice sounded watery and thick, but also too deep to be real. There was a man in our church who sang bass in the choir, and no one else could sing anywhere near as low as he could. Sometimes he would be featured on a song because his voice was like a gift, and everybody would get happy whenever he would hit those notes so low they made your chest rattle. This voice was way lower than that, and it echoed inside my head.

"My parents, they're gonna worry if I..."

"They don't even know you're gone, Tommy. They are sound asleep, and will be for quite some time."

"How could you know that?"

The way it laughed made my stomach hurt. I put my hands over my ears, but that didn't help.

"Turn around, Tommy. Let me see you."

"You can't see me from there?"

"Turn around, Tommy."

So I did and was sucked into the absence of moon and stars. Its size erased all boundaries of reality, swallowing the light ...and me.

"So nice to meet you, Tommy. I have been waiting."

*******

"So what does it look like?" she asked, as we walked down Joseph Campau.

The only noise I heard was our footsteps on the sidewalk, which made her question sound that much louder. I shrugged.

"I dunno. It's kinda hard to explain. You'll see."

Little Sister stopped walking. I didn't.

"I thought you said you saw it," she said. "You're lying."

"Ain't lying," I answered, without bothering to look back at her because I knew she would follow eventually. "It's just hard to describe. It's big, though. I can tell you that. It's really big."

I heard her jog to catch up beside me.

"Big like what? A whale?"

"Bigger."

"Bigger than a whale? In the Detroit river, Tommy? You are lying!"

"So come and see for yourself then. Tell me if I'm lying."

We walked the rest of the way in silence that didn't really feel like silence; it felt like a silence that wanted to scream but couldn't. Once we reached the Riverwalk, even the river wasn't making any noise. My heart started to race again.

"So where is it?"

I shrugged as I gripped the railing, looking across at Canada.

"It comes when it comes."

Several more minutes passed, and Little Sister was getting impatient.

"Are you sure this is where it's gonna be? It's a big river, Tommy. Maybe it's waiting for us somewhere else."

"Except that I'm right here, little one."

All I can say is that it wasn't there at all...and then it was. Somehow it seemed even bigger than before, which was impossible, and it smelled like the sum total of everything that had ever died in the river. Why hadn't I noticed that smell before? I stumbled backward, clamping my hand over my nose.

"Tommy was right, you really are bigger than a whale. But you can't be...can you...?"

It laughed, and this time my stomach hurt even worse. I called out to Little Sister, but I don't think my voice was more than a whisper. How was it she couldn't smell that thing?

"I can be whatever I want me to be, Little Sister. And so can you."

"How you know my name?"

The laugh echoed louder, and I doubled up in pain on the ground. I was grinding my teeth so hard they should have broken into pieces. I reached out, hoping somehow my hand would grab some part of my baby sister and she would see what was happening, but she was already rising up slowly into the night air.

And she was smiling...

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Issue #583 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, April 28, 2024

“I really don’t wanna go to Idaho, man. I mean I really do not wanna go there.”

“Yeah, well I can’t say I’m over the moon about getting shipped off to Portland, either. But we don’t have a choice, little brother. Blame the Draft.”

“You know, didn’t Granddad say he dodged the draft during the Vietnam War? I was thinking maybe…”

“Canada has a draft too. Plus there’s that law of return agreement our government signed with theirs. It’s kinda like what happened during slavery times between northern states and the south, where if we got caught trying to be free then they had to return us. So you can forget it.”

Marshall and I were sitting outside on the porch. It was a nice spring day in Detroit, the kind of day where normally we would have been out playing ball or maybe headed to Belle Isle with Dad to fish, or swim at the beach.

But after the Draft became law in the fall of 2076, nothing was ever quite normal again.

In fairness, I should say that the idea was well-intentioned. More or less. White folks were now the minority in the United States, just like they had been the minority around the world pretty much since Adam and Eve. But since they had been the majority for so long, it was hard for most of them to adjust, even though there had been a virtual countdown of news stories pumped out practically every day for several years before March 13, 2057, designed to prepare (white) Americans for the new reality of what we Black folks liked to call Happy Blackening Day. Officially it was called The Day of Return, which lets you know how little white folks had anything to do with what it was called. Even the whites who may have considered themselves progressives 10 or 20 years earlier were beginning to waver once the in-your-face implications of a colorized future were becoming clear.

But this was 2076, not 2026, so it was no longer a good idea to be openly racist and proud of it. Because that could not only land the police at your door, but it could get you hurt very much physically so with no repercussions and no recourse. So instead, similar to what happened once segregation became technically illegal and white folks devised numerous workarounds to defy the law, white people began to migrate to states like Idaho and Washington State and Oregon that had been nearly all-white for generations upon generations. It was a last-ditch desperate attempt to keep the clock from ticking.

And that trick might have worked back in the day when white privilege could still make anyone with blonde hair and blue eyes invisible to police brutality. But this wasn’t back in the day. The Electoral College had been dismissed and dismantled in 2042, and by 2056 both the Senate and the House were populated mostly by Black and Brown folk. Sadie Martinez-Abdullah Muhammad was now the President for crying out loud. The change hadn’t been at all gradual.

So when white folks thought they could run away to Whiteaho or wherever, Congress passed this law creating The Draft, designed to make sure there were no states in America with less than 35% Black and otherwise non-white people. The way the draft worked was that it attempted to “level the playing field” by drafting non-white American folks like myself and my little brother Marshall who lived in heavily non-white areas like Detroit and placing us in a draft pick situation where predominantly white states got to pick which non-white residents were rooted up and relocated to their turf. Those states that the lottery blessed with the higher numbers got their pick of the “good” and “better” brown-skinned folk. It went downhill from there if it was even possible to go downhill in such a situation.

The idea of providing a draft was supposedly a compromise letting terrified white folks have at least a little power over their diminished situation by being allowed to choose which dark people would be allowed among them since they couldn’t opt out altogether. Personally, I thought that was pretty screwed up, and I wasn’t the only one. I mean, why should me and Marshall be forced to leave home just to put some coffee in Idaho’s cream?

Is this really what it means to form a more perfect union?

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Issue #574 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, April 21, 2024

It’s not like what you think. Not at all.

When you watch the movies, ghosts are usually scary see-through beings that can drift through walls and that sort of thing. Depending on who wrote the storyline, ghosts can either chase folks around while making spooky noises, rattling chains, etc., or they can be a bit more creative. And creative usually means scary, which is what makes a good ghost story fun.

In the old movies, you always found ghosts hanging around inside large drafty castles, the kind you see in the English countryside, or making bumps and groans in the night - always at night - inside a massive Victorian mansion that was usually located at the top of a hill, isolated, at the end of a long and winding road. More modern adaptations proved that ghosts can be just as troublesome in the suburbs in a 3-bedroom ranch-style home as in some Transylvania-looking monstrosity. Even in the daytime.

I always loved ghost stories when I was alive. Nothing was more fun than sitting inside a dark movie theater, popcorn in hand, waiting to be scared outta my wits by the latest imagining of what a ghost should be. Although the storylines were usually pretty similar (because if it ain’t broke, and is making money at the box office, why fix it) there were still enough newly designed thrills and chills to keep me smiling. And every so often you would have the real breakthrough movie, like Poltergeist, that would seriously escalate the genre to the next level.

Truth is, I loved ghost stories so much that I secretly kinda wished I was dead so that I could act out my own well-honed fantasies of what a really scary ghost story should be. And then bring it to life inside some poor unsuspecting horror fan’s home. Because as many of those stories as I had watched - and read - throughout my teenage years, I figured I was as qualified as anyone to create the ultimate terrifying ghost tale. There was no reason why I couldn’t give Stephen King a good run for his money. Because who would want to read a Stephen King horror novel when they could read about the real thing? Produced and directed by yours truly?

But then I died. For real. Damned car accident that wasn’t even gory. Hardly any blood at all. There was this large truck that suddenly swerved into my lane one night, and the next thing I knew I’m sitting in this dark shadowy room holding a numbered card in my hand. And in this room, there are other confused-looking spooks like myself wondering how in the…? And where…?

Then I noticed the screen on the far wall. It read, “Now serving guest #34. Your patience is appreciated. All questions will be answered upon receiving your assignment. Please keep waiting room chatter to a minimum.”

I looked at the card in my hand. Shit. But I just got here! A door opens at the other end of the room facing the screen that I hadn’t noticed before. A smiling, dark-skinned woman with an impeccable short afro and a trim figure tucked comfortably inside a white pants suit steps through holding a clipboard. Everyone stares at her as she looks calmly around the room until her eyes land on me.

“Number 35? Sam Marston? Will you please follow me?”

Before I get a chance to answer, she spins around and heads back through the door. I race to catch up as I hear the door slam shut behind me. The sound of her rapidly moving heels is echoing in the well-lit hallway.

“Excuse me, Miss. I just wanted to know, is this…it…?”

The woman giggles as I pull up alongside her.

“Sometimes you need to be careful what you wish for, Mr. Marston.”

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Issue #566 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, April 14, 2024

It was a warm summer day on August 27, 2044, and the solar eclipse was stuck. At least that’s what it said on the news. Fred and Irma Hutchins, seated side-by-side on their twin Comfort King lawn chairs in their standard middle-class-sized backyard, were quite concerned.

“I thought the eclipse was only supposed to last four minutes?” said Irma, as she and her husband stared upwards into the velvety darkness of the sky wearing their specially equipped eclipse glasses that Fred had ordered online from a very reputable store. She was frowning.

“But it’s been four days,” said Fred. “I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all. How long are we supposed to exist in the dark like this? How are people supposed to go on with their daily lives?”

“Exactly. So shouldn’t they do something about this?”

Fred looked silently at the stubborn eclipse for a few moments, then turned to face his wife. Fred and Irma had been married nearly 50 years, which meant Fred didn’t listen to words so much as tone when she spoke. It was that well-honed survival skill that explained their long and happy union.

Fred cleared his throat.

“So when you say they…”

Irma made a clucking kind of sound indicating mild frustration.

“The scientists, Fred. And the government. They should be able to work together to figure this out and get this whole situation untangled so our lives can go back to normal.”

“Ahhh. I see. Well OK, then.”

“And what does that mean?” asked Irma, sounding notably more frustrated.

Fred shrugged his shoulders, which Irma could not see in the dark. That was probably for the best.

“I guess it just means I understand. I initially wasn’t clear by what you meant, but now I am. So that’s why I said ‘OK’. If that’s OK.”

Neither husband nor wife said anything for the next several minutes, which was also probably for the best. Another example of how they had lasted these 50 years. Fifty-one come December 13, if the eclipse had finally decided to come to an end by then.

“So why isn’t the eclipse eclipsing?” asked Irma.

“I saw a scientist on the news just this morning who said something about the moon being stubborn. Said that for whatever reason it didn’t feel like moving from in front of the sun right now. Can you imagine? That damned moon got one job. One job.”

“The moon is being stubborn? My God, how scientific is that?”

Fred and Irma both enjoyed a good long laugh before Fred reached over and took Irma’s hand and squeezed it.

“But I suppose as long as we’re together, we can handle a stubborn moon, don’t you think?” he said.

Irma smiled.

“I think the moon is no match. No match at all.”

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Issue #558 Keith’s SciFi Musings Sunday, April 7, 2024

Marcus was one of those kinda kids who had to see for himself. Because although he was still just a kid, he was old enough to know that adults would sometimes tell him stuff that was flat-out wrong just to be telling him stuff. Or to encourage him to be quiet.

Yeah. Encourage. His mother actually said that to him one time in the car when she was driving to the grocery store and he could tell she probably would have preferred to go alone for whatever reason. But Dad was working on the house and said he didn’t have time to be “watching that hyperactive kid”, so she got stuck with him is how she was acting.

Anyway, Marcus thought maybe if he told his mother a story then that might improve her mood. Usually, she liked his stories, the ones he could just make up on the spot like a jukebox. Sometimes, just for a challenge, she would give Marcus a topic and then see what kind of story his fertile little imagination could come up with. Like dog biscuits. Or pterodactyls. Or broccoli. But Marcus was not to be defeated and would always find a story in there somewhere, and his mother would just shake her head and laugh.

But not today. Today his mother just said “whatever” when he asked her to come up with a topic, so he decided to weave together a story about the first thing he saw out the passenger side window as the car picked up speed down the street away from the house. It was a beautiful blue bird staring right at him from a tree branch, which inspired what Marcus thought was one of his best stories ever. Once he was through spinning his tale, he looked over at his mother with one of his best smiles and asked what she thought.

“Pretty good one, huh?” he asked.

But his mother didn’t say anything for a while… until she did.

“I’m sorry, Marcus, I was watching the road. I can’t really listen to your stories and drive at the same time, all right? Listen, I know you have a wonderful little imagination between those two ears of yours, and that’s great, but for now I’d really like to encourage you to maybe be quiet for a while until we reach the store. Mom needs to think about some things.”

Marcus decided to be quiet for a lot longer than that. For nearly a month, despite his parents’ best efforts and his mother’s tearful apologies, Marcus refused to speak. To anyone. Not even at school, where normally he was one of the most talkative kids in the 3rd grade.

It was the buffalo that broke his silence.

Several months before that trip to the grocery store, Marcus was seated on top of a tall stool beside his father in the garage tool shed where he was busy sanding down a door before painting it. He had experienced an interesting dream the night before and thought maybe his father could help him figure it out. But instead, his father gave him an exasperated look as he took a brief break from his work.

“You say you were falling from somewhere way up high, is that right?”

Marcus nodded his head enthusiastically.

“And then just before you hit the ground, you woke up?”

“Yeah!”

“Uh-huh. So listen to me, Marcus. The reason you didn’t hit the ground is the reason why you’re alive right now. Because if you ever hit the ground in a dream when you’re falling from way up high, then that’s when you die. So you always want to make sure you wake up before you hit the ground. Now I need to get back to work on this door.”

“Ummm…yeah…. OK. Thanks, Dad. I guess…”

And somehow, Marcus managed to avoid having any more dreams where he was falling until one night, about a month after his self-imposed silence, when he fell asleep and dreamed of a herd of buffalo that was storming through a valley below him. Actually, they were kind of far away at first, but they were headed in Marcus’s direction, and Marcus was clinging desperately to a wire that cut into his hands as he tried to make his way from one tall cliff to the cliff on the other side. Somehow the wire was connecting the two cliffs, and Marcus was slowly making his way across, his feet dangling below, as he watched the buffalo getting closer and closer. He could hear the thunder of their hooves. None of this made any sense, but he was dreaming so…

Anyway, Marcus’s luck ran out about halfway across as he was suspended above the valley and just couldn’t hold on any longer. He could feel his fingers weakening painfully as he was unable to go any further. The buffalo were now almost directly beneath him, and the sound of their hooves was deafening - and that’s when Marcus let go.

He fell, and fell, and fell…

And then he landed hard on the ground. And then he stood up to look around at the lush green valley, full of all those beautiful buffalo calmly feeding on the tall grass. They were no longer stampeding! One of the buffalo approached Marcus, a glimmer in his eye. The animal was huge and powerful, but Marcus didn’t feel threatened.

“Thought you were gonna die didn’t you, kid?”

“I did!” said Marcus. “My dad said that…

“I know, I know. Adults have been telling their kids that lie forever. So do you wanna fix that?”

Marcus nodded.

“OK, so when you wake up, here’s what you’re gonna do…”

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Issue #550 Keith’s SciFiMusings Sunday, March 31, 2024

“Damn. For real? I’m …dead?”

The young man with the waist-length dreadlocks, the Bob Marley T-shirt, and the worn sandals was giving the noticeably older man seated behind the desk in front of him a pleading look, like an abused puppy that wants its bone back. The older man, with skin that resembled dark brown sandpaper, wore a crisp tan suit, a starched white shirt, and a fashionable patterned tie that seemed to incorporate the wide spectrum of tones found within the color brown. His sandpaper skin crinkled slightly upward on the right side of his lip, imitating a grin of sorts.

“What is your name, friend?” he asked, voice like dry leaves blowing.

“James. James Park. And I just don’t see how…”

The older man raised his hand slowly into the air, palm facing outward, indicating that the younger man should probably shut up. He did. Then he whimpered.

“James? My name is something you would never be able to pronounce, so for now you can simply call me Zander.”

“Zander…”

“That’s right James. Now there are quite a few people lined up behind you, so we’re going to need to keep this short and to the point, out of consideration for all the others who probably have questions just like yours.”

“Why do you only have one line? I mean, there’s so many of us you would think…”

Zander’s smile flickered, like a flame about to be extinguished.

“Is that really the question you want to ask me at this time, James?”

James shook his head as he stared at his sandals, eyes tearing up.

“No sir.”

“I didn’t think so. Now. Who first told you that you were dead?”

James looked back over his shoulder, searching until he located a small boyish creature standing a ways back near the entry door marked “EXIT.” The boyish creature, which resembled a satyr, smiled and waved enthusiastically. James waved reluctantly, then pointed at him.

“Him,” said James. “He told me. Soon as I came through that door that’s what he said.”

Zander chuckled, then shook his head.

“Lofgren does love to spoil a good surprise, he really does. His nature, I suppose. Well, I guess that cat is now, as they say, out of the bag. SURPRISE! Yes. You’re dead. It says here you were riding your bike on the wrong side of the street. A rather large truck was bearing down on the correct side of that same street. Rather than getting out of the way, it appears you made a rather vulgar gesture at the truck driver with your middle finger. And presto, here you are.”

“Damn.”

“Not quite yet. That place is for considerably worse offenses than flipping someone the bird.”

“Oh! So I’m in heaven, then?”

Zander shook his head.

“Afraid not, friend.”

“Purgatory…?”

“Purgatory isn’t much better than that other place, to be honest. No way you could know that since there’s no way anyone from there could relay a message top side. But no, this isn’t purgatory. Just sign here and then you’ll be accompanied to your new quarters by that attractive young lady who just now appeared behind me. She’ll be glad to answer any other questions you have, and a few other things as well, if you know what I mean. Wink wink, nod nod.”

And right on queue, a curvaceous creature with skin the color of coffee and cream winked at James and beckoned him with her slow-curling index finger.”

“C’mere, you,” she said.

“OK,” said James. “But just one more thing before I go, Zander.”

“You’re holding up the line, friend.”

And it was true. Folks in the line were starting to grumble and gesture.

“I know, I know. Sorry. But just one more thing. Because I don’t think this is something she can answer.”

Zander’s irritation was plain. He folded his hands on top of the desk and leaned forward.

“What is it, James?”

“Can I come closer?”

“James, you are starting to…

“I just don’t want anyone else to hear. This is just for you.”

Zander sighed, then motioned for James to step forward. James leaned down and whispered in Zander’s ear. It was just a few words, but those few words were enough to make Zander go pale. He fell back into his chair, looking up at James, who was transforming into something both beautiful and terrible, darkness and light, forcing Zander to cover his eyes in anguish.

“Who sent you? Who sent you?”

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Issue #542 Keith’s SciFiMusings Sunday, March 24, 2024

“They can always make more, you know.”

“What the hell do you mean by that? They can always make more. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means just what I said. You need to stop getting emotional and pay attention. Look around you, Seymour. I mean really look around you. Half the people you know aren’t the people you know.”

Gina was my older sister and I loved her, but she could be creepy sometimes. I think maybe because, as my older sister, she probably figured that was part of the job description. But that summer evening, as we sat on the front porch watching the light fade out of the sky, there was something in her voice that let me know she wasn’t being creepy just for the fun of it. Not like the time a couple years ago when she told me there were these huge flesh-eating worms in our backyard that only came out at night.

“What do you think happened to Rachel?” she asked, explaining how teenage party girl Rachel had made the mistake of stumbling into our backyard late one night after coming home drunk. Worms got her.

Of course, I later found out that Rachel had simply run away from home because her dad had been forcing her to sleep with him, which also probably explained her overcharged drinking and partying. But Gina still never apologized for the lie, or for scaring the hell out of me. When I confronted her about it, she just grinned and shrugged her shoulders.

“Yeah, well. You know.”

So I probably shouldn’t have even listened to her that evening either. I should have just told her to shut up and gone back inside. Told Mom Gina was telling scary stories again. But before I could act on my reason for doubting her, it was like she already knew I wasn’t gonna believe her.

“I want to show you something. It’s just a couple blocks away. That way.”

“You mean that vacant lot? Why you wanna go there?”

“Because it’s not vacant anymore. But we gotta go now before it gets too dark. I mean it, Seymour. We have to go now if you wanna see. It proves what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“See what?”

“The bone orchard. I think they’re growing people.”

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