Back when I was young, my neighbors left for vacation, handing us their garage door opener so we could look after the cats. On one of the days, their grandpa Walter stops over. My dad knew Walter, was fond of him. So much so that when Walter ambles out of the house, my dad - concealed and grinning behind the curtains – aims the door remote, and clicks.

     Walter, halfway down the driveway, hears the distinct rumble of the opener. He cocks his head, curious and confused by this random act, then shuffles back up, presses the button from the inside, and trudges back down the drive.

     Again, my dad presses the button.

     Now Walter is shaking his head, mouth agape, bewildered by this foul magic. He gives the door a good long stare before dutifully marching back up, inspecting the opener, the rails, the sensors. Finding nothing amiss, he presses the button and hurries down the lane, hoping to make a quick escape before another malfunction. 

     This time, he almost reaches his car.

     My dad clicks the button.

     The garage door rises.

     Walter swears.

     Throws his hands up in the air.

     And drives off.

     My dad cackles, then presses the button one last time, lowering the garage door to its final resting place.

     All good things come to an end.

     Many years later, my father is lowered to his final resting place. Upon hearing the news, Walter sighs and remarks with perfect brevity. “Well, shit.” As Jerry Seinfeld once quipped, “The only thing you’re too young to be doing at 63 is dying.”

     After the funeral, I tell Walter’s daughter – for the first time – that old garage door story, and we laugh for what seems an eternity. I assume she passes it on. I mean, can you imagine the revelation for Walter, after decades of mystery, at long last revealed? Not by mechanical jujitsu, but because my prankster father, hiding behind the curtains, was clicking a button in dark delight.

     A few years after my dad, Walter takes the same, final exit. And I remember thinking, upon hearing the news, about how things come full circle, and how it was, perhaps, my turn to be a hushed voice whispering perfect obscenities into the wind.

     Death is many things, and a mystery is one of them. But it’s also a doorway. And that’s worth thinking about. And writing about.

     And yeah, even painting about.

 

     Guess it was our year for awards! Best story, best artwork, best contest, and once again making Tangent's recommended reading list. This is what happens when you level your sights on quality, and nothing else. It's really quite a shame that the rest of the industry doesn't operate from this mentality, instead promoting writing and writers based on the cultural and political flavors of the day. It's obnoxious. And tiring. (Seriously, is this still a thing?) And leaves the truly talented in the dust.

     But don't take our word for it. Though there are mountains of fatigued readers, few there are with any sort of platform willing to call out what the industry has become. But who needs tyrants when everyone is willing to self-censor? Who wants gold when it's so easy to settle for silver?

By Grigory Lukin

 

For over [REDACTED] years, the Organization for Time Travel Oversight (OTTO) has assisted businesses, non-profit organizations, community centers, and the occasional religious compound with identification, neutralization, and deportation of unauthorized time travelers. The 97.3% success rate speaks for itself, and the Core Accepted Timeline (CAT) remains safe from catastrophic chain reactions caused by misguided, malevolent, or charismatic time travelers. (The OTTO no longer accepts questions on the Jonestown Incident or its impact on the CAT.)

     By definition, unauthorized and unexpected visitors from the future can appear at any time, whether you’re running a paleolithic flint-knapping sweatshop, a pre-synthesizer fast-food joint, or a humdrum paper supply company. You’ve doubtlessly encountered plenty of cleverly disguised, charmingly aloof, or blackout-drunk time tourists in your life. A combination of Occam’s razor and use of level-1 amnesiac perfume generally helps them maintain their anonymity. Sometimes, however, a wily interloper will attempt to impersonate a chrono-local and infiltrate their workplace. If that happens, please follow these simple steps:

     1. If the suspected time traveler doesn’t know contemporary pop culture, slang, and/or sports references, first try to ensure they’re not a nerd, workaholic, and/or immigrant. That will avoid awkward false alarms, level-3 mass amnesiacs, and lost work productivity.

     2. If you suspect your coworker, boss, or intern/trainee/serf is a time traveler, block their every attempt at conversation. Any anachronistic memes, songs, or stock tips will result in detention of all nearby persons by the Quarantine Unit Ascertaining Contraband Knowledge (QUACK). When in doubt, start singing “Happy Birthday” at the top of your lungs until the suspected time traveler leaves. The less you hear, the shorter your QUACK detention will be.

     3. If you hear a loud “Happy Birthday” song and rush in to grab a piece of free birthday cake, you’ll get the longest possible QUACK sentence, you dishonorable cake thief.

     4. If your strange coworker has unusual dietary habits (eating French fries with a fork, avoiding tap water from perfectly sanitary lead pipes, or yelling, “Boy, howdy!” before every meal), there’s a distinct possibility they’re merely eccentric. If your civilization has already invented the internet, that person might be a social media influencer. If your civilization has not yet invented the internet, they’re likely a simple saboteur sent by your company’s competitor— in which case, there is nothing to worry about.

     5. Whatever you do, do not under any circumstances [REDACTED].

     6. Beware of common time traveler mix-ups. Most post-2089 time travelers lack the proper form and technique for breaking an egg. Many will shun meat or other animal byproducts, and (due to their varied dystopian futures) most fear the midday sun. Others will avoid hugs or crowded spaces; they may react wildly if coughed or sneezed upon. Time travelers from the 23rd century are terrified of dogs, robots, and particularly robot dogs. Time travelers from the 24th century are easily excited by such creatures but are unsure how to pet them; they may inquire about their Cumulative Aggression Index before approaching.

     7. After activating the OTTO beacon (see the attached pictographic assembly instructions) and deafening the suspected time traveler with a chorus of nonstop “Happy Birthday” songs, you’ll need to detain them until the arrival of OTTO personnel. Tree vines, duct tape, and/or nanite cords will not help you restrain a person with sufficiently advanced technology. Fortunately, there are alternatives. Confuse the time traveler by passionately advocating the geocentric model of the universe. Annoy them by mispronouncing common words like “nuclear,” or “library,” or “deoxyribonucleic.” Enthrall them by describing an old time capsule your grandfather buried in the backyard with all his favorite possessions. If the time traveler still tries to flee, tell them you have a vitally important message from their future self, but you can’t quite recall it. Vanity almost always gets them.

     8. The time traveler in your workplace might keep their time machine nearby for easy access, out of laziness, or just to show off. While subdermal time-travel implants exist, most long-term time travelers prefer larger vehicles to carry their tools and snacks, and a jagged, rusty blade in the event of encountering their future self. Be on the lookout for phone booths, overly fancy office chairs, and treadmills adorned with oddly elaborate control panels. Be extra suspicious if those devices are located in public spaces like hallways, restrooms, or next to the office ficus plant, with a "NOT a time machine!" cardboard sign attached.

     You may feel as if the time machine has always been there. You may not remember when your time-traveling coworker, boss or intern/trainee/serf got hired. Seek out old photographs, drawings, or cave paintings to confirm the nature of your reality. Your memories may not be your own.

     9. You may have gone through this before. What has been is no more, although it will be, lest the temporal loop falters.

     If you follow these instructions faithfully, the OTTO agents’ level-3 amnesiac will wear off in just a few hours. You’ll feel as if you were daydreaming, then you’ll look at the clock and wonder why you haven’t accomplished anything thus far. Your strange coworker, boss, or intern/trainee/serf will be gone, with a quick note saying they hate this place and will never return. If you were in QUACK custody, you’ll awaken back at work under similar circumstances. Your hair will feel slightly longer than it should be, you’ll have a fading memory of the strangest dream, and you’ll experience the inexplicable sensation of ennui, of longing, of having lost something or someone special, though you can’t recall why. Also, you’ll develop an extreme fear of ducks. Sorry about that.

     Organize frequent training drills using this manual/tablet/hologram. Make your coworkers memorize the contents. Time-traveling infiltrators are as dangerous as they are curious, and following these instructions to the letter could mean the difference between life, QUACK, and an involuntary mass expulsion from the timeline.

     If these procedures are followed correctly, you will never know. You will not remember. In fact, you may have already followed them before, in which case the Core Accepted Timeline thanks you—and thanked you, and will thank you—for properly preparing yourself for time travelers in the workplace.

     

~~~

 

About the author:

    Grigory Lukin (rhymes with "story" and "win") is an award-winning filmmaker and an internationally published author of fiction and nonfiction. He’s also a vagabond with three passports and far too much free time. His writing has appeared in Phano, Black Cat Weekly, and several anthologies. He enjoys pastries, museums, and hiking from Mexico to Canada. His secret lair is in Montreal. 

     Find him at www.linktr.ee/grigorylukin

 

By Matthew Davis-Brown

 

The room was black, almost entirely. From top to bottom, all different sizes of canvases covered the walls, every one of them solid black. Each painting seemed to absorb all the warmth and light in the room except for a slight glint of yellow, a dim reflection of the roaring fireplace on the far wall. I would have found the coals to be welcoming, but the flames were dry and hot, sucking out any sweat that I produced.

     The woman in the corner didn’t seem to mind the heat, however. A black velvet cardigan covered her, with a high-necked sweater climbing up to her jawline. I could see her teeth gritting with concentration, unaware of the heat or my presence. She was painting another canvas. Each stroke of her brush was calculated and weighted with meaning. Her hand floated across carefully, intentionally placing every dot of black. The process of her creation was so much more enticing than her result: another solid black canvas.

     “Want to give it a try?” Her voice startled me. It was the first sound I had heard since entering, but its echo melted smoothly into the atmosphere that the crackling logs had made. The silky voice spoke again as she turned around. “Do you want to try?” An unexpectedly plain, but pleasant face greeted me. No skeletal features, no snaggletooth or warts, just a raised eyebrow as she awaited my answer.

     “Sure,” I sputtered, my throat still growing accustomed to the dryness of the room. 

     She grinned, faint wrinkles gently outlining her eyes. “Wonderful. I apologize for the heat. It allows the paintings to dry more quickly.”

     I nodded, pretending to understand. What kind of method was this? As she slipped the brush and palette into my fingers, my hands began to shake. It hadn’t occurred to me that I was nervous at all, but my body was speaking for itself. “Oh, you poor dear,” she purred. “I know I make it look easy, but you really have nothing to be afraid of.” She stepped backward, taking herself out of my vision. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

     My eyes shut, trying to forget. Why was I nervous? Why did I feel the need to be as good as her? I had never painted before in my life. Surely, she knew that. Surely, she didn’t expect a masterpiece. And even if she did, all her paintings were black anyway. I could at least do the same. I opened my eyes and looked at my palette, identifying the resources I had to work with. To my bewilderment, but not my surprise, each cup of the palette was filled with black. No other colors, shades, or tints. Just pure twilight, twinkling with the same glint of the fire as the other paintings. I stared for a second, and began to paint.

     The first stroke I took across the canvas was harsh, the wet line stark against its dry siblings. Rough ends bled into the darkness around them, pulling them in as a vacuum would. I overcorrected the next stroke, painting no more than a hair’s width into the black. The moisture glistened for a moment, and then melded with the canvas. My heart stirred less as I continued, calming my mind while my hand drifted across the space, wandering through the void. I still didn’t know what or why, but my feelings moved closer and closer toward what was becoming my creation. My magnum opus was slowly becoming just that: mine.

     After a while, I finished. Not for time or necessity, but because in my heart, I knew it was complete. “Truly remarkable,” the woman murmured. She sidled up next to me, her careful eye studying the depths of my work. My pulse began rising again, my nerves snapping back to reality one at a time. The realization that I had no idea what I had been doing flooded my mind. She was still scrutinizing, but I had to wonder out loud.

     “Why black?”

     A knowing smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “What do you mean?” she said without turning around.

     I shrugged and continued. “Honestly, none of this is what I expected. I mean, I expected darkness, I guess, but paintings? You? All of this...” I gestured around the room. “None of it makes any sense.”

     She turned to me, her dark eyes suddenly bright, as if she had been waiting to enlighten me. “Does something have to make sense to be beautiful?”

     I blinked. “No.”

     “Well then, why do you want an explanation? Can’t you just appreciate my work? Your work?” She glanced back at my painting. “You clearly understand the process of the craft, but perhaps you don’t understand the effect, yes?”

     I shrugged again. “I guess not.”

     She grinned, excitement radiating through her skin. “Turn the canvas over.”

     Setting the brush and paints down, I grabbed the wooden frame and flipped the canvas to the opposite side. My eyes widened in shock. A nebula cloud, suspended in the void, spraying vivid purples and pinks into the night around it appeared. The stars weren’t just twinkles, but living lights, shining brightly throughout the room. It almost hurt to look at. I glanced at the woman and saw her face gleaming with pride as she looked it over. My words leapt out of my mouth. “This was on the back the entire time?”

     “No, dear,” she whispered. “You created this.”

     Everything in my brain froze. I made this? I turned the painting back over. The room’s ambiance returned as my eyes re-adjusted to the dim lighting. A rush of air escaped my lungs. I had barely breathed while admiring the painting. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Questions flooded my mind, but I wasn’t sure what to ask.

     She chuckled at my confusion. “It’s alright. Take your time.”

     I calmed my nerves and took another breath. “Are all of them…?”

     “Yes, every painting has a backing to it.” She looked around the room, examining each of the pieces. “They are all magnificent.”

     My confusion only grew. “Then why not display them? Why hide them?”

     The woman heaved a sigh, facing me. “I suppose I have some explaining to do.” She smiled again, but with a deep sadness behind her cheeks. “If only people could learn this in life.”

     I shifted my feet, a little uneasy. Honestly, I hadn’t thought about my death since I arrived, but I knew the discussion was inevitable. Might as well be now.

     She picked up the palette. “This isn’t really black paint, you know. It may not be something you can fully comprehend, so you perceive it as black, but it is merely the other side of color.” I cocked my head, and she laughed again at my confusion. “Don’t worry, you are not alone. Think of a coin.” She produced a quarter from her pocket. “You cannot have one side by itself, correct? There must be both. A tail…” she flipped the coin in her palm. “...and a head. The same is true for everything in the universe: coins, colors…” she paused. “And life.”

     When I first arrived, I half-expected — and half-hoped — to find all the secrets of the universe. This was close. It felt like this woman was just revealing truth I had always known but never admitted.

     “Living isn’t about worshiping life or death, or living in fear of either of them,” she stated. “It is knowing that both are required for your existence. That’s why I turn the paintings of every visitor I have: a reminder that both sides are necessary.”

     A clock sounded through the room, ringing one chime of its bells. The woman straightened up, as if snapping out of a trance. “Well, I suppose you must be off. I’ll get you a coat for the rest of your journey.”

     As she left the corner, I stared at my painting. Solid darkness, absorbing every bit of light and warmth that drifted near it. A soft glint of purple caught my eye. As I watched it, I saw the sparkle slowly fade back to the yellow of the fire. I had already learned so much here. Everything looked different now. 

     “Here.” The woman returned, holding a black wool coat by the shoulders. The warmth no longer dried my skin, but sunk into my body, as if a fire had caught in my belly. I opened the door and snow whipped into the room, stinging my cheeks. Cautiously, I stepped into the whirlwind and heard the door shut. I peered out into the darkness, wondering where this new phase of existence would take me. A thick layer of clouds concealed the sky, the falling snow imitated the stars. Bracing myself against the wind, I trudged into the night, determined to push through the darkness until I reached the other side.

 

~~~

About the author:

     Matthew Davis-Brown currently lives in Foley, Alabama, working with the city to enrich his community through the arts. When he's not writing short stories, Matthew thoroughly enjoys drinking too much coffee, playing D&D, serving in his church, and caring for his two cats.

     The never ending war is what we used to call Military Recruiting.

     I’ll spare you the background, how it started, when and where I left it. I don’t care where it is now.

     I’ll tell you what I remember: the rule of 90 days.

     Every three months we had a meeting to discuss why we all sucked at our jobs. You can suck at different times. One month you’re a zero, the next you’re a hero. It’s like sales, but without the paycheck. To continue.

     The life lesson was that everybody, no matter who they are, undergoes a significant change every 90 days. The trick was for a recruiter to never give up. That kid that passed on joining because he got a new job that pays more? Probably fired in the past 90 days. Life was working out great for some kid that blew you off? He just had car trouble and could use an extra $1,000 a month. Did I mention a family healthcare plan for unlimited dependents is only $250 a month? Sign right here.

     Your writing career will follow the same pattern. If you keep writing.

     That story you wanted to finish back in October? There’s a submission call for it with a deadline of the 30th this month. That story you sent out back in November? They’re announcing the winners of that contest next week.

     Remember the Alec Baldwin rule from Glengarry Glenn Ross (mandatory viewing for every new recruiter) and that was A-B-C. Always. Be. Closing. Well, I’m gonna change it for you right now:

     A-B-S. And no, we’re not talking about your leaking brake line.

     Always. Be. Submitting.

     To do that, you gotta have something to submit.

     Which means you gotta have something to write.

     Check your inbox in 90 days, and tell me if life doesn’t look a little more hopeful.

     Cheers. We’ll get through this winter together.

About the author:

     Zack Harmes is a proud husband, a proud father, and a proud Red Bull. Since the fourth grade he has written, scratched out, given up on, restarted, deleted, lost hope in, and tried writing stories again. His wife suggested he submit to Story Unlikely’s 2024 Short Story Contest, where he took first place. It is his first professional publication.  He has no social media, but can be found at high noon in dusty towns practicing his quick-draw, quoting action movies, and looking for trouble. 

Listen on:

Dear Story Unlikely,

     I chose to submit here for a number of reasons. First, it is completely free to submit, and I was already subscribed before I considered submitting. Second, the stories I read from your magazine are extremely high quality and forced me to write differently before submitting. What kind of writer would I be if I never had to improve to get on level with my peers, and how would I improve if I didn't have to compete with others? I love that I'm not on their level yet, and I love that I probably won't get published because it means I'll have to step up my game. Being less skilled than those around me will only lead to advancement, and hopefully I might go far enough to win this contest in a few years. 

 

Thank you for considering me. 

Sincerely,

Ariana Stark

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