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science fiction & fantasy
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Greetings, Distant Travellers
D.K. Latta

The crash occurred at 6:45 AM, EST, rattling windows ten kilometres away. At 7:01 AM a police constable sent to investigate was stammering hysterically into his radio. By 7:45 city officials and a delegation from the local university were on the scene.
“They were likely making for the campus when something went wrong,” explained Dr. Amal Choudhry, hair unkempt having leapt out of bed on receiving the call from the dean and throwing on whatever clothes were to hand. No one noticed his sweater belonged to the husband of Caroline Gemma of the English Department, her husband away at a conference half way across the country in Calgary.
Police Chief Anna McLachlan scowled. “There’s a Hydro station and a military base along the same trajectory. They could’ve been aiming for either of those.”
“You watch too many movies. The visitors were scientists and explorers — come to communicate with fellow scientists.”
The beach crunched beneath them having fused into glass by the impact heat. The vessel loomed from the lake, draping a Stygian shadow over the shore like a pall. Police cars were parked about, yellow caution tape strung between trees, optimistically intended to hold back the crowds that would no doubt congregate as the day progressed. Behind Amal and Chief McLachlan came more officers, university representatives, and city councillors, like a troupe of ducklings. The latter lagged nervously behind, but careful to stay within the frame of photographs and cell phone videos recording the historic moment.
Reared up on its side, the vessel’s silver hull gleamed without apparent seams. Dead fish lay scattered upon the shore, boiled instantly when the friction-heated hull first impacted with the water.
“History is full of advanced societies interacting with primitive societies,” the chief said coldly, “and they didn’t trade theorems.”
“You’re describing essentially primitive barbarians interacting with other primitive barbarians,” Amal countered. “Not a culture that has conquered-” He stopped. “That has navigated the stars. To achieve such technology they’d by necessity have to be peaceful, else they’d have destroyed themselves already. Besides, the distances involved, the effort — there’s no practical value in interstellar conquest.”
“I’m sure the Indians who first spotted Columbus’ ships rationalized the same.”
A shout from down the beach sent them hurrying excitedly toward an officer waving his hands for attention. “There’s a gap in the hull! Looks like it cracked on impact!”
The jagged gash was about four metres tall and though tapered at each ends, was a good two metres at its widest.
Amal took deep breaths. He had assumed it might be days, weeks, before a chosen team could get inside the vessel — and he doubted that a local professor like himself would be on the short list. But now? Could he scramble inside — or would the chief try to stop him? Amal took a tentative step forward — then jumped back, bumping into the chief.
“What’s that-?” someone gasped.
Something moved beyond the dark aperture.
Breathe, Amal told himself, knees feeling weak. He had naturally assumed any pilots would have died in the crash.
“Load up!” shouted the chief.
Amal whirled, the chief slipping a rifle from her shoulder as other officers raced to her summons.
“No!” shouted Amal, more a plea. “Chief, please — these are travellers-“
“Scientists,” he countered.
“Soldiers.”
Someone screamed and they both turned toward the dark opening.
Shadows shifted.
A long limb dropped out from the darkness, splashing into the shallow water. The bones and joints followed an unusual pattern, the skin a weird shifting texture that Amal suspected indicated some sort of epidermal covering, like fur. Then another limb, then another. The body of the creature disgorged into the early morning light, as if the vessel were giving birth.
Screams and gasps issued from the back of the group.
It wasn’t pretty, that had to be conceded. Its muscular torso was wider than it was deep, flowing up into the head — almost like a frog. But a frog the size of a moose. It had a ring of glistening bubbles around the crown of what was arguably its skull, which Amal instantly supposed were eyes. Of a sort. Its mouth blossomed grotesquely into a circle, lined by intimidating teeth, evoking a sea lamprey.
“Huh-halt!” the chief stammered. She coughed and tried again. “Halt! In the name of, of, earth.” She shot Amal a look. “Does it understand me?”
Amal gawked at it, barely processing. “Um — it must. Look at the technology, the ship. It’s doubtless been studying humanity for years before choosing to make contact.” Grinning, he stepped forward. “We greet you in peace, you who come in peace.”
The alien seemed to regard him for a moment. Then its mouth swelled even wider, it gave a shrieking roar — and it pounced.
#
“Well, this is a mess,” said Ch’vizz, staring at the bodies scattered about the glassy beach. She distastefully nudged one of the dead earth creatures with the boot of her environment suit.
“What do you figure happened?” asked Dq’talth.
Ch’vizz shrugged one of her shoulders. “Looks like a herd of the local life forms-“
“Humans,” offered Dq’talth checking his data pad.
“Hoomahns, then. Looks like they tried to corral the Krom’lton-thiq and, unsurprisingly, it looks like it tried to eat them. But they proved poisonous to its metabolism.” The creature was sprawled amid the earth beings.
“Crew’s all dead,” shouted Fl’kinn, leaning out from the jagged tear in the crashed vessel. “The impact shattered the Krom’lton-thiq’s cage.”
Ch’vizz sighed. “Damned idiots. That’s why there’re regulations about transporting dangerous animals. I’ll bet they didn’t even have a license.” She shook her secondary head ruefully. “Let’s activate the grappler beam and haul the wreckage off planet before any more of these, uh, hoomahns show up.”
As they started back toward their own vessel, Dq’talth said, “You’ve got to admire their pluck though.”
“How so?”
“Imagine having the nerve to try and capture a ravenous Krom’lton-thiq with just their bare hands and a few projectile weapons? It’s almost like they figured they could reason with a dumb animal.”

December 1st, 2023
D.K. Latta has been writing fiction, mostly of the speculative fiction variety, off and on for over two decades, as well as occasional non-fiction reviews and essays about movies, graphic novels, and pop culture. He lives in Canada.
more stories here


Wyldblood 14
Wyldblood 14 is available now
buy from us or from Amazon
Nine great new short stories and two drabbles in a fine new collection from Wyldblood. #14 is packed with science fiction and fantasy from imagined worlds to gritty reality a clutch of adventurous, thought provoking and sometimes sligtly unsettling tales which should give you plenty to read though the long winter nights. Available in print and digital formats.

From the Depths
Our latest anthology is packed with tales of the murky deep. We’ve got fifteen stories stuffed with selkies and sea monsters, pirates and meremaids, intrigue, adventure and more. Available in print and digitally.
ISBN 978-1-914417-15-3
Wyldblood Magazine subscriptions
Six issues of cutting edge fantasy and science fiction from established and upcoming writers. Packed with stories, interviews and reviews. Available in print or digitally.
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200 pages full of dragons, demons and dystopian disasters.
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More Free Flash
Vendetta
Diego Lama
Translated by Rose Facchini

Uncle Lele watched the red sunset while smoking his mezzo toscano cigar. His partner from beyond the wooden porch appeared motionless in the afternoon sun. Cooled by a gentle breeze, she stirred and resumed her steady breathing.
Uncle Lele rocked in his old chair, spat on the ground, and closed his eyes.
Then he opened them again.
In front of him sitting on the fence was a man. You could see from his outfit that he was from the future — or that he was insane.

Keepers
Sean MacKendrick

People like me, Keepers, Cleaners, Librarians, whatever label you want to use, we like to debate which of the Words is the most important. Is it any surprise we all think whichever word we maintain is the best? Thing is, a lot of people around here who don’t work on the letters at all, they have opinions, too. Opinions they sure don’t mind telling you.
Most say “HELP” is the most important because that’s the real meat of the request. What is the whole point of the message, they’ll ask, if not to ask for help?
And, sure, no argument it’s an important word. But I say, if anyone does see any part of the message, if they see those three words etched miles long and wide across the ground, they’ll come. If they can read it, they’ll come, and talk to us about it. Then we can ask for help in person.

Ruby Throat and Gold
Karl Dandenell

Seated atop the highest tower, the mage Thij contemplated auguries of smoke blowing into his valley. Nyal the Younger’s army was preparing to move. He’d soon put a stop to that.
A figure emerged from the smoke, falling gently like a milkweed seed. Thij smelled sweet wine grapes.
Vadim.
Thij took a moment to observe his former apprentice skating across the tall wild grass as if it were ice. Such confidence. Did Vadim suspect?

In My Forest of Inky Night
Laura Blackwell

In life, I had a ritual with the letters I received. Once I’d absorbed their meanings, I took the letters out into my forest and shredded them with my hands, tearing across their secrets so that no one else could ever claim them. I mixed the letters with the leaves, allowed the rain and the worms to make them into soil. Sometimes birds took shreds of paper to line their nests with words. From the secrets I kept, life sprang forth unabashed.
The care facility where I died was clean, sterile, colorless. Pleasant, if you find it reassuring to be so far from dirt. I missed the smells of clay-rich forest soil and yellowing paper. In bland surroundings, I, too, became colorless, my skin as thin as the onion paper upon which I wrote my poetry, my veins as blue as ballpoint ink.

Entertain, Embrace, Eat
Dana Vickerson

Two hazy orange moons hang fat in the sky as Ryan spins in a wide circle and lets out a laugh. “This is a good one.”
Dax looks pleased. As he takes her hand, the rocky ground beneath their feet rumbles. Dax’s smile turns wicked.
“What’s that?” Ryan says.
He doesn’t answer, just grips her tighter and looks to the horizon. “Must be a cryogeyser.”
“This better not be like the flesh-eating worms on Europa.”
Dark shapes emerge from the surrounding outcropping, massive fuzzy bodies with eight slender arms bent high above their bodies.
Ryan shoves his arm, “No way, I’m out!”


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