I have a new post up on my Substack. This covers Destination Freedom, a classic radio drama focusing on African American history originally aired in 1948. Written and produced by Richard Durham, and featuring some Black voice actors you may not know about. Check it out. Feel free to share! Subscribe if you like. It’s free. As always I appreciate comments and likes. 

A new story available on my Substack. A collectible doll decides it’s time to break out of her box.

https://open.substack.com/pub/99echoishiizone/p/short-fiction-the-ramona?r=4pueuv&utm_medium=ios

I’ve been posting on Substack. It’s mainly about SF shows and some collectibles. Also, some of my paranormal/SF short fiction (all work safe spooky fun). Currently I’ve post include a review of Star Trek: Open a Channel; musings on the 1970s The Tomorrow People; and some audio dramas I enjoy. It’s free; but subscribe if you like.

https://99echoishiizone.substack.com

Need a spooky Halloween story? My story ‘The Assistant’ is available as a part of Steve Bellinger’s One Told Series. It’s work safe. Have a listen:)

Dr. Gretchen Brenner is an expert in a very strange and dangerous field of study. As she prepares for her final lecture, she wonders if it’s time to give it up…

My flash fic horror short story, “LAST MINUTE PURCHASE” is featured in Siren’s Call Halloween edition 2023. It is available for download here.

Banana, embark, pillow, ego, foot

Astra Ardent was standing in front of the flashing computer screen listing all the shuttle leaving and arriving on the Sixkills, a type of the line galactic cruiser.  Human of all stripes were bustling around the hangar bay carrying equipment and shouting orders. This was the true heart of a space cruiser; not the main bridge. This was were space exploration actually meant something. 

”Astra, I’m sorry but we really don’t need you,” the mission coordinator Ophelia Rifkin Stone smirked when she said it, tapping her right foot impatiently, as if she had better places to be and better people to talk to. She had a massive ego and a bad attitude, but so did every Moon citizen-Lunas-Astra had ever encountered. When the wars had engulfed Earth, the wealthy had fled to the Moon colonies. Earth was much better now; but Lunas were descended from generations of the entitled. 

And those born on Mars? If you were from Mars you were a miner or a child of miners. There was nothing on Mars but mines, factories, and pollution. Astra winced at the memory of those horrible, clunky breathing masks she’d had to wear on the grade school playground. Mars Citizen. Aresians, as in Ares. But everyone just called them Martians.

“Maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” Astra tried to look contrite. And serious. That was hard to dressed up in a banana yellow tech uniform and green boots smudged with oil. 

“No, that is not the issue. We are going on an archaeological dig. Top secret xeno-archaeology. You don’t have any skills we need. You don’t have the credentials.”  You don’t have the credentials, Martian. That what you really want to say. 

“I do tech,” Astra said flatly.

“We have technicians,” Ophelia waved her off. She was only half-listening anyway; her ear implant comm was flashing a green light to show that it was on. Wow. Astra didn’t even rank high enough to have her full attention. Still, she was desperate.

“Look, can’t I serve on someone’s shuttle?” 

“ I don’t know why you are so eager. Are you just that determined to get off this ship?

Yes. Yes I am. At this point I’ll wash dishes, fold clothes, fluff your pillows if that’s what it takes. 

“I don’t have time for this,” Ophelia said. “ I have to prepare to embark in less than 48 hours. “She glanced at Astra with a smug look. 

That’s what you think. 

Knowing Ophelia would be arrested along with anyone else on the Sixkills when Security Forces arrived  in less than 12 hours made her feel satisfied. Except she was going to the brig beside her if she didn’t find a way off this ship. Astra didn’t say anything. There was no point. Ophelia has already turned away. She stomped back across the landing docks, heavy boots beating against the concrete. She was terrified, but anger was a better emotion. She had to get off the Sixkills. 

Astra had risked it all to send those messages. She’d broken into a secured comm channel. She’d put her own image out there to verify who she was. The Security Forces said they were thankful for her assistance. She took a risk being a whistleblower. When word got out on what the senior officers were up to heads would roll. Astra had asked about protective custody. Her contact had only said that they would be taking the whole crew into custody.

“So what should I do?” Astra had asked.

“Be off the ship when we arrive,” her contact had responded. And then there was silence. 

Where do I go? Astra thought. I’m on a galactic cruiser in outer space. Once again, the universe was not on her side. She had to go it alone. 

copyright 2023 Echo Ishii

Friday Five Prompt: Log, panel, long, senior, popular 

***

Astra Ardent snuck along the long corridor of the lower deck of the galactic cruiser Sixkills. Other staff seldom came down here, but she couldn’t risk being seen. She wasn’t the most popular member of the crew on a good day- the only alien hybrid in a crew of cybernetic soldiers. The green tint of her skin and the antennae marked her as offspring of the former enemy. Never to be trusted. 

And now she was about to prove them right. 

She snuck into a small engineering room at the end of the hall. It was used for the filtration systems but she could reconfigure the panels and access the communications logs. If she could do it, then the spy on board could have. 

Astra felt ill. Could she really go through with it? She wasn’t a hero. She was tech crew and not a soldier. Accusing a senior officer-the second in command- of spying for the Mars rebellion against the Earth Alliance was risky. If she were wrong, it was treason. 

She ran her hands over the computer panel; accessing the logs. Just do. Don’t think. Pray that you’re right. 
***

well, at least I’m writing. Gave it a shot🤣.

Prompt challenge: embryo, future, fist, rider, spine

Begin recording. 

My mother says that my mind wanders and that is true. More true than she might think. I haven’t spoken with my mother in some years-other than the obligatory Mother’s Day card we have little contact. But this audio report isn’t about my mother.

Static. Pause. Begin recording. 

I developed this skill about seven years ago when I volunteered for the study. I am not certain how or why I heard of it; perhaps a friend sent me the link on Facebook. In any event, I needed the money. A few hundred dollars for two hours of work over a four week period was a small fortune to me then. It is now, as the effects of the study have seriously hindered my ability to hold a job. 

“What’s this study called again,” I vaguely remember asking as I signed my name before reading the details of the contract besides the amount. Foolish, in retrospect. 

“Project Panoptes.”

“It’s an eye test?”

“Sort of,” said the woman in a lab coat as she directed me to sit in a chair in front of a small machine. I’ve had eye tests many times. This seemed no different at first; then it became repetitive. And there were so many images. And so many lights. And, believe it or not, an aroma…as if something was burning.

 Static. Pause.  Begin Recording.

A person can pass me by; look me straight in the eye; and suddenly I am off…my own mind clasping on to theirs, riding through their minds eye.

I know when it is about to happen. My body will go cold, as if cold water is poured down my spine, and I clinch my fists, and my whole body constricts…off I go.

Most of the time, I travel into the past. I didn’t notice at first, but now I have learned the markers; mainly tech or cars; occasionally clothing. Every now and then, I share a mind long enough to confirm a date. The furthest past was in 1993 written on an invitation; though most are within the last twenty years or so.

Usually, it lasts a few hours or a day. One older woman met my eye and I spent time at the wedding of her daughter; the aforementioned journey to 1993.  Another time, another woman sat next to me on the bus. Our eyes met-I spent over a day as she was wandering around New York, homeless, scared. Her fear and despair searching for a place to sleep; to be safe; to last the night. On the bus, next to me, nothing indicated that she had ever struggled. But we never really know as much about people as we think we do. 

As you can guess, this makes life complicated. I haven’t met anyone else in my predicament. Holding a job is hard when you never know how your mind will drift away. For now, I restock shelves on night shift. If I drift away, who will notice? 

There was only one journey that may have been the future. A student from the local university (judging by the sweatshirt) made eye contact with me and I was off for two disturbing hours.  All around me were blue walls with flat screens images, videos, faces flashing across them lighting fast. Like watching Tiktok videos only sped up 100X. All the people around me-I guess they were people-wore cybernetic suits. I wore one or rather the mind I shared wore one- and we went to work in a lab with several human embryos suspended in chambers, moving, breathing, turning around. I never knew the work I (or we) were doing but she cried quietly while drinking herself into oblivion. It was only a brief glance in the reflective service of the lab table that let me know she was the same woman I met at the university at the beginning of the experiments. 

copyright Echo Ishii 

Continuing from last week’s story here.

Harry wasn’t the least bit taken aback about Dean’s suggestions about UFO’s. He’d seen stranger things. He was living stranger things. One day, he might even be able to tell his secret. 

Dean was clearly excited as rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. The noise of celebrations from outside were muted in this stuffy little office of Facility Q9. 

“According to residents of the a town just north of here, here have been legends of mysterious lights going back decades,” Dean seemed excited about the prospect. Harry felt like Dean was a study in contradictions. One minute, a gruff curmudgeon; the next gleeful as a school boy. 

“Why don’t we go out there?” Dean suggested.

“Now?” Harry asked. 

“It’s the perfect chance. Everyone is wrapped up in the rocket tests. No one is going to notice the absence of  two scientists they don’t pay much attention to anyways. We’ll say it’s a weather balloon research if anyone asks, “ Dean said, clearly warming up to the prospects. 

“We have to file a report. Register a car,” Harry said.

“Forget all that. We’ll leave now. Drive out. File reports later.

Harry grinned. He knew Dean didn’t enjoy his time at the Facility. The other scientists largely avoided him. He could be intense at times. And he took things deadly seriously.  Harry knew from this point on, he and Dean would soon be driving out across the plains, far away from the facility on a hunt for the UFO. He knew this because he was traveling through time. More accurately, skipping through time. Back and forth. The farthest he’d gone back was to see Dean working on his family’s ranch. The furthest ahead-he didn’t want to think about what he’d seen. The important issue was to remain steady and do what he need to do to save both of their lives. 

An adventure. Both men gathered their things and headed down the hall, boots clanking against the floors. They guard on duty barely glanced at their identity cards and waved them out.  

“Walk casual so it doesn’t look like we’re up to anything,” Dean said.

“You think I don’t know how to do a little convert mission? I’ll surprise you,” Harry said. If only you knew. 

They raced across the main base, as the sounds of the other partiers disappeared behind them. Harry waited anxiously while Dean picked the lock. The steel chain dropped down and the headed towards the garage. 

“Take one of the older ones. They might not care as much,” Harry said. 

“I got the perfect model right here,” Dean said, tapping the hood of a battered Ford. 

“Must be car the first one Ford ever made,” Harry said. It looked it. It was battered, the fender was rusty, and he could swear it looked like there were bullet holes in the driver’s side door. 

“Get in,” Dean told him, “pray they don’t issue a warrant for our arrest.” 

copyright Echo Ishii, 2023