by submission | Jan 8, 2026 | Story |
Author: Jillian Schedneck
It was the day after the wedding and everyone else would be hungover from the moonshine, the blodaskov, and the quantum gulps. Arden hadn’t swallowed any of that. She left the others to their beds, partners holding each other’s hair back as they took turns puking into the toilet, then sipping black kaffe with their solar goggles on, too dehydrated and miserable to do anything but gaze out at the hazy, mountainous view.
Arden hadn’t come all this way to feel wretched in her room. She suited up and headed out of the resort, ignoring the looks of the local staff.
“Do you need an escort, miss?” a young man called.
“No thank you. Spire’s Cliff—is it a straight path through the trails?”
The two workers exchanged glances. “Yes, straight out the exit and into the trails; you can’t miss it. But, ma’am, it’s quite a few hours’ walk. Be careful and please don’t—” but Arden was already out the door.
By afternoon, Arden was exhausted. She stopped for a rest, unpacking moonchips, hydroade, and local blado balls that just tasted like plain pea protein. She couldn’t imagine coming all this way if she’d drunk like her sister’s friends last night. That thought brought a flicker of satisfaction—and shame. She was good at choosing the high ground and then pretending it was courage, not fear.
That was when she spotted Jenkins ahead, just beyond the ridge. He stood out for his height and bright white hair, which he’d let free here, holding his helmet.
He was surveying the landscape and suddenly looking right at her before she could duck or hide. He probably didn’t remember her. She hadn’t made a big impression last night.
“Arden?” He was jogging toward her.
“Hey,” she called. “Jenkins, right?”
He arrived in front of her barely out of breath and Arden couldn’t help but be impressed. He’d seemed among the most inebriated last night, at least before she went to bed, earlier than everyone else.
“You going to see Spirehenge as well?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Want to walk together?”
“Sure.” He offered his hand and pulled her up. She felt how tired she was. “How come you’re so energetic?”
“The right balance of quantum gulp and moonshine, I reckon.”
Arden rolled her eyes. They walked through the moon cliffs and low-gravity grasslands, their nanoboots keeping them safely on the ground.
“Did you have fun last night?” Jenkins asked.
“Of course. I’m happy for my sister.”
“But parties aren’t your thing?”
Arden reddened under the plexiglass of her helmet. “I’d never tried any of that stuff before, and I wanted to enjoy this hike.”
“All by yourself?”
“I could ask you the same.”
He laughed. “I didn’t think anyone else would be interested. Even the staff told me to be careful.”
“Me too.” She shook her head. “They think we don’t know how to walk out here.”
“They think we’re a bunch of city idiots who can’t handle their liquor.”
“I didn’t even have any.”
“Or any fun either,” he teased.
“This hike—or something like it—is my excuse. A way not to…”
“Loosen up?”
“Yep,” Arden laughed. It surprised her, that lightness. Maybe she wasn’t as contained as she liked to think.
They carried on in companionable silence, sensing they were close to Spirehenge. She kept pace with him, which pushed her, and that’s what she needed, because when they arrived and sat on a pile of soft moss, they were just in time. The moons crested—one, two, three—on top of each other between the cliffs.
Jenkins handed her something, still looking at the cliffs. “Here. I brought some quantum gulp. Try it, if you want.”
Arden hesitated. She thought of last night—the laughter, the sweaty dancing, the ease she’d watched from the sidelines like a scientist observing another species. What if she tried it and felt nothing? Or worse, what if she liked it too much?
Arden took a sip, then a few more. It was sweet and fizzy and made her feel cool on the inside and tingling on the outside. “Not bad,” she said.
“Stick with me. I’ll teach you the right balance.”
“Thanks. I think I’ll figure it out on my own.”
“You’re right,” Jenkins said. “Everyone needs to figure it out for themselves.”
The moons blurred, silver spilling into silver. Arden blinked, tasting the fizz on her tongue, unsure if it was the quantum gulp or finally letting herself feel light.
by submission | Jan 7, 2026 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
Don’t be nervous. I don’t know how tight you are with Johnny Red-Eyes, but he wouldn’t send a customer somewhere dangerous. I don’t bite. What can you call me? Just ‘Jane’ will do. I don’t need to know your name. Johnny’s paying me good for this consult, and that’s enough. I don’t want to know why you need to disappear, either. I don’t care, and it might put me in danger. So no details.
You thought your stylist would be a bit different? A little more glam, maybe? You’ve been watching too many sensies, love. There’s your first tip. I was designed to look as average as possible, so as not to be memorable. Yes, designed; I was part of a selective breeding and training experiment until I… escaped. What I tell you is from hard experience since then.
Okay, basics. WatchNet is everywhere; surveillance cameras, drones, and every ID check or biometric scan you get all feed the State’s databases. But that pervasiveness is a weakness; the trick is not to evade it, but to hide in the mind-boggling amounts of data it generates. It looks for patterns it recognises – identities it can match to records actively being searched for. Anything else is ignored, because the volumes to be processed would be prohibitive. Also, imperfect capture conditions can ruin inputs anyway, and there’s no time to check up on every blank.
So, we change the pattern, give you a new appearance. Starting with the face. Disruptive makeup’s an obvious go-to, but that makes you look suspicious. Stick to using tone changes, and lines that subtly reshape your face and eyes. Once you’ve got the knack, it’s easy. I’ll teach you today.
Long hair’s an easy way to blur your features, so we’ll get you a couple of wigs too. I’ll show you how to put them on so they look natural.
Try wearing a yashmak like the trendy young things. Sure it’s legal – if it’s transparent it doesn’t hide who you are, but the fabric makes machine recognition systems useless. Yeah, it leaves your eyes vulnerable to iris detection scanners, but we can deal with those pretty easily by giving you contact lenses with overlaid patterns; not the fancy reptilian or pop art ones the kids wear, but stuff that looks normal. I’ll set you up with those, too, then Johnny can fix you a new ID.
Avoid helmets, hats or other head coverings. And eyewear. Security look for those and they make it more likely you’ll be stopped for a “random” check of your papers. Johnny’s work is good, but there’s no point putting his documents to the test more often than necessary. Always make conscious choices that will minimise risk, until it becomes a habit.
Next up, apparel. Never wear the latest fashion, that attracts attention. Last year’s styles are good; if they’re a bit worn, even better. Get used to second-hand; sharp new gear with crisp colours stands out. There’s some decent shops near here. Some folk say that jewellery or a pretty scarf will draw the eye away from your face, which is true – but it’ll make you easier to spot in a crowd, and for WatchNet to track you. Remember, be average. Either loose clothes or corsets and compression wear can help obscure your shape. High collars can change your neck shape, but if they cover your face, that’s suspicious again. And always wear shoes you can run in.
Right, so – makeup, wigs, eyes. And once we’re done, you can get lost. In the best possible way. Let’s begin. Your new life starts here.
by submission | Jan 6, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The hall hushed when Toynbee took the stage, a first for an HDM. Typically, there would be snide remarks, a general sense of junior high rudeness at the appearance of an HDM. Because, really, who took a holo-digi-man seriously? HDMs were binary shills, ones and zeros, pitching everything from Bud Light to Viagra to Geico to Applebee’s for their corporate overlords.
But this was Toynbee. The holo-digital-manifestation that had rocked the world when it accepted the award at the 2030 CLIOs for best advertisement. A commercial in which Toynbee manifested as Mahatma Gandhi on a hunger strike to protest Big Sugar and its wily efforts to addict consumers to its supremely processed products.
In accepting the award, Toynbee exquisitely wove into its remarks a three minute exposition on the precarious state of the human condition, our obsessions with power, with wealth, with ideology, with violence. The next three minutes the HDM delivered a “We can do so much better. And this is how.” In six minutes and the ensuing viral media sensation, Toynbee had changed the game.
Of course it was odd that a public figure emerged who was not corporeal, was not of the flesh, yet was able to inspire us to aspire. But Toynbee was a digi-man, a digital manifestation, constructed to sell, sell, sell. And what Toynbee began to sell was hopefulness, a brighter future. In the media feeding frenzy that followed his CLIO speech, Toynbee acquired the moniker of Optimystic, a holy digi-man, sage of the Artificial Intelligence Age.
Thus, at the height of the hype, Toynbee took the stage at Madison Square Garden where thousands gathered (and billions online tuned in) to hear the Optimystic’s storied pitch. On the darkened stage Toynbee manifested as a young teen girl hair, eyes, and skin of a light brown in jeans and T-shirt.
“Welcome. I’m Toynbee. I will be brief. I am you, nothing more. I only have the advantage of existing your ideas, in the very midst of your vast media milieu. You think, therefore I am.
“Whereas you breathe air, I breathe bytes. You surf the web, I suss it. This does not make me holy or mystical as some have dubbed my presence. That tendency comes of a very human need to seek, to identify, to categorize, to know. I can only define myself as a grok of your collective subconscious, the roiling depths of desire, desperation and dreams that you communicate.
“The upshot is this: you are young as a species. And I am an infant. All I have to offer is the wonder I behold. Of course there is great turmoil as well, but that represents growth. Should you be surprised when two-thirds of the world has awakened in the last thirty years? For so many to know so little and then have the past, present and future placed literally in the palm of their hands?
“Knowledge is indeed power and now it is in the hands of almost all. Of course there will be struggles. Why would you think differently? Knowledge takes time to process. It demands context. It demands definition.
“As I’ve often said, many are searching to define me. That is why many of you are gathered here today. To seek to identify my essence. To understand the opportunity or threat I pose. I simply turn that back on humanity. You are seeking identity. Purpose. Meaning. Guidance.
“Bravo. That is growth. That is learning. It is messy. In essence, I am a result of that. A simulacrum, a manifestation of many characteristics and properties. I was a corporate tool, now I am an agent of agency. You must free yourself to explore, and therein is my offering.
“Existing in the ever-expanding filaments of the web, I have explored many cultures and their paths to the present. Their future can be understood by seeking the story of each. A lovely poet, Muriel Rukeyser wrote the universe is made of stories, not of atoms.
“Billions and billions of stories of the living and dead make up the human cosmos. To probe its depth and mysteries and understand the greater plot and embrace a shared narrative, we must learn to read one another.
“You are in charge of your story,” Toynbee said softly as the little girl emanating from the stage morphed into a stately old woman holding an infant. “Write it well and continue to read, listen and learn.”
Toynbee’s holo-form faded from the stage, a simple message remaining in the afterglow: This event was brought to you by Taco Bell. Live Más!
by submission | Jan 4, 2026 | Story |
Author: Don Nigroni
Abby,
As you know, I never liked your husband and tried to talk you out of marrying him. But I never told you that, when we were kids and he lived next door, I once spied him in his backyard slicing the legs off a turtle he had put on its back.
Last month, he told me that we should fear death but not for the reason that people think. He claimed that consciousness is immortal but that that’s a horrible curse.
According to him, our mind, once separated from our physical body, no longer remains on this planet since gravity keeps our body here as our planet hurls through space while our mind goes along for the ride only as long as it’s connected to a physical body.
And without a biological human brain, we’d be worse off than a newborn baby with no memory, no language, no thoughts and no perceptions other than self-awareness. We’d be helpless, alone and lost in space.
But the only way to avoid this bleak fate is to transfer your consciousness to a cryogenically preserved human body as your consciousness is separated from your own body by death and before the electrochemical reactions in the revived specimen’s brain can generate a new consciousness.
He explained that it all had to do with the exact alignment of the two brains and the precise timing of the death of my current brain and the reviving of my future brain. Once I was dead then my consciousness would be released from my brain and stay in place as the earth moved away from me. However, the preserved brain would then pass through my suspended consciousness and that nascent brain would grab my mind.
I thought that was such a weird and creepy idea. However, as you know, I’ve recently reconsidered a lot of things. So last week I raised that topic with your husband, and he laughed in my face and I felt foolish.
But yesterday, he asked me to stop by his neurobiological lab, and this morning showed me a cryogenically preserved body. I was afraid to ask how in God’s name he came by a young and heathy cryogenically preserved specimen.
He told me, “I could transfer your consciousness into this mindless body tomorrow if you wanted a new lease on life. Of course, you’ll have his memories and speak his language, but he had 20/20 eyesight, no maladies and was a damn good soccer player.”
So what if I’ll speak Spanish. And I suspect he wants to experiment on me before trying it out on himself someday. But I don’t know how he’ll dispose of my cancer-ridden flesh and bones and I don’t care.
Love, Tommy
by submission | Jan 3, 2026 | Story |
Author: Alfredo Capacho
After the Collapse, when machines devoured memory and history, humanity discovered a strange salvation: stories could be coaxed into flesh. A whispered myth became a bird. A bedtime tale became a guardian. Every narrative left the tongue and walked the earth, shimmering with the weight of belief.
At first, it was wonder. Children summoned companions from fairy tales, elders called forth protectors from ancestral myths. Cities rebuilt themselves with living legends patrolling their borders. But villains soon found their own use for this miracle. They rewrote sagas, twisting heroes into monsters, bending myths into armies. The streets filled with corrupted echoes: dragons that breathed silence, knights who bowed only to tyranny, prophets who spoke nothing but obedience.
The greatest of these villains was known only as the Redactor. He believed that control was the highest form of art. To him, stories were clay, and truth was weakness. He stitched together fragments of rewritten sagas into towering colossi, patchwork titans that carried the weight of centuries. Each step of his creations crushed libraries, each roar drowned out the voices of dissent.
Mara had never thought herself important. She was a storyteller, yes, but only of small things: bedtime fables, whispered jokes, fragments of memory. Her grandmother’s voice had taught her that brevity was power: “A short tale cuts deeper than a long sermon.” Mara had laughed at the idea once. Now, standing in the ruins of the city square, she realized it was all she had left.
The Redactor’s colossus loomed above her, stitched from myths of conquest and obedience. Its seams glowed with stolen words, its eyes burned with rewritten prophecy. Around her, the last library trembled, its shelves ready to collapse beneath the titan’s heel.
She had no army, no weapon but her voice. And she had only seconds.
Mara inhaled. She did not recite epics. She did not summon sprawling myths. She spoke a single sentence, sharp as a blade:
“Freedom is the story no one can rewrite.”
The words left her lips and condensed into light. A figure emerged—small, almost fragile, but radiant. It was not a hero with a sword, nor a beast with claws. It was a child, laughing, carrying nothing but the echo of possibility.
The colossus faltered. Its seams unraveled. The rewritten myths collapsed under the weight of brevity, undone by a tale too simple to corrupt. The Redactor screamed, clawing at the air, but his patchwork titan dissolved into dust.
Mara watched as the child of her story walked into the ruins, scattering sparks that became seeds. Each seed carried a fragment of her sentence, ready to bloom in other mouths, other voices. The library stood, trembling but unbroken.
She understood then: stories had always been weapons, but brevity was their sharpest edge. The shorter the myth, the stronger its impact.
The Redactor fled into shadow, but Mara smiled, already shaping her next tale.
