by submission | Dec 24, 2025 | Story |
Author: Keisha Hartley
Amara’s head knocked against the cold car window, jolting her awake. Her fingers were numb from clutching the long black case on her lap. The Uber driver sped down the winding path unbothered by the rain. Ahead, the dark spires of her grandmother’s home jutted above the crest of the driveway hill the Corolla struggled to climb, tires sliding on the slick gravel.
Jorge, she reminded herself as she checked the app, grunted.
“I don’t know what business you have here, Miss, but do it quick. If you’re thinking of asking me to wait, the answer’s no. I don’t mess with that freaky shit.”
“I won’t.” Her voice cracked. She hadn’t spoken in days.
Jorge pulled to a sharp stop in the circular drive. She managed a weak “Thank you,” but he was already gone. She stood alone in front of the massive house, rain dripping into every uncomfortable seam of her clothes.
“Hey, Grandma,” she whispered toward the empty windows as she dragged her suitcases up the steep wooden steps. She fumbled through her wool coat for the heavy set of keys mailed to her with her grandmother’s will. Dust clouds rose as she shoved the door open and pulled her things inside.
She had always done what she was told. Her parents demanded it: classes, sports, instruments, clothes, friends—every decision theirs, never hers. Now they were gone. Everyone she loved was gone. And still she obeyed. Her grandmother’s will had been clear: if her parents were dead and she herself had passed, Amara was to inherit and live in her summer home.
She remembered it fondly. Running through gardens, gathering flowers her grandmother pointed out. Never caring what the neighbors whispered about shadows moving where they shouldn’t. Here, she had felt free. But now, she felt numb. Her muffled sobs echoed in the hollow rooms. She needed to find a place to sleep. Cleaning could wait.
A sharp clang paralyzed her. From the kitchen.
Heart hammering, she crept in. The room looked unchanged; the same weathered wood table where she and her grandmother spent hours cooking, pots bubbling, laughter rising with the steam, scent of dried flowers and medicinal herbs all around.
On the stove, a pot simmered. Heavy soup spoon on the floor. She edged closer. The warm, savory scent of pumpkin soup washed over her. Exactly as she remembered. But how?
A thin shiver rippled up her neck as a soft humming filled the room. A familiar tune—the first song she had ever played live on the flute. Martinu Sonata. The humming cut off right before her favorite part.
“No, no, no…” Panic rising, she ran back to the door, shoving her suitcases, looking for her black case. She snapped it open. Inside lay the one thing her parents had left her. A vintage flute.
She pressed it to her lips and picked up where the humming faded.
The sound returned, now weaving with hers.
Tears of joy streamed down her cheeks.
She wasn’t alone.
by submission | Dec 23, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Well into the neopandemic I noticed the countdown. Inside my left eyelid.
A faint image, like a digital timer flickering. I couldn’t make out distinct digits in the rolling blur of numbers so there was no real way of knowing if it was counting up or down.
But my gut knew. Immediately. Things were headed down.
It was impossible to say at what number the countdown had started. No way of knowing when it would end. But the numbers kept spinning. Floating somewhere in my left eye.
A ghost in the machine. In my mind.
That’s not something you tell anyone. Especially when folks are so uptight already. Besides, everyone was counting the days, hours, minutes, seconds until life as we knew it could resume.
Which is bogus. Life as we knew it. That’s gone. You can’t unknow a pandemic. Can’t unknow how fast everything changes.
Maybe that’s what I’m experiencing when I close my left eye. Maybe my internal clock has gone haywire. Or maybe I’m beginning to see what was always out there: the time left.
To me. To us. To the notion of humanity. To the notion of time.
When the neopandemic shut us in our homes again, when its covidian rhythms disrupted our circadian ones, the thought of going off-clock, off calendar, messed with me. Totally disoriented my days.
Then it didn’t. I reoriented. That’s when I confronted the construct we’d lived with long before the virus and all its variants made us vulnerable to our very primitive concept of being.
Past. Present. Future. These are merely conventions humans adopted long, long ago to dodge a dire truth. We’re time bound. Shackled by yesterday, today, tomorrow. Our temporal framework is not an existential cornerstone, it is a cage.
We’ve become perilously time bound.
And we’re all counting down.
I don’t think that’s a startling or brave realization. We’re all on the clock. That’s not a surprise. What spooked me was when the numbers on my left eyelid became sharper, and I could plainly see the countdown clock was actually counting up.
So when does counting up equal counting down?
Think zero. Zero us.
The count under my left eyelid was in sync with the number of worldwide neopandemic deaths. And the daily numbers were spinning faster and faster, ripping upwards.
Zero us.
It made me blink.
by submission | Dec 20, 2025 | Story |
Author: Matthew Luscher
It began to pour as the bus pulled in. The driver shot me a puzzled look as I stepped off and made a gesture clearly hinting for me to get back onboard.
I ignored him.
It had been half a mornings journey down bumpy country roads, following the recommendation of a tattered old guide book I had bought a few days ago at a second hand shop.
I had flicked through the pages and landed on a village called Ullaloch in the Scottish highlands. It wasn’t its Jacobean hotel or twice a day buses that interested me, but a small note in strange handwriting next to the cheery description:
It is a great place for a short rest.
I had to have a look.
As the bus slid away I started down a narrow country lane towards the village. Not long after I spotted an old and large red brick building flanked by turrets, that must be the hotel. I quickened my pace and as I rounded the corner the rest of the village came into view.
Or what should have been the village.
Instead beyond the edge of the hotel the road ended right at the foot of a massive fortified concrete wall. There was no entrance.
The place seemed desolate, I couldn’t see a single person. I stared at my travel guide and looked again, no, this was it.
Intrigued, I went up to the hotel. The wallpaper was moulded and most of the windows were smashed. A worn noticeboard in the corner had a few leaflets pinned to it. Most were too faded to be legible but one said “Save our Ullaloch from Experiment No. 235824” and another “Community Giveaway: Travel Books!”.
As I was reading the board I felt a sudden cold draft on my neck. I thought it was the wind from the broken windows.
Then the coldness began to spread to my shoulders and back.
That was weird.
Suddenly I started to stumble, my vision swimming, I tried to grasp a nearby chair but my arms were frozen.
I was falling.
But I didn’t get as far as the floor.
Instead I felt hands around my shoulders. A silhouette appeared in front of me.
“Another tourist?”
“Looks like it, he’s got that book, same one as they all have”.
“Who are you?” I tried to ask, but it was no good, I was slipping away.
“Take him… main road… book…”
Thoughts are blurring… are those… ruins of cottages… Ullaloch…? Is that a huge pile… of… of travel guides?!
…
Honk.
Honk.
What is that sound? I want to sleep…
Honk.
HONK.
No, it won’t stop. Fine, fine.
I open my eyes.
The light is blinding. I see… a shape of a bus? An impatient looking driver was blasting the horn for all it was worth.
“Wake up! I won’t be driving back around here till morning”.
I stumble onboard, struggling with my pockets before I find my wallet and pay for a ticket.
The bus doors shut with a hiss and then with a rumble we began to move off.
How did I get here? It’s already evening. I can’t understand what happened. Did I fall asleep when waiting for the bus?
I do feel rested.
Wait a minute. Where is my guide book? It’s not in my pocket, I must have dropped it when rushing to get onboard.
Oh well.
It wasn’t that useful anyway.
by submission | Dec 19, 2025 | Story |
Author: James C. Clar
“Europe during the plague is too tame for you?” The Extreme Time-Travel agent could barely conceal his surprise. His quartz desk glowed faintly under his hands. “You realize that package includes rats, mass hysteria, and the very real possibility of dying in a ditch.”
Mr. Donovan smiled in that effortless way only the very rich could. “We’ve done all that,” he said. “The Cretaceous extinction; the fireball was spectacular but the dust was dreadful. The eruption of Vesuvius.” He gazed lovingly at his wife. “You enjoyed Pompeii, didn’t you, darling?”
Mrs. Donovan nodded fondly. “The ash in the sky at sunset rendered the colors exquisite.”
The agent blinked once. “I see. So, I take it you’re looking for something… more challenging?”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Donovan. “We want something truly daring. Something that not only feels dangerous but is dangerous. You only live once, after all.”
The agent hesitated, scrolling through the glowing catalog projected on his desktop. “Let’s see. How about the sack of Rome or the siege of Jerusalem? I can also tell you that the Mongol Invasions always garner rave reviews. I see here that there is still space for the French Revolution as well. The mobs add just the right level of unpredictability and the killing was quite indiscriminate.”
Mrs. Donovan shook her head. “Too historical, too trite. We’re aiming for something, how say I say it … something more immersive, more original.”
“I say again,” Mr. Donovan added with just a trace of frustration, “we want the danger to be real.”
“Ah.” The agent’s expression softened into something between admiration and disbelief. He scrolled for a minute or two more.
“I may have just the thing,” he said, looking up from his desk. “It’s a period of global instability, economic collapse, environmental failure and utter political chaos. You’ll be witnessing a civilization devouring itself in broad daylight, as it were.”
“That’s it!” the Donovan’s exclaimed together.
The agent gave a slow, knowing nod. “Very few request this era. I must warn you, it’s uncomfortable. It was a time of primitive yet expensive medicine, state-controlled media feeding rampant paranoia and conspiratorial thinking.”
“That sounds marvelous,” Mrs. Donovan said. “Just the sort of authenticity we’re after.”
“Indeed.” The agent tapped a few commands, and two shimmering tickets materialized above the desk. “You will need to sign expanded waivers. We can’t guarantee your safety or, for that matter, your return.”
“Perfect,” said Mr. Donovan, scrawling his name with the flourish of someone who’d never known genuine risk.
The agent studied the couple one last time: immaculate, eager, gleaming with the privilege of a century that had forgotten fear.
“Departure is in ten minutes,” he said smoothly. “The coordinates are pre-set.”
The Donovans stood, radiant with anticipation. “At last,” Mrs. Donovan breathed. “Something truly barbaric.”
The agent inclined his head. “Precisely so.”
The teleportation field hummed slowly to life, surrounding the couple in silver light as they prepared themselves. Finally, their outlines shimmered – and then, they were gone.
The agent exhaled, filing their itinerary with a flick of his hand. “Two guests,” he dictated, “Premium Historical Immersion. Destination: high-risk era marked by unrest, predatory capitalism, and moral decay.”
He paused, reading the glowing timestamp on the screen. His lips twitched into the faintest smile. Two more satisfied customers, another job well done.
“Departure … and arrival … confirmed,” he intoned softly to himself.
“Approximate geographical and temporal coordinates logged: United States of America, mid-21st century. Bon Voyage!”
by submission | Dec 18, 2025 | Story |
Author: Bill Cox
“Well,” she says, impatience dripping from her voice, “What’s it going to be?”
I’ve the stylus in my hand, hovering over the pad. I look up at her and it’s all I can do not to stick the stylus in her eye and just keep on pushing it deeper and deeper, until it hits the back of her skull. I grip it tightly, still able to hold back the tidal wave of anger, although my control feels more precarious than ever.
There are two tick boxes on the pad. I’ve to choose one.
Choose the one on the left, a man I once knew goes home to his wife and son. He signed up to the Colonial Expeditionary Corp for them, to guarantee a monthly income and get them moved out of the slums into federal accommodation while he did his duty.
The box on the right means I sign up for another three-year tour and get to remain me. I’m not the guy who would automatically choose that left hand box. He did six months training at the Academy on Mars, before being put into stasis on a faster than light cruiser to Epsilon Eridani.
I woke up at the other end, reprogrammed during stasis by the CEC for the job at hand. The job the brochures call terraforming, preparing suitable worlds for the never-ending wave of emigrants leaving an over-populated Sol System.
In reality, its genocide, the CEC’s dirty little secret.
The problem is life. It’s everywhere, infesting almost every planet we’ve found in the habitable zone. Even intelligence isn’t that rare. Nothing as advanced as us yet and nothing else with a soul, obviously.
That’s one of the little titbits they programmed me with during stasis. The findings of the Twelfth Vatican Council were adopted by the UN in 2205. Only humans have souls, being made in God’s image. Doesn’t mean anything new on Earth, but out here…
Only humans have souls, so everything else is just effectively livestock. We can eliminate whole societies of aliens without qualm, because they’re not really alive. Not in the same way we are.
On Epsilon Seven there was intelligent life, but they had nothing more advanced than bladed weapons, useless against our rifles, tanks and helicopters. We nicknamed them the Aztecs. Obviously, we were the Conquistadors.
I killed thousands, male, female, juveniles, even enjoying it, at times. My reprogramming essentially switched off my empathy. It was an immensely satisfying three years.
Now my tour is up. I can re-enlist, retaining my current brain patterns and associated personality. Alternatively, I can return home with those recorded before my journey out here, minus my memories of the past three years, memories of the species I’ve rendered extinct.
They call the brain wipe machine the Priest, because it absolves you of your sins. Even if I did terrible things out here, I won’t remember them. I’ll still be a good person, the man my family need me to be.
The thing is, I like being me, though there are times I get so angry I just want to hurt someone, anyone. That’s okay though, as the CEC will always find someone for me to hurt. There are whole planets of them.
Go home for your son, for Jacob, I think, but this version of me doesn’t feel that same connection to him the old me did.
I tick a box. The desk-jockey bitch sighs and directs me to where I have to go.
I wonder if my family will ever forgive me. Then I realise that I don’t actually care.
