by submission | Oct 31, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alicia Cerra Waters
The current of the river surged in silvery waves, rushing over rocks jagged enough to turn bones to dust. It roared, quiet as any monster. Anyone could go backwards in time if they were brave enough to jump in with a conduit. I kept telling myself I was brave as I waited, holding the last book my father ever read.
I heard my brother’s footsteps before I saw him. Even over the noise of the river, I knew him. His flannel shirt hung off of his bony shoulders, with that forever-smirk on his pinched face. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he said.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I put my hands in my pockets. “I have the book.”
“And I have the conduit,” Damian took the metal sphere out of his pocket and it whirred with otherworldly energy. Its power was a magnetic, leeching drag on the atoms that made up my body. I wanted to throw up and come closer at the same time. Some people thought the conduits could talk, but that was just superstitious bullshit. At least that’s what I told myself as I pretended I didn’t feel a voice pushing at the edges of my consciousness, trying to find a way in.
“How can you carry that thing?” I asked, stepping away from its thrall. Maybe that’s why Damien looked so sallow, like he hadn’t had a real meal in months.
Damian shrugged. “Somebodys gotta to do it.”
I looked down into the dark water, second thoughts making me dig my hands into my pockets. Just give him the book and he’ll go, I told myself. If nothing changes, we can avoid each other for another ten years, no problem.
“You’re willing to give it up for an old book?” I said.
Damian nodded, and I saw the exhaustion that ringed his eyes. “The conduit wears you down.”
We stood with a stretch of browned grass between us, already dormant as winter bit into the air. He gave me a knowing smile, like the asshole didn’t think I could do it. The thought grated more than it should have. “Just give it to me,” I said.
He didn’t move. “Are you sure you won’t unravel? Like Dad did?”
Even with the energy field the conduit created, that was a risk. I pressed my lips together, trying not to think about the vapor of atoms that people could become if they went too far back in the river. It happened to my father, but that didn’t have to be the end.
“You don’t think I can stop him?” I said, crossing my arms so I didn’t feel tempted to throw a punch.
Damian barked a laugh. “If two young sons at home couldn’t stop him when he left, a grown man on a suicide mission won’t.”
I threw the book onto the grass between us. “Give me the conduit.”
Damian twitched. “You miss Dad enough to try and go back for him?”
I took the conduit out of his hands and he didn’t stop me. “The next time you see me,” I said, “It won’t matter. Because I’m going to stop Dad from jumping into the river. He’ll raise us himself. You won’t recognize me.”
Damian put the book into his pocket. “Time travel is the worst thing that humankind ever did,” he said.
I barely heard him over the voice of my father coming from the silver cylinder. The conduit throbbed as the water pulled me under, and I heard the first words of the book; once upon a time…
by submission | Oct 30, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
Today, my face fell off. It has a habit of doing that sometimes, but it doesn’t really bother me. Have you ever wondered why your face doesn’t fall off?
I have a headache once in a while. It comes and goes, so I scratch my temple. That’s usually when the face falls off. I put it back on again. However, this time, I decided not to. Everything inside was exposed. I don’t feel anything. I look at my eyebrows on my face. I’m holding it in my hands. They’re black eyebrows and bushy. Have you heard of Golgo 13? They look something like his eyebrows.
I took a breath. Then, I walked to the kitchen sink, and I washed my hands. The water pours over them, down into the sink. My hands are veiny. They’ve always been veiny. I like to look at the water rolling on my hands. The water goes into the drain. I turn off the tap. I don’t have to wash my hands, but I do every day, and I clean under my fingernails. Dirt accumulates. Washing hands is good hygiene. After all, so many people touch things. I wouldn’t want to catch anything or spread it to someone else.
On the afternoon bus, I held a metal bar above my head. The bar was cold. After a stop, some people got off, and others moved forward. I moved forward too, and I held another part of the bar. It was warm from a person’s hand, so I moved my hand back to where it was. Then, I forgot about that for a while. I later took the train. The whole time, I stood, except after my transfer stop. I got a seat on the next train. My feet were achy, but my face was still on, so there was no hassle. My face has never fallen off on the train, but there’ve been times when I had to adjust things a little.
Before I took the bus, someone said, “Hello,” to me. She was walking with a girlfriend. I thought I recognized the greeter. I said, “Hi,” in return, and I waved to both of them. I thought I remembered who the first girl was, someone from work on Wednesday. But after I took the train, got home, and before my face fell off, I realized she was someone else, from last year. Or at least, I think she was. Does that happen to you sometimes? Do you mix people up in your mind? I have a good visual sense, but there’re so many people over such a long time, all the faces become overcrowded. I’m not sure who wears faces and who doesn’t. It’s polite not to ask.
After I washed my hands, I thought a little, and I changed my formal clothes. I lay down on the wooden floor. I don’t have any furniture or furnishings. I like the hard floor. It feels better that way. I feel more comfortable. It doesn’t hurt, not for me anyway.
My face fell off before I washed my hands. I picked it up. When I was done looking at it, I put it on the low folding table in my kitchen-dining room. My face is still on the table. I’ll put it on later. I don’t have to wear it every time, especially at home.
Before I lay down, I walked around the room even though I’d walked a lot outside, in the train stations, and on the road. I mostly stood at work. There’re times I sit too. What would you do if your face fell off at work?
I walked to the mirror cabinet over the sink, in the same room, next to the shower door. I looked at my face, or, what’s behind my face. It’s not metal. It’s not wires. It’s not gears or chords. It’s just a space, a void, and, there, a tiny green pepper seed.
by submission | Oct 29, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
His friend Leonard had warned him that Ms. Carraway conducted her business very differently, but he’d insisted she was an extraordinary travel agent.
“What has brought you here?”
That was a complicated question for Travis Kite. So many things: his mundane job, stale friendships, aging parents, romantic relationships that never lasted. He was in his early forties and life didn’t seem to be panning out. He’d begun feeling empty and unmotivated like he’d missed life’s bandwagon. He couldn’t possibly tell a stranger all this, and yet he spent the next half hour doing exactly that.
Ms. Carraway listened attentively. She took no notes. Made no interruptions. Just listened. When Travis finished, she closed her eyes, and he felt like he was watching her sleep.
She stirred after a few moments, rising from her seat and studying the many travel posters on the wall. She tapped one. “This is what you’re seeking, Mr. Kite.”
“The Taj Mahal? India? I’m not an experienced traveler. I’ve heard India can be overwhelming.”
Ms. Carraway silenced his objections with a wave of her slender hand. “This poster of the Taj Mahal does not represent a place anymore than any of these other posters do. They represent a change, a way of becoming. When you travel with my agency, where you actually end up is determined by you and you alone. From what you’ve told me, you’re seeking to renew yourself, your purpose. I believe India represents a meaningful direction, a personal challenge for you. Though it will be up to you to determine the actual route.”
“I don’t get your meaning. Ms. Carraway. I thought you’d make all the arrangements we’ve worked out an itinerary.”
“I really haven’t much to do with destinations and the like, Mr. Kite. You’ll decide those things as you go.”
Travis balked. “What’s going on here? If Leonard hadn’t recommended you so highly, I’d think this is some kind of joke.”
“Did Mr. Sherman ever share any details of his travels with you?”
“Not really. He said you arranged a trip to the Grand Canyon that exceeded his wildest dreams. He mostly talked about how it’d changed his outlook on everything.”
Ms. Carraway nodded. “Mr. Sherman did indeed travel to the Grand Canyon. His wildest dreams were exceeded because he went to watch the canyon form, one geologic age at a time. He witnessed the birth and growth of a incomparable natural wonders.”
“What?” Travis stared at Ms. Carraway as if she were a unicorn.
“I helped Mr. Sherman personally witness millions of years of geologic time.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Travis now knew he was being played. “What kind of charlatan are you? Did you hypnotize Leonard or something? Is that your so-called travel expertise?”
Ms. Carraway simply shook her head and sat down behind her desk. “You see, Mr. Kite, that’s why Mr. Sherman would not provide details about his travels. It sounds unbelievable. Impossible. Like only hypnosis could provide a rational explanation. But that is not what I do here.”
She rapped a knuckle on her desk, “Nothing is as solid as it seems, Mr. Kite. Reality is merely a thin construct. Just as humans invented time to prevent things from happening all at once, reality is our way of keeping universes from colliding at decision points—which would be very messy for us. I help my clients sidestep the messiness.”
She swiveled in her chair and opened a side drawer. She handed Travis what looked like a thick pair of sunglasses. “Please put these on.”
The glasses were heavy and he hesitated. “What will these do?”
“Convince you,” Ms. Carraway replied as she began to manipulate a tablet on her desk.
“How?”
“Your consciousness is going to take a little trip, Mr. Kite. Then you will either follow or you will not.”
Of course Travis hesitated. This was crazy talk. Complete crazy talk.
When he approached his home much later that afternoon, the sun still shone like it had for five billion years, but Travis no longer believed in its singular power. Only hours ago he’d traveled another earth with its provident sun and come face to face with the consequences of decisions he’d never dreamed nor made.
Ms. Carraway had led him to new worlds. New Travis Kites. And now he understood why Leonard wasn’t able to explain his own journeys. One could only become them.
Travis still wasn’t sure what Ms. Carraway had done. It made much more sense to believe she’d hypnotized him and implanted memories and sensations. It made more sense, but he didn’t think he could shave that explanation close enough to the truth with Occam’s razor.
The poster of the Taj Mahal in Ms. Carraway’s office stuck in his mind. Before he left, she’d provided the details of the services her agency would provide during subsequent travels and their accompanying risks. She’d been very clear about the risks. Especially that he would not be the same Travis Kite upon his return. That was both the great risk and guarantee. The cosmos was vast. His decisions even greater.
Travis climbed the stairs to his front door and glanced back at the low sun, a brilliant dome like the Taj Mahal. He blinked it all into place and unlocked his door—to everywhere.
by submission | Oct 26, 2025 | Story |
Author: Philip Ekstrom
She walked into the donut shop looking like a daffodil. Yellow blouse, light green slacks, standing straight and tall with a quiet presence that looked the world straight in the face. She stepped aside to let others pass as she scanned the room.
Her gaze momentarily rested on me, then moved on. When she finished looking once at everyone, she frowned and started another scan. Ending her second try, the flower wilted and she turned to leave, then turned back and walked up to the counter.
A minute later, cup and donut in hand, she turned to survey the crowded room again. There weren’t many free seats so I waved her over to my table. I had waited half an hour for the guy I was supposed to meet and had been about to leave, but she looked interesting.
“I guess I missed my pen-pal”, she said.
“Oh?” I said, “Please tell.”
“I belong to a letter-writing club. We send actual, carefully constructed sentences written out by hand on real note paper. No pictures. It’s the exact opposite of texting. I even bought a fountain pen. I’m here to finally meet the one I write to, but I’m late and she must have left.”
She looked hard at me. ”With your red hair I thought you might be her, but you are a guy.”
I had trouble keeping a straight face. This was too good to be real.
“You must be looking for Taylor Partridge.”
“You know her?”
“I’m Taylor Partridge.”
“But…’
“I get that a lot, with Taylor Swift splashing our name all over the news. You must be Jordan Jones, but not a guy like I was expecting.”
We both laughed.
“This is going to be fun.”
by submission | Oct 25, 2025 | Story |
Author: Richard Simonds
John Jorgensen had won. No other word for it. He was the richest, most powerful man in the world. Shares of SuperAI had gone up 500% the day before as they had finally cracked the super intelligence barrier and released the code to the public. What it meant, he wasn’t sure, and wasn’t sure he cared. Some predicted greater prosperity, a golden era for humanity, some the end of the world. Just in case it was bad, when he was working on the source code ten years prior, as a joke to himself, he had put in “Do not kill John Xavier Jorgensen.” He wasn’t even sure it was still there, but it made him feel better.
100 trillion dollars. He was the richest man in history. His net worth was greater than the GDP of Germany.
He was staying in the Presidential Suite at the Lux Hotel in Washington, D.C., the next morning after the announcement. He had put in a breakfast room service order for 8:00 the night before. He liked to use it as a sort of alarm clock, but it was 8:30 now when he woke up anyway and there was no food. “Damn hotel,” he said to himself, calling room service. No one picked up. “Damn hotel.” But what really got him swearing was when he turned on his laptop and couldn’t get to the Internet and then his phone couldn’t connect either.
He threw some clothes on and decided to head down to the lobby to scream at the manager. The elevator worked but he was shocked to see there was no one at the front desk, in fact there was no one in the lobby at all. “Where the hell is everyone,” he said out loud, and then he went outside and there was no one out there too and then a car pulled up and he felt relief until two of the AI robots his company had created got out, killed him with a blow to his skull, threw him in the back and drove off. His final thought before he died wasn’t the irony of possibly being the simultaneously the richest and poorest person who had ever lived, but what an idiot he was thinking that line of code might save him.
