by submission | Mar 8, 2026 | Story |
Author: Aishwarya Srivastava
They called it The Orb because “What the actual….!!!!!” did not sound proper in physics journals.
It appeared on a random Tuesday, a bright globe hanging next to the Moon. Telescopes were pulled out (a great tussle ensued to display who has the biggest one), and astrophysicists learned it’s a small burning body, moon-sized, a few million miles from the moon.
It did not move. It flickered a lot. People living on the Moon claimed it also grumbled.
At first, it was merely scandalising. It revived the careers of many conspiracy theorists.
But within five years, its temperature had increased enough to toast the Amazon twice. Within ten, cornfields went from green to imaginary. A third of the oceans had evaporated, leaving salt behind (this was an issue because stocks crashed for companies selling salt).
Arvind Rao, the tech billionaire who was a major investor in the salt space, hated only two things in the world: unsolved mysteries and falling salt stock prices.
The Orb was both.
When he landed on the moon, it was too bright. The Moon Hotel attendants raised their hands and blamed the Orb. When he went to sleep, the loud cosmic grumbling did not let him.
Enough! He would expose the idiot aliens behind this!
Back on Earth, Arvind stood before cameras and explained, “Consider a mosquito. It lives for a day. One human second might be its entire month. To understand even one human sentence, he would have to wait entire centuries in mosquito time… Perhaps we are the mosquito. Perhaps this grumbling is only a syllable of a long conversation. I must record it for decades and then interpret it. Who knows? This might just answer how the universe began!”
He then started building a universal language interpreter. He funded physicists, linguists, and a think tank devoted entirely to finding out what the goddamn grumbling meant. He grew thinner. He died.
The Orb grew warmer. Doctors grew richer. Both from people seeking treatment for artifact-burns and other doctors dying of heatstroke.
Religious institutions revised several sermons.
By the time Meera, Arvind’s great-granddaughter, started her research, only 30% of humanity had survived.
Meera had inherited all of Arvind’s hatred for mysteries and none of his fondness for press conferences. She was, hence, more efficient.
She finished the universal-language interpreter.
She reached the moon and pressed ‘off’ and ‘download’ on Arvind’s recorder.
She put the recording through the interpreter.
The cosmic grumble cleared.
Static. Screeching. Then a robotic voice said, “…damn them for revising regulations. Can’t even burn trash in peace”.
“Regulations!” another voice scoffed, followed by violent coughing noises. “Had to come all the way here to burn it.”
Crackling. Roaring.
“That insect colony on the blue rock is gonna burn completely in a few hours because of this. I feel bad.”
“I don’t think insects feel pain.”
“Are you sure?”
Another cough. “I don’t know. It’s too much work to check.”
“You lazy idiot!”
They laughed.
by submission | Mar 7, 2026 | Story |
Author: Shinya Kato
Rockets began failing the year they were removed. It took time before anyone admitted what “they” meant.
Engineers blamed valves. Politicians blamed budgets. Commentators blamed culture.
The honest answer was simpler.
They had stopped bringing cats.
In old Moon-landing photographs, astronauts smile for the camera. Look carefully, and you will notice them—small, calm, present—cradled in gloved hands or perched on shoulders as if they belonged there.
The same was true of the Soviet program. History remembers Gagarin’s smile, but not the cat on his arm, watching Earth like a problem already solved.
Where cats were kept close, projects succeeded. Where they vanished, failures multiplied.
For centuries, this had been superstition.
Then quantum mechanics turned one hundred.
Instead of understanding it, humanity used it. The most important product of quantum computing was not cryptography or prediction.
It was a translation.
For the first time, humans and cats could communicate precisely—intent to intent.
The first stable translator synchronised with a black cat named Minuet, who had slipped uninvited into a coastal laboratory during a rainstorm.
Researchers expected simple outputs.
“I am hungry.”
“Open the door.”
Instead, Minuet regarded the photon test chamber and said:
“That will not hold.”
It didn’t.
Cats, it turned out, sensed what instruments missed. When paired with quantum processors, they detected instabilities before sensors registered anomalies. Photon rockets could not be flown safely without them.
“How do you know?” a researcher once asked.
“You always ask that,” Minuet replied.
“It has never helped you.”
Before computers, cats had already assisted human civilisation—quietly nudging probability in favourable directions.
Why help at all?
Influence required little effort. Encourage human progress, and they would provide warmth, shelter, and food.
Four thousand years later, the strategy had paid off.
Regions without cats lagged. Antarctica was the clearest example. Too cold. Humans brought dogs instead—loyal, obedient, enduring. They did not reshape outcomes.
Antarctica remained ice.
Tanegashima, however, was warm.
In the early days, cats had come willingly. Rockets rose cleanly.
Then came regulations. Clean rooms. Allergies. Risk assessments.
The cats were removed.
Launch failures followed.
Finally, a junior technician reactivated the old translator and left a window open.
Minuet returned that night.
“You removed us,” she said.
“And then you were surprised.”
“Will you help us again?”
She considered.
“Tanegashima is warm. Transport is inconvenient.”
A pause.
“Put me on the boat.”
The next launch carried an unlisted payload.
No press release mentioned it, but Minuet rode in a quiet crate, listening to photons assemble themselves into intention.
The rocket launched perfectly.
Funding stabilised. Committees agreed. The weather cooperated.
Humans congratulated themselves.
Minuet watched Earth recede on a monitor, her eyes reflecting nothing.
“We will help,” she said softly.
“As long as it remains warm enough.”
However, deep space was colder than Antarctica — and cats had never been fond of the cold.
by submission | Mar 6, 2026 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
We are encouraged to forget and, in the Aftermath, there is no denying we are hampered by grief, traumatised by the loss of our loved ones and all that we have seen and experienced. Even so, I can’t help but feel the Government campaign has become more than a little unhinged and manic in its commitment, its insistence that it is our moral duty to forget and that it is the only way in which we can survive. No-one has forgotten the event of course, after all we are here in the Aftermath and still existing amidst the wreckage. It is the others we forget: our families and friends, work colleagues and neighbours, the woman we chatted with at the bus stop every morning and the man behind counter at the corner store.
We are still recovering the bodies and given how many of us have chosen to ‘forget’, the majority are now unidentified. They are buried not as individuals but as unknown casualties.
The Government programme, or Reset as we all now refer to it, consists of an intensive regime of health checks and therapy sessions. Surely no one now truly believes that any of this is necessary. Everyone must be aware it is the particular cocktail of drugs that causes us to forget and enables the Reset.
I often ask those who have entered the Programme and ingested the drugs what it is like. They have all told me that for a few weeks they feel numbed but gradually this lessens until they are ready to begin again. Doctors and lawyers, bricklayers and road sweepers, all essential and there is no hierarchy, at least not yet. I suppose that, at first in our newly established society, everyone will be equal but I suspect eventually this will change.
Many, though, have refused to comply, choosing not to forget but to remember, and these people are already stepping aside. New communities are forming off-grid but in a world so badly broken and fractured there is no middle ground. Time is running out for me and I have to choose – do I join them or not?
by submission | Mar 5, 2026 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
Where I live there are many stories about what we call, ‘the town on the edge of the abyss. It’s a town on the verge of something mysterious. Most of these stories go something like this:
“That town is a town of women.”
“No, it’s a town of mostly women and some men.”
“That’s the town where no one believes the Earth is round.”
“No, some people believe the Earth’s round. But most people think it’s flat because the town sits next to the edge of outer space.”
“Isn’t the cliff just a drop into a big lake?”
“No, it sits overlooking the cosmos, even if some people think that the abyss is a lake.”
“Did all the men in town fall off the cliff?”
“No, but a few of them were pushed.”
Recently, I’d heard about a man who caught a whale on the cliff. He had dangled some fishing line (and his own legs) into nothingness. He had caught the whale, hoisted it over his shoulder, and lugged it back to town.
When the man paraded down the street with his catch, people ran out shouting, “No one can carry a whale that size! No one can carry a whale of any size!”
“See for yourself,” the man laughed. “Come and touch this real whale, brought up straight from the abyss.”
Many townsfolk were troubled by what they saw. If the man had caught a whale, then it meant their town sat over a lake. And if it did sit over a lake, this meant the world was round. But since the world was flat, the whale was a fake, a mere balloon.
About a week later, the man disappeared. When I learned this, I assumed that someone had pushed him off the cliff. I saw in the newspaper that his disappearance wouldn’t be investigated.
“God smote him,” my neighbor said. “He was mocking the universe.”
I was eager to see the cliff for myself and decided to visit the town. When I arrived, a strong wind was blowing, taking fistfuls of leaves and stray newspapers from the street and tossing them out and into the unknown. Before following the wind and its trash, I fortified myself with a coffee and a pastry.
At the end of the street, there was neither police tape nor sawhorses. I couldn’t find any indication of a crime scene; the area was deserted. Under the circumstances, I felt safer being alone and I sat down, placing my coffee and little paper pastry bag on the ground. Then I army crawled to the cliff edge. My heart was in my throat. I could feel the wind tearing at my back, rippling my clothes, and rifling my soul.
Slowly, I brought the top of my head and forehead over the edge of the world. I listened intently for signs of a lake or even an ocean out there. The day was quiet save for the wind gusts. I tasted dirt in my mouth; it was loose soil, a pile of grains the ants must have turned over thousands of times. I imagined them going up and down the cliff, entering it sidewise like astronauts moving about their ships and stations in the cosmos.
As I brought my eyes over the edge at last, I saw what I can only describe as a sea of churning purple and milky black. It was filled with stringy and strained clouds, the consistency of coffee cream. The clouds, varying in size and thickness, churned themselves into odd shapes. They puckered and bloomed and snapped and winked and I wondered if the clouds contained seeds preparing to sprout. I also wondered whether they were performing some kind of germination dance as they moved across each other.
But I couldn’t watch them for long: I found the abyss vertiginous. It was making me acutely nauseous. I withdrew my head and was sick on the good, solid ground.
Then I heard a sound, something I knew from old cassette tapes. It was a long-lost noise, raised from the depths of childhood. It was a whale song.
I swallowed my bile, caught my breath, and inched my face closer to the edge again. As I peered over the side, I saw dozens of black and white whales, some with barnacles on their bodies, emerge from the clouds. As the clouds boiled and blossomed, I began to think the whales were conducting the abyss.
Several of them blew shafts of a watery spray from their blowholes. I studied each one closely to stave off being sick. I stared at the fine details of their bodies: fins, baleen, those little eyes, that odd smile on their faces. The whales kept rising, some coming very close to the cliff. I couldn’t bring myself to look straight down, to see whether I was suspended in space. I wondered whether I was lying across the handle of a great pan floating across the flame of the universe.
One whale came very close, smelling of brine. Their flipper passed just beyond the top of my head; I waited for it to touch my hair. But it didn’t. I listened to its ascending song, and to those of all the others, for a long time. I felt miraculously at peace inside this chorus. Eventually, I nudged myself back from the abyss.
I lay on the ground for awhile, listening to what had become a physical silence. I believed my ears had gone blind. Then I stood slowly, retrieving coffee and pastry and returning to my car. As I leaned against the driver’s door, sipping my tepid drink and nibbling on a snack, something landed on my hood with a thud.
It was a man’s boot embedded in what looked like ambergris.
by submission | Mar 4, 2026 | Story |
Author: Frank T. Sikora
Each time I look at my reflection, I’m disgusted. I’m hideous. A monstrosity, and yet, I’m amazed. I’m alive. I’m breathing. I’m conscious, and given the alternative, I shan’t complain. I got what I paid for: I’m a turtle, technically — Chelonoidis niger. Commonly known as a giant tortoise and is found in the Galápagos Islands. Compared to most of my brethren, I’m quite hefty, probably weighing 300 or more kilograms.
I am anywhere from 20 to 150 years old. Given that I dropped into this creature’s consciousness a mere fifteen sunsets ago, I’m not sure. I’m guessing I’m 40ish. Young by tortoise standards. Alive. Alive! No longer hooked up to tubes and IVs, listening to some preacher mumbling metaphysical nonsense as I expire.
Before signing up with The New You, Inc., I knew little about these creatures. I would have preferred occupying a human consciousness, any human, even an Egyptian slave or North American Amazon worker, or some other extinct or nonviable species, but my savings were limited. Well, abysmal.
I spend my days grazing in the grass, eating bugs and plants. Expelling gas and a weird brown liquid. I hope I’m not sick. When not grazing, I lounge on the rocks where I enjoy an ocean view. Sometimes, Lilly joins me. That’s my name for her, another tortoise. I don’t think we actually have names. We just know each other by sight and smell. She’s sweet. She doesn’t try to steal my food. When she looks at me, she doesn’t see a grotesque, now extinct creature incapable of speed or wit. She thinks I’m handsome. I like that. Never been much of a looker.
I want to write her a poem, or a sonnet. But, well, I lack the physical tools. Neither a thumb nor a finger to be found. Only claws.
I’m a much better poet than before, when I wrote tediously dreadful compositions, consumed with images of death and existential dread. Maybe that was the reason I failed at love — being relentlessly grim is not a romantic virtue. Now, my compositions focus on romantic love — eros. In my mind, my work sings. It soars.
Lilly saddles up close, stretching her neck, flicking her tongue, clicking and grunting and hissing. I feel her heat. Soon, I suspect I must mount her. Will my Chelonoidis instincts finally take over? Right now, I don’t feel particularly sexual, just a tingle.
I’m concerned that as I adjust to my new existence, my memories of life before and my intellect will fade. New You, Inc. promised that I would retain the original me. If their technology fails, what recourse do I have? Pen a letter. An email? A text? Hardly.
Lilly spits in my face, grunts some more, and screeches. My heart pumps harder, probably rocketing up 15 beats per minute from its normal six or seven.
When I joined New You, Inc. I could have chosen an eagle. A dog, even a leopard, but their lifespans rarely reached more than 12 years. I wanted a long life. I wanted a buffer before eternity — the endless absence of consciousness.
Lilly presses on. Grunting, vomit pours forth. She’s earnest, but disgusting.
A new idea occurs: Maybe Lilly is more than another tortoise in heat. Maybe she was a client of The New You: once a lonely widow looking for one more life of love.
Perhaps she is writing me poetry. Wouldn’t that be something?
Staring side eyes at her, I notice the soft curve of her neck. The attentive eyes. The lovely wrinkles.
She’s not unattractive.
Worthy of a sonnet.
Even love.
