by submission | Sep 3, 2026 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
She’d had to dismantle the gear in a hurry when the hail started–the holographic zoom lenses to capture the launch, the tripods, all the paraphernalia of recording the end of a phase of her life.
In a way, she understood. His family had played the big lottery and won an option to emigrate to Mars, to escape from the hellscape that Earth was becoming as its climate became more and more unstable. Weather like this week’s, with temperatures plummeting after a fortnight of unbearable heat, had become commonplace, and was hard to deal with month after month. So who could blame him for wanting to get away? But the terms were ‘family only’, or as his mother had put it, “no riff-raff or hangers on”, and she hadn’t been willing to commit to the joint risks of marriage, instant emigration, and isolation with a cadre she hardly knew. She’d always wonder whether that was the right choice, but it was done.
The hailstones were the size of her fist, and if she hadn’t invested in storm-hardened glazing a few years previously, her windows would have been in shards by now. Lightning zigzagged down the sky like the spears of a drunken god, piercing her heart as she tried without success not to worry about him. Her county seemed to be ground zero for the storm, but surely the shielded space complex, just ten miles away, would be fine? Lift-off might be delayed, but the ship would be on its way soon enough, taking him away–to a safety she was glad he’d have, however much she hated the idea of being apart.
Eventually the icy bombardment gave way to heavy rain, pounding at the roof as if determined to find a way in where its frozen brethren had failed. The mains electricity had failed, like it always did, but her solar batteries would pick up the slack for a while yet. No doubt the emergency crews were out already, clearing fallen trees, checking on residents, tending the wounded, covering damage with heavy tarps, all their usual underappreciated heroics.
As if in reply to her thoughts, there came a thunderous banging on her front door, and words she couldn’t make out over the noise from above. Someone in trouble, a neighbour maybe? She picked up her gun just in case, and made her way to the little lobby. The spyhole was useless—all she could make out was a vague shape in the darkness. She opened the door carefully, and her jaw dropped: he was standing there, his storm cape dripping wet, with strange look of both defiance and hope in his eyes.
“I couldn’t do it,” he said. “I couldn’t leave you to face this alone, and there’s nobody else I want to spend my future with. Will you have me back?”
She threw the door wide, her heart lifted, and she let the chaos in.
by submission | Sep 2, 2026 | Story |
Author: Denise Diehl
‘Is the new guy up for his first run?’ asked Greg, the Metro manager, not bothering to look up from his paperwork as he addressed his roster assistant, Roy. Greg rubbed his stubby chin and shifted his considerable weight in his creaking chair, not wanting to hear the word ‘No.’
‘Yup, seems good to go. Been out twice with Charles on the day run, and I took him out for an evening run last night.’ Roy glanced out the grubby windows, watching the creeping darkness of the evening close in.
‘Yeah, but the last bus is a bit different… You know what I mean.’ Greg licked his lips and swallowed.
Roy waved his hands about and spoke with an edge to his voice. ‘He’ll do fine. He’s from Quantum Services—’
‘You’re kidding me. He’s one of them.’ Greg blinked furiously. He knew Quantum produced good labourers, but it would still be a first for Metro to employ one.
‘Yes. He’s our answer to the last-bus-run problem—’
‘Problem? Is that what we’re calling it now? We’ve had five guys quit in the past month. Ever since the fire at the Museum and the building’s collapse, that stop has had strange passengers board and scare the crap out of our drivers. It’s cursed, if you ask me. The company’s still picking up the tab for our former drivers’ counselling. First it was Richard, who found dead passengers in the back seat, all crispy-looking, every night for a week—’
Roy interrupted. ‘Police reviewed each death and found they were all due to natural causes. They said it was like what you get on cruise ships—oldies taking their last ride, all very normal.’
Greg gaped at Roy. ‘Crispy is the new normal?’ He paused, then pressed his point. ‘Then it was the others—which David, two drivers ago, described as freakin’ exhibits who escaped the fire and are now catching the last bus through town, boarding at the museum stop and disembarking at the cemetery stop. Now that’s not normal folk. David said they floated on like ghosts, and he felt extreme heat emanating from the Egyptian pharaoh as the pharaoh made eye contact. Same with Pete, our latest loss, who had the same group board at the same stop, but it was the Viking with his massive blade he felt threatened by. It goes on and on—old hags, witches, and cave men, even zombies for goodness’ sake …’
‘What do you want me to do? I’ve got our new driver. He’s keen, and I’ve briefed him to wait at the Museum stop for two and a half minutes with the doors open, then close them and repeat the same at the cemetery stop. He won’t see the others, of course, because he’s a Quantum tear-one labourer with no special features, just a physical body capable of driving a bus.’
Greg sighed and asked, ‘Are the Quantum guys reliable? I mean … ’
‘Definitely. They do as they’re instructed. Quantum has never had any failures. After all, you’re looking at one.’ With that, Roy spun on his heel and walked out.
by submission | Sep 1, 2026 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
The old guy slid his card down the side of the small terminal to pay for his groceries. An error message appeared on the screen. He tried inserting the card in the slot at the bottom. Another error message.
“Swipe it over the icon in the top left corner,” Kora, the checker, offered. He did; it worked.
“Old people and technology,” he said sheepishly. “No worries,” Kora smiled, handing him his receipt.
* * *
Kora rang her Gran’s doorbell. She was dropping off bi-weekly groceries for the old woman. The door opened and a perky young gal stood before her.
“Uh, hi,” Kora said, confused. “I’m look for my Gran.”
Laughing, the young woman took the groceries. “Come in!” She dropped the bags on the floor and twirled around.
“Sorry,” Kora stammered, “you are…?”
The young woman grabbed Kora by the shoulders. “I’m your Gran!”
“No,” Kora said flatly. “That’s not possible.”
“Yes,” Her Gran corrected. “It is with rejuvenating gene therapy.”
“Oh, Gran,” Kora said, “you didn’t.”
“I did, and stop calling me Gran. You know my name is Tessa.” Tessa ran her hands down her svelte figure. “Only took ten days…isn’t this wonderful? I’m twenty-two again! Younger than you, and prettier, too! I’m a Rejuvie! A grooovy Rejuvie!”
“Gran—I mean Tessa—how much did this treatment cost? What are the side-effects?
“Puh-lease! Side-effects, shmide effects,” Tessa snorted. “And, Miss Nosy, I have investments and savings out the wazoo—good thing I was fiscally conservative for so long. So no worries! No worries at all!” Tessa fluffed her hair. “There’ll be no inheritance for you, or your mother.” She lifted her chin. “I’ll need every bit to live on for the next, oh, fifty years.”
“Gra—Tessa, I don’t care about inheritance. I’m worried about—”
Tessa cut her off. “I’ll buy whatever I want, eat whatever I want,” a dreamy look crossed her face. “I’ll go out to clubs, drink and dance all night…frolic with all those frisky boys!” Her dark eyes twinkled. “Oh, this is gonna be fun!”
* * *
Kora opened her laptop, logged on to the internet, and searched for information about rejuvenating gene therapy. Medical studies were only now being publicly published, months after the pharmaceutical companies made their billions.
Her cat, Mojo, jumped on the kitchen table to lay down beside the laptop. She scratched him under his chin before returning her attention to her screen. What Kora found caused her heart to sink. Reported side-effects included, but were not limited to: narcissism, increased libido, loss of fiscal sense, inability to plan for the future, lack of self-control, rising aggression…
Kora clicked another tab, this one being a live news feed. A wide-eyed, distressed podcaster spoke of rising tensions between the world’s superpowers. Rejuvenated macho generals, he warned, were thumping their chests, threatening to push the button—that button. As the podcaster spoke, numerous missiles launched in real time, sailing across the world’s oceans in all directions.
She clicked another tab, in dire need of distraction from events she had no control over. A viral video of a cat playing the piano. Just what she needed. “Mojo,” she said to her pet, “look at…”
With a distant boom, an EMP killed the internet. Electricity too. Kora closed her laptop. Rising from the table, she went to the kitchen window and opened it. The stars were innumerable, the night quiet.
“You know what I’m gonna miss, Mojo?” she said, picking him up. “Old people.” She looked out over the permanently dark city below. “And technology.”
by submission | Aug 31, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Why then?”
Protectively, she froze at the center of the device, as if it would shield her from his question. Ceily finally emerged from the sleek nanocarbon posts which supported the shimmering tendrils of crystalline fiber to face her brother’s accusations.
He’d found her out, waiting until she’d fled the present, like she had so many times before, and then stood vigil until she’d returned from the past.
He wasn’t asking how she’d created a time machine. Ceily knew it’d taken more attitude than inventiveness to construct it. No. Her brother, Foster, was not interested in the how. He knew his sister was brilliant. You didn’t become a particle physicist triangulating tachyons without being brilliant. Fearing for her, he was focused on the why.
“What good can it do, Ceily? You’re fixating. It’s not gonna change things.”
“It helps me handle the present,” she whispered as she began to disengage from the device.
“Yeah, look at your present, Ceily. You’ve got a Nobel Prize discovery hidden here in your basement. An invention that could turn the world on its head, and you’re using it as a therapy tool,” Foster pressed. “You’ve been living in the past too long. It’s not gonna bring back Mom, Dad or Bobby.”
She shook her head as her fingers moved across the touchscreen at her makeshift desk, the filaments of the cage dimming as the device settled into a purr no louder than the fluorescent tubes that hung along the open rafters.
“You’re right. This won’t bring them back, but I can go back to them. I can be with them again. You could too.”
His eyes hardened at the offer. “Go back to September 10 and pretend I don’t know they’re all gonna die the next day?” His step towards her was an accusation. “I’d have to tell ‘em. I’d tell everyone. I’d make that damn machine take me back where I could do some good. Stop the whole thing. Change everything, and give us some peace. ”
“It wouldn’t,” Ceily said, ashamed.
“So you say, sister.”
“It wouldn’t change things in the way you think, Foster.” She stepped clear of the device and went to the bottom of the staircase. “We might be able to prevent it in one universe, but it would happen to us in another. 9/11 was a shearing event. It spawned a new us. Causality is not like thermodynamics. There is a free lunch—an infinite buffet of possibilities in the multiverse—and that means somewhere we’d all suffer the same fate. I can’t push that onto some other Ceily and Foster. I can’t.”
“What’s it like?” Foster’s eyes brightened warily.
Ceily met his searching stare. “Like it was before. Right here in the house. Upstairs in the kitchen, we’re eating, laughing, Monday Night Football’s on. Daddy’s looking so proud of us. All of us.” She reassured him. “That’s why I go back then. The before.”
She half closed her eyes. A half hour ago, she’d been with them. Waved goodbye to her parents and Foster on the porch and then climbed into bed with her husband, Bobby.
“I need to feel what it used to be like. To believe it was real,” she pleaded.
“But, you know,” he insisted. “How can you sit and laugh with them? Relive it all and then leave them to be crushed and burned the next day?”
“I can’t change that knowledge,” she admitted, “but when I see their eyes. The promise we all held. I can think about the future again.”
Foster shook his head. “It’s not right. If we can’t help them, it’s not right. It’d drive me crazy. It’ll drive you crazy. Look what you’ve become.” His hand swept over the incomprehensible array of equipment. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. You stopped returning calls and texts. That’s why I’m here. You’re fading away.”
“No!” Ceily’s voice was sharp. “This,” she pointed to the machinery “is to keep me from fading away.”
“It’s an escape!”
“It’s a way to remember what I once believed. Before.”
“You can’t get innocence back like that. Ignorance ain’t bliss, sister.”
Foster’s words knifed at her. “I didn’t ask for this knowledge.”
“Tell me how this is sane, Ceily?”
She sighed. “I can’t. So, why can’t I fight insanity with insanity? Why can’t I just live in the quiet before the storm?”
Foster couldn’t meet her eyes. “What does it take to go there?”
“Desperation.”
“What does it take to come back?”
Ceily voice trembled. “Love.”
As Foster stepped into the crystalline filaments of the time device, Ceily whispered, “On the porch when we’re saying goodbye, give Mamma a kiss…before she has to ask you.”
“Before?”
“Before. It changes everything.”
by submission | Aug 30, 2026 | Story |
Author: Rebecca Klassen
I sway with the patch of lettuce I’m tending on the top deck. They’re free to grow without hungry bunnies, and we’ve got nets for catching the gulls, delicious when grilled. Felix is tending the potatoes when The Captain’s voice rings out, announcing that the votes are in. We all stand and look out at the endless sea, as does everyone else aboard because it’s always too awkward to look at one another during the announcement. Afterall, everyone wrote a name and handed it in.
Felix’s sister Marta has whispered to us for months that it’s barbaric, cruel, wasteful, and that we must all write our own name down, that The Captain can’t throw us all overboard. Each night I’ve heard the boards creak as she’s canvassed, tiptoed the dark and rocking passageways, advertised uprising, receiving sleepy nods. It’s a shame she can’t see why The Captain does it though, why it actually works. I suspect she was sleeping with Crispin who went last year. She’s always been attracted to drama and bad boys.
Before the result, The Captain tells us a joke, as is customary.
‘Why don’t skeletons go deep-sea diving?’ He pauses, the boat lurches, and I keep my eyes on the horizon. ‘They don’t have the guts,’ he bellows.
Felix snorts through his nose, and my shoulders shake. Then we flash a look at each other that makes us stop, unable to join in with the others. The Captain’s laughter eventually dies down.
‘Well, Marta, your time with us is up.’
We hear her screaming below, heels pounding the boards, cussing. The Captain reiterates that a ship lighter in spirit travels more easily. Felix wipes his face as we hear Marta hit the waves and her calls for him stop. We don’t know what they get weighed down with: we’ve never looked.
Everyone resumes their work except Felix, who I can see is about to lose it, gasping for air. I go over to him, put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Hey, mate, I’ve got a joke for you.’
