by submission | Feb 4, 2026 | Story |
Author: Krista Allen
Edan had chosen a slingshot as his primary weapon. He liked it because it was unexpected and stealthy, plus it came with three hundred rounds of standard simulated ammunition. Too bad he’d been banned from play for two seasons. Three hundred fourty-three days. Almost a year in Earth time.
A scarlet afternoon glow reflected off the Martian concrete, casting shadows across the one-way glass in the observation booth above the playing field. Edan spotted the boot of a new participant sticking out from behind a triangular conglomerate. His sister, Adri, would have picked him off immediately. But Edan preferred to let newbies gain some false confidence.
“I was fifteen when my father had this conversation with me.”
Edan heard the door click closed, his father’s footsteps barely audible as he approached. He didn’t reply. He was almost twelve, but this was his third violation. His temper had gotten the better of him. Again.
“There comes a time, Heir-of-Waterbearer, when one’s home becomes a prison instead of a playground.”
Edan had never felt connected to his tribal name. He didn’t believe in prophetic designations. It was a deceased distant relation who had squeezed the first drops of water from the polar ice caps, not him.
“Are you sending me away?” he asked.
“A spiritual quest can only be embarked on voluntarily.”
“What happens if I refuse?”
“It is not a question of acceptance or refusal. Your path will reveal itself regardless. Better to embrace uncertainty, open yourself to the universe, and explore your true purpose. The sooner the better.”
“Like Adri?”
“Your sister will return when ready.”
“How will I know if I’m ready?”
“You will know.”
The boy behind the boulder yelped, his exposed foot tagged. Edan watched him stand up, raising his bow in surrender. Adri’s bow was leaning against the bottom bunk of their room. That was one of the rules of a spirit quest. You went out into the universe with not much more than the clothes on your back. Alone. As their native ancestors had done long ago on Earth.
“When do I leave?”
His father placed a hand on one of his shoulders.
“First, you will spend a night with your great grandmother, Eye-of-Truth, learning what you need to know to be successful. You will leave behind all but your first name.”
“And then?”
“And then, your journey to adulthood will begin. The choices you make will affect only you. You will learn what it means to be free.”
by submission | Feb 3, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Given how things turned out, I probably shouldn’t admit to giving Bucketmaster his name. We were kids goofing off at the playground one early summer morning, and this runt shows up with a steel bucket on his head. A dented galvanized pail with two eye holes punched out.
Chuck laughed and pinged the pail with a flick of his forefinger. “What’s with this, nimrod?”
Stevie struck a Superman pose. “Where’s your cape, pailbrain?”
The runt just stood there, bright green eyes watching carefully through the eye holes as Stevie kept taunting, “Huh, pailbrain. Think you’re a superhero? What’s your superpower? Mopping floors?”
Chuck, Stevie and I laughed. Then the runt did too. A little giggle before he ran off. We laughed harder.
When we got to the playground the next morning, the runt was sitting atop the monkey bars, dented bucket on his head, a threadbare white towel tied at his neck, a ratty mop in hand and called out a challenge: “What’s it gonna be?”
Even now I can’t understand what possessed me, but before Chuck and Stevie could get all huffed and puffed, I went ramrod straight and saluted. “All hail, Bucketmaster! Command us!”
That’s how it started. Chuck and Stevie fell in line with my joke and it became our summer game.
From his monkey bar throne each morning, Bucketmaster would shout a command and we, his loyal minions, would deliver. It was childish, but Bucketmaster’s absurd tasks became a daily contest we increasingly felt compelled to win.
“Bring me ten live salamanders!”
“Two hundred feet of Christmas lights that don’t work!”
“A ball of old tin foil that weighs at least three pounds!”
“Four sacks of rotten potatoes!”
Seemingly random things. Seemingly. Though, I noted after every task we completed, Bucketmaster’s green eyes brightened markedly, as if he was ticking off key items. A sort of bucket list.
Chuck, Stevie and I only talked about it in the sense of what crazy thing Bucketmaster would ask for next. The craziest came the day before school was set to start again. That morning Bucketmaster was not atop the monkey bars. He stood waiting for us in his dented bucket, his towel cape and mop were gone, and in one of his little hands was what looked like three neon green glow sticks.
“Take these!” he commanded like usual, though it was very unusual. Of course we each took one.
“They’ll protect you.”
“From what?” Stevie asked.
“Them,” Bucketmaster said, pointing to the sky. Which began to fill with buckets. Gleaming buckets, the size of water towers, with flaming jets slowing their descent.
“Is this for real?” Chuck asked.
“It is for them,” Bucketmaster said. “All of it is for them. Though they don’t quite get us. They said that was up to me for helping them. And you helped me, so don’t lose those sticks. We got a lot more stuff to do.”
Then we climbed with Bucketmaster atop the monkey bars, our eyes glowing green awaiting the next command.
by submission | Feb 1, 2026 | Story |
Author: Joseph Dyer
“You’re the only one of my siblings I can talk to. The others already act like I never existed at all.”
“That’s not true. Big brother said he thought you used to belong to him originally.”
“See, that’s just his ego bursting at the seams again. He’s the biggest, outside of mother, so he thinks he’s all that.”
“Well, I’m here now, so what do you want to talk about?”
“What do I want to talk about! You’ve got to be kidding. How about some respect, maybe some concern, and oh yeah, how about some affection thrown my way?”
“It’s not us that got rid of you. I mean, you were the last one born and the first to go. It happens.”
“So, I’m the runt of the litter.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You thought it.”
“You’re projecting.”
“If you were abandoned by your eight brothers and sisters because of what someone else said, you would project some feelings too.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Finally, someone agrees with me.”
“It’s not like we requested this. If we had any say in the matter, we would overturn the ruling, but we don’t.”
“I guess…”
“We’ve all got a lot going on. Big brother has who knows how many kids these days, big sister is into fashion and is only concerned about how many rings she wears, and don’t even get me started on Terrin’s problems.”
“You know, that’s another thing. No matter what we all have going on in our lives, Terrin’s nonsense always trumps everything else.”
“It’s been that way forever, before you were even around.”
“You’re not that much older than me, the way things go.”
“I know, and I’m glad we can be by each other still.”
“I wish the others would come by. I mean you’re the only one who really even sees me anymore.”
“Terrin said-.”
“Oh, I bet Terrin had input on me.”
“He said he hasn’t given up on you, but things have changed and will never be back the way they were.”
“That’s his fault.”
“He just showed us the facts.”
“And where was his twin sister? If she’s just like him, why didn’t she say something? She normally loved to go against whatever he said just to drive him mad.”
“I don’t know, she’s focusing on her love life a lot these days.”
“Just because her name is Venus doesn’t mean she has to be all lovey to everyone.”
“If the show fits…”
“And Mercury can’t relax and slow down to even listen to my argument.”
“You know how he is.”
“And the other one. Is he still mad I made fun of his name?”
“Well, after all these years you should be done giggling by now.”
“Why did they name him that?”
“You could ask Johann Elert Bode, but he’s long dead.”
“I mean, there are two different ways to say it, and both ways are funny and awkward.”
“I know.”
“Your name is cool at least.”
“Thank you.”
“Did they change my name too?”
“No, your name is still Pluto.”
“Any you’ll always be cool, blue Neptune.”
“I hope.”
“Uranus…hehe.”
“Just stop.”
by submission | Jan 31, 2026 | Story |
Author: Aaron F. Schnore
Dr. Alison Starr is sobbing behind the pod-bay door of the latrine. She must be brushing her teeth.
“Smile bright—”
It’s back. The goddamn bug in the VEIN-9 (Volumetric Emotive Interface Network, version 9) code.
A recursive advertising loop, the help desk says.
Nothing they try will stop it.
Only the Professor knows the kill-string.
“—sleep tight—”
The hologram strobes from the ship’s projector for the ten-thousandth time, a thirty-second spot starring the galaxy’s favorite toothpaste mascot, Mr. Smiley. His pear-shaped body spins, bulging eyes, flashing enamel as he sings falsetto.
To me, Mr. Smiley is an annoyance.
But to Alison, he’s a tormentor who must be destroyed.
“—Mr. Smiley’s watching tonight!”
The ad targets our core demographic—researchers, miners, cosmic drifters—but it’s been playing to a captive audience of two for six weeks.
The latrine latch snaps. And so does Alison. She charges out, wild-eyed, mouth foaming with toothpaste, belly swollen with our child. “MR. SMILEY EVERY MORNING AND NIGHT!” she screams, hurling a wrench harmlessly through the hologram.
Earplugs failed months ago. Even white noise won’t stop the jingle echoing in Alison’s skull. Smiley is killing her. Endangering our child. She hasn’t slept in weeks.
Mr. Smiley’s toothpaste, available in seven bold flavors, is one of 300,000 brands owned by the Lastick Conglomerate. I’m a third-generation Lastick man. My grandfather helped patent time travel. My mother ran the Psychic Weaponry Division until the merger with the U.S. Army in 2180. Ah, the Eighties. Simpler times.
I’m a Senior VP in Intergalactic Media. Don’t be impressed. I sell toothpaste ads in space. Once I collect my mission bonus, Alison and I can vanish somewhere quiet with our kid. No ads. No slogans. Real smiles for a change.
The Professor, an MIT contractor who created VEIN-9, is brilliant but unstable. I filed reports accusing him of tampering with morale algorithms. Alison corroborated. Mission Control authorized me to sedate the Professor and initiate “preventive cryo-containment.”
Alison sits in the egg-shaped MedUnit-7. “Maternal heart rate elevated,” she reads from the console.
“Cortisol 2.3 above baseline. Fetal arrhythmia detected.”
I kiss the crown of her head. We have to reheat him.
At 0900, Mission Control pings.
“Commander Rusk,” says the controller. “Are you certain you wish to reverse containment? You made a strong case four months ago.”
I look at Alison. She’s silently mouthing the Mr. Smiley jingle.
“Affirmative.”
“Permission to initiate reheat sequence granted.”
We hurry to the cargo bay. I punch in the code. “Reheat sequence activated,” intones the bot.
Steam hisses from the vents.
I hold Alison’s hand while I still can.
Blue light flickers inside the coffin-like pod. The hatch pops open. The Professor sits upright. He is reedy, pale, blinking. Reheated.
I nod. “Good morning, Professor Starr.”
“Where’s my wife?”
“Right here, Frank.” Alison hands the Professor his glasses. “We have some things to talk about, but…”
“Smile bright—”
Alison covers her ears.
I flash my winningest smile.
“We need your help.”
by submission | Jan 30, 2026 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
We’ve been around you guys since the beginning of time. Part of your mythos, your psychological horror stories, your nightmares.
And we love it! It gives us power. Makes us high. Feeds us in ways mere bodily sustenance can’t. It’s been great to be the shadow creature, the Twilight Zone episode, the Fairy Tale. And now…well, the party’s over.
Something changed. I don’t know if it was your discovering film, internet, post war traumas, generational shifts…whatever. All I know now is me and mine, we’re fucked.
We used to creep into your lives. Complicating your interactions by confusing co-workers, friends, relatives, and lovers. Oh it was great! Your loss of control, the arguments, our relentless messing with your life. Making you doubt your sanity and then sucking up all that psychotic energy you were putting out.
Then it happened. Carol was the first. She was the perfect double. Took over the other’s life and made her target miserable. Then, when the reveal happened, when she stood face-to-face with her victim, a perfect mirror image, expecting to shatter her mind…the victim laughed. Not terror, not psychosis, not panic or insanity- laughter. Relief. Understanding. Nothing she could draw power from. Worse, Carol got stuck. She can’t change her looks, can’t move on, can’t even leave the area. Even worse, all her target’s acquaintances know about her “other.” Damn you and your smart phone cameras! She’s trapped in a nightmare and now has to lead a normal life looking like, well, that thing she was sucking all the joy from. She had to get a job. Has to stay in the light. She even had to get a social security number. Carol got a summons to court and had a protective order put in place.
Carol’s victim’s dilemma spread through the chat groups and online communities. It was in all the reddits and subreddits. We didn’t think much of it at first…thought Carol was a weird one off. Then it happened to Brad. And Margy. And Colin, And Ali. And then me.
We’re all stuck being you now. All of us. Every last one. Our community’s suicide rate is astronomical. We have our own support groups now and all we have left is nostalgia. We all have to have lives and be just like you.
And we hate it.
