by submission | Nov 20, 2025 | Story |
Author: Timothy Goss
There is no tyme, no tick tock not no more. Sunny has face an hands, but no tick tock, only slip slop like me own guts. We been waiting an watching, meself an Sunny, waiting days and nites, watching light an dark, waiting for grub from under wood. Sunny says they have shields like steel, like armoured snails an guns to ends us, he says. An they needs them under wood , not like ghost, not like slugs, an not like we, but living Days like nites an nites like death, me an Sunny deserves a feast.
After the big sleep took every other Monmoth’s Pa took the stage an ensured his safe an sound behind old town walls. Me an Sunny have the coast, by stinking seas, where me Pa left me to a turbulant toxic green, he hadn’t seen the state of things we’ve seen – me don’ts blame. Old Monmoth took the sod betwixt this an that from here to there, he offed familial ties an stated crooked dominion; so here we is again looking to feast on Monmoths toast.
Sunny has stalk eyes, got them tuned for moving in the smoke. Sunny says he can fetch me a techarm to replace me own, knows a dealer in the smoke. Got me own arm torn off under woods, mad cows an chimpanzies, red raw with blood rage. Sunny says he’s seen a chimpanzie with me arm, using it to pick It’s arse, he says. We smile, we always smile louder. Me knows Sunny an his sister saw mother dead moons ago, an now sister long gone, so we always smile, me an Sunny.
Before day is darkness we agree the memory of dancing bears is pretend, they like the nites in the glowing green above the sparkling dust – we agrees to forget. It is easy to forget, we forgets it all some days, especially with grub in me gob. Sunny says the God helps us forget, filling water with dreams in sparkling dust. Me thinks the God is seedless an us toys to bend an break. Some nites we hear laughter in the dark an think like men – with grub in me belly everything is rosey. Sunny says the fleet is due soon enough, he smells them, he says. Sunny can smell a rat in a waste farm, an he says they won’t be long. Me belly growls, we knows they won’t venture under wood after dark for long, no matter the snails an guns to ends us. No bugger steals under wood alone, we run palm in palm with blades an arrows obsidian sharp, watch for chimps an mad cows, and the Wild folk who set fires an send smoke to choke the trees.
Sudden brains an warm tingles over us, like old yellow rinsed and rinsed, we be rosy with swollen lion an bellies to ring. Slap Monmoth’s face, raspberry rashes, watch em washed an boiled. Me an Sunny smile, we is echoes at dusk before the snails cough an growl an glow under wood.
Me an Sunny is ready.
by submission | Nov 19, 2025 | Story |
Author: Nathan Matthew Edmunds
The spacecraft ascended the purpose of its creators’ intention like most of their labors before it. On November 5, 2018, the Voyager 2 probe broke through the heliosphere of its home system and hummed through the blind and deaf cosmos. By the time the craft’s instrumentation failed, it had exceeded the reach of its makers and existed only as testament to them through the gold record that was secured to its exterior. Bound to drift the galaxy of its origin planet, a satellite among satellites, its wanderings did not seem to invoke fascination from the star systems on its trajectory, though who knew with the vast web of space what might awaken in the far beyond from the craft’s gentle tugs against the elements which made up that void.
When the beings detected the Voyager 2, the miraculous journey had long tattered the spacecraft into fragments of its original delineation. Even the miniscule density of the void carried with it the inescapable agonies of transformation. It must have appeared to them as cave paintings did to its creators. A mere rib bone in the design of the creation. Though they could not unlock the meaning of the probe’s instruments, the beings were able to decipher the remnants of the gold record and bridge the Rubicon. The travelers charted the origins of the satellite’s creators and set on their own journey.
Somewhere in the southern constellation of Pavo on the moon of a gas giant, light from the system’s blue-white binary star glimmered off small rocks at the rim of the crater where the creators labored. Even this distance from their origin star, the creators’ machines must have appeared as rudimentary as bone tools to the beings who hovered before them. The site marked first contact. The creators called themselves seekers of knowledge though their tracks revealed they often dug for more than these noble intentions. They were unable to decipher the beings’ transmissions. If they had, they may have excavated some understanding of the fascinating travelers, though no doubt they would have overlooked the gold in that streambed; The chance to comprehend their own nature.
They drank naked with cupped hands at the rim of the watering hole, covered in the warm yellow light of their home sun. These early vessels of consciousness, epochs from their inevitable creations, witnessed the visitors through the simple gaze of wonder and fear, or perhaps thought them remnant visions from their digestions that seemed to bring dreams to life. In many ways, these makers possessed greater wisdom than their later iterations, though seemingly less refined in their methods of seeking.
These curious fumblings unfolded across great distance as each pressed their thumb on the scale of understanding. Some reckoned the only true knowledge extracted from the encounters found that curiosity may be the most ancient revelation of consciousness in their galaxy.
by submission | Nov 18, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Somewhere in the staggering structure there had to be a drip. Thorndyke sensed it before he actually heard it late that first night as he sat in the empty chamber. A metallic plinking. It seemed inconceivable that a structure as monolithic as the Presidium could have a leak either external or internal. The outer sheath was active siliconite and all the internal delivery systems were membranic. A self-regulating bio-mechanical system like that might fail catastrophically, but a minor leak was virtually impossible.
Yet, there it was. Puulink-ink. Steady. Unvarying.
The drip was strange and annoying, but given his situation, it was the least of Saan Thorndyke’s worries. He’d been summoned to the Presidium, the seat of interstellar power for over five galactic transits, to solve a mystery or cover up a scandal. He wasn’t sure which it was yet.
The gist was this: the Viceroy’s son had gone missing. A nineteen year old known for indulging his many fancies, Charden Ulk had disappeared weeks ago. He was notorious on the nets, promoting his previous episodes of debauchery. This made the present case even more vexing for Thorndyke because the royal scandalmonger had posted no recent exploits.
All Thorndyke had to go on was Charden’s undisturbed chambers and a short note found on his tablature. It read: No sea, no desert, no starscape is large and barren enough for me to be lost as I seek to be lost. Only in the constance that calls can I be found. Can I be constant.
Thorndyke had smiled at the youthful earnestness of the statement. Evidently, none of Charden’s personal items were reported missing except a set of his everyday clothing. Friends, acquaintances and recent dalliances had all been interviewed without creating any leads.
Charden had completely disappeared. Was it a crime? Abduction? Murder? Or had the Viceroy’s son simply vanished of his own accord? Without a trace.
Thorndyke could not believe there was no trace. That was his specialty. He was an etherist. He tracked elementary particles and found things whether matter or anti-matter.
The basics were simple. Force moves things. Energy in, energy out. Motion always leaves a particle trail. Etherists trained their entire lives to observe and measure interactions without affecting outcomes. A tricky business, but it could be done, and Thorndyke was good at it.
Good as he was, he was stymied by Charden’s disappearance. He spent most of his time searching Charden’s empty chambers, his last known whereabouts. He knew the trail had to start somewhere there.
Yet, every time he felt he was on the cusp of discerning a path in the ether, the boundless matter/antimatter soup of being, the annoying drip, the puulink-ink, disrupted his focus. Finally, Thorndyke knew he’d have to track that drip, find the source of that constant distraction.
From formation to release to impact, he needed to center on the drip, suss the particle dynamics, merge with the energy flow, invite the strange distractor into his own cycle of thought.
Alone in Charden’s chambers sitting before his abandoned tablature, he read and reread the young man’s final note and faced facts.
Puulink-ink. “No sea, no desert, no starscape…”
Puulink-ink. “Only in the constance that calls…”
Puulink-ink. “…can I be found.”
Puulink-ink.
Thorndyke floated free. Particles coalesced. A rippling sea washed at his feet; a painted desert rolled towards his outstretched hands; a starscape brushed his hair.
In the midst of it, Charden sat, a serene smile gracing his face.
Thorndyke nodded. Charden lifted a hand, a greeting.
“Shall I tell them?” Thorndyke asked.
“You would return?” Charden said, his imperturbable smile slightly perturbed.
“I have a duty.”
“So do we all. It is here. You followed it. Let them.”
“They may never hear. The flow is not always perceptible.”
“How can they not hear? The leak, the imbalance between planes of existence, nagged and nagged me until I had to follow the source.”
“But you did not always hear, Charden. It is a noisy universe. Most of us have never learned—or forgotten how to listen.”
“A great loss.”
“Never,” Thorndyke corrected. “There is a constant.”
“Indeed. Stay and be.”
“To stay is not to be.”
“Another loss.”
“Never. Stay constant.”
Charden opened his palms in acquiescence. Thorndyke receded.
Back in the Presidium, Sann Thorndyke powered off Charden’s tablature for the last time and walked out of the young man’s former chambers. He had plugged the leak between the ethereal planes of existence. The Viceroy would not be happy to hear that his son was never coming home, but he would at least have an explanation.
And Thorndyke could add a very employable skill to his job credentials: Etherist and cosmic plumber.
by Julian Miles | Nov 17, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s a lot to be said for the glory of a star field. A million points of light in every direction, in an array of colours you’d never believe possible, and a silence that seems to make the vista even more intense.
“You’re stargazing again, aren’t you?”
From infinity back into a stuffy spacesuit in the click of a comms unit.
“Way better than the telescope my grandad bought me.”
“So tell me the nearest constellation.”
“That would be the Big Loan. It’s like the Big Dipper, but the dipper bit is a couple of stars deeper.”
Zannah sighs.
“Yeah. From some directions it can seem bottomless.”
Oops. Clearly the wrong joke to make this side of quarterly payment day.
“How bad is it?”
“Well, if we eat nothing for the next week while coasting without power, we should be able to come in only forty-five percent short.”
“Realistically?”
“We’re going to be close to fifty percent under, which will be our third quarter bumping along on half payment.”
“Is that special measures or repossession?”
“They’ve stopped repossessing if payments remain above twenty percent. Even then, it’s still less cost effective than having a crew out here. But penalties are demanded by the ignorant at the top, so the accounting department just reduce owner share and extend the penalty period.”
“How long are we looking at?”
“Half a percent off, plus five to eight added, depending on exact results.”
“Months or years? But we get to stay out here?”
She chuckles.
“Months, stupid. Yes, we stay out here. Stop sounding so cheerful.”
“Zann, our alternative is a dual-bunk room on some company production planet and jobs in a production line. We’d get out of the biggest chunk of debt, but…”
“Less space. No flying. Still indentured.”
I grin.
“Crappier view, too. Turn the heating back up, love. If we’re going to be slaves in freespace no matter what we try, might as well be comfortable.”
“I hear you. As long as we keep making better than twenty percent, we can roam the long night forever.”
“I’ll drink to that. What’s left to do it with?”
“Until we resupply the week after next, it’s lemon squash. In squeeze bags, not cartons.”
“Good thing we stocked the cellar with a fine vintage.”
“Idiot. Get back here.”
by submission | Nov 16, 2025 | Story |
Author: Chris Lihou
The parking lot was empty. Its single light projected a cone of semi-darkness, beyond which shadows could stealthily move.
As instructed, I deposited the package at the base of the light and quickly retreated. In the light’s glow, I knew I’d make for an easy target. My handlers were aware of the risk, but I was assured the exchange was mission-critical. Somewhere in the gloom, I was told a sharpshooter was positioned, ready to return fire if necessary.
I didn’t know the parcel’s contents, nor the identity of the intended recipient. My final instruction was to observe from the darkness to see if the parcel was replaced by another, which I should then collect.
Dressed in near-infrared camouflage for urban and industrial operations, it would require a sophisticated assailant to see me crouched in the shadows. Time slowed to a crawl as I waited and watched for anything that might signal danger.
Something moved. Short, black, but definitely not there moments before. My thermal imaging binoculars detected a shape moving towards the light. Damn. Just a dog. It had something in its mouth.
Under the light, it dropped the object, cocked its leg against the lamp post, then picked up the package I’d left. I followed its path until I could no longer detect its heat signature in the dark.
How bloody clever! Why risk a human when a dog will do it for you?
I collected the object and returned to base.
“Well done, Major. The project has been a success. The dog’s training has been confirmed, and Rover has been given his treat. You may stand down. Enjoy your weekend.”
by submission | Nov 15, 2025 | Story |
Author: Colin Jeffrey
Nicole Celoni settled into a loungeroom chair, wireless earbuds in, ready to read and listen to music. She flipped open her book, pressed play on her MP3 player. Nothing. Confused, she checked the screen. Every file was gone.
Panic rising, she tapped through folders. Empty. No playlists, no albums. Years of downloads – vanished.
Grabbing her phone, she opened her streaming app. But instead of music, the homepage showed only spoken-word podcasts and news stories. No songs, no artists, no “Music” tab.
She searched: “Beethoven.” “The Beatles.” “Ariana Grande.”
Nothing.
She checked the Wi-Fi. Full signal. She googled “music.” There was one result: “Musick, a surname of Old English origin.”
Her stomach dropped.
She retrieved an old hard drive – her complete digital backup. Folders of music and videos by year, carefully organized. But every music folder was empty.
Desperate, she opened her university graduation video. She remembered the song playing as she crossed the stage – “Good Riddance.” But the video was nearly silent. Only muffled voices and applause remained.
Nicole rushed to the kitchen. Her husband Tony was chopping onions.
“Tony,” she said, breathless, “check your music files.”
He looked up. “My what?”
“You know – Music. Songs. Singing. You used to hum in the mornings…don’t you remember?”
Tony half-grinned. “Let me guess – is this some sort of internet challenge?”
“You’re really telling me you don’t know what music is?!”
He looked worried. “Nicole… I have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you ok?”
She backed away, heart pounding. The realization that all was silent, was suddenly overwhelming. No distant “thump, thump” of bass from passing cars. No catchy jingles on the TV. No one whistling.
She opened her notes app. Typed “music.” It autocorrected it to “musk”.
Nicole sat in her room, switched on the recorder app on her phone, tried to hum, sing, anything.
The voice memo captured only static.
She sat in the dark, played it back. Over and over again.
She slept in the spare room that night.
The next morning, she wandered the city. Past silent cafés, mute bookstores. A phone rang somewhere – not a tune, just a robotic voice: “Phone call. Phone call.”
By lunchtime, sitting alone in a public library, she had half-filled a notepad with phrases – “A melody runs through a song.” “Rondos and scherzos abound in classical music.”
But now she just stared, uncomprehending at what she had just written. The words were lines of gibberish, the sentences completely indecipherable.
She tore the page out, crumpled it up.
Nicole soon realized she couldn’t remember what music actually sounded like. Not just specific songs – any music. She struggled to think of concerts she must have attended, or singing in the car… but those memories played out silently, like videos on mute.
A deeper worry set in. Not that music had disappeared, but was it ever even real?
Weeks passed. Nicole stopped trying to look for explanations. She gave up asking others if they remembered music. Soon she could barely remember why she had been asking.
The notes she once clung to faded. She couldn’t recall melody. She couldn’t even remember what it felt like to want to listen to a song. She began to accept the silence as a companion.
One morning, she opened her journal and found a sentence she didn’t recall writing:
“There was something, once – an integral part of the human condition – that could evoke and articulate feelings that were difficult to express in words”
She stared at it, unmoved. Then closed the journal.
And forgot it.
