by submission | Feb 25, 2026 | Story |
Author: Colin Jeffrey
Andre Grack wasn’t happy with his latest purchase.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like the colour or its size, though those attributes were rather nebulous and indescribable, he now realised. And it wasn’t that it was ugly, emitted unpleasant smells, or leaked something nasty onto the floor. Though, again, these aspects defied meaningful description under observation.
It was just that the thing wouldn’t stop talking.
He had first noticed the object in one of those small, faux-avant-garde pop-up shops in his local mall. Though “noticed” was probably a stretch – it was more, “barely discerned.”
And yet he still managed to buy it and have it delivered.
When the object arrived, he was surprised that the package containing it belied its true mass. The parcel had been barely bigger than a paperback, but Andre struggled to pick it up.
After dragging it into the house and eventually hoisting it onto the kitchen table, he removed the wrapping. Before him lay an object that was not quite perceivable – as if you were trying to observe it just out of view in the corner of your eye.
Yet, it was there.
He also had no idea it made any sound.
He found that out the first night.
“People are like flowers. They die when you eat them,” the entity announced at 3:37 a.m., apropos of nothing.
Andre was woken by the sound, though he had only just fallen back asleep from the previous announcement at 2:57 that startled him upright: “You can’t have everything. Where would you put it?”
After being disturbed again by, “I drive way too fast to worry about cholesterol” 23 minutes later, and then, “You put the ‘fun’ in dysfunctional,” six minutes after that, he lay awake, beginning to rue his acquisition.
By morning, sleep-deprived, brain overloaded with fifty-seven one-liners, and more than a little unhappy, Andre vowed to return it.
Just as he began searching online for the latest location of the pop-up shop, there was a knock at his door.
He opened it to find a Buddhist monk.
The man wore a maroon robe, his head freshly shaved, eyes calm and beaming gentle kindness.
“Mr. Grack,” he said with a soft bow, “I believe you have something that does not belong to you.”
Andre blinked. “The… object?”
The monk nodded soberly.
Andre stepped aside without a word and pointed to the object on the table. It was silent now.
The monk bowed to it, whispering in a language that sounded more like a breeze rustling leaves than any earthly tongue.
He turned to Andre. “It chooses its bearer. But this is not your time.”
Andre exhaled. “So… what is it?”
The monk hesitated. “A fragment of something very ancient, very important. A unique part of the universe, full of power and mystery.”
Andre frowned. “It’s been quoting jokes and novelty t-shirt slogans at me all night.”
The monk tilted his head, regarding him quizzically. “I have not heard of such a manifestation,” he said. “Though I would say to you… if you understand, things are just as they are. If you do not understand, things are just as they are.”
He carefully lifted the object and turned to go.
“Wait… what if I want it back?”
The monk paused. “You may receive it again. Perhaps in another life. When you are ready.”
And then he left.
The silence in the house was serene. Andre stood in the quiet for several minutes.
Then, from the other end of the kitchen… the toaster spoke.
“Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable…like a coma?”
by submission | Feb 24, 2026 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
It is vital that I have somewhere to hibernate, a place where I can lay dormant, for years, decades, even longer if necessary, although I do need to flicker, albeit briefly, from time to time. I have to be seen or at least cause someone to shiver, to feel uncertain, disoriented.
Any inanimate object will suffice as long as it still contains a hint of the organic but wood no longer sustains me as it once did. The trees are declining, fading, and the existing timber, handcrafted and recycled time and again, has become corrupted, contaminated.
I cannot survive in metal and struggle amidst gears and cogs and transistors and cables and microchips. I don’t flourish in the ether, not as I once did but I do have potential and it is still possible for me to appear on a screen.
I crave for the knotted and gnarly branches of the Ancient Oak but the trees are declining, fading, and so I must find and take solace wherever I can. I settle in a strip of celluloid, rest in canisters, amongst the reels of forgotten blockbusters, in home movies or a collection of pop songs. I can immerse myself in a spool of magnetic tape, in video and audio cassettes. But how often now does someone run film through a projector or push one of these relics into a machine and press ‘play’. I have become obsolete and perhaps that is for the best. My intentions have never been benevolent and there are no fairies at the bottom of the garden, not anymore.
by Julian Miles | Feb 23, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Nat rushes in, noise from the crowded street cutting off as she slams the door. She hitches a thumb towards the outside world.
“What did I miss this time?”
Guido grins at Allie, who gestures for the new girl to fill their prodigal reporter in.
Sandy sighs, then leans back, lacing her fingers behind her head.
“First week of the New America Campaign has got everyone hot for one side or another. It’s going to be a bloodbath: whether that turns out to be pitched battles or massacres is yet to be determined, along with the level of actual bloodshed involved.”
Nat dumps herself down in her seat.
“What about that new bunch? The Statist Front or whatever the Red and Blue press hacks are branding them?”
Guido chuckles.
“Fifty Stars are doing well, picking up the disaffected from all sides. Accusing them of being Statists is a little simplistic-”
Allie interjects.
“Like propaganda ever resorted to lowest common denominator tactics.”
Guido doffs an imaginary cap.
“Thank you for that, Professor Obvious. As I was trying to say: they’re more than the claims. Someone on their side has been paying attention, and their pitch of state rule with federal hands-off until requested has got a lot of people interested. Plus their approach to gun ownership has a sizeable chunk of the NRA backing them, although that’s undeclared as yet.”
Nat frowns.
“I thought their front runner is a Z-”
Allie hoots, wagging disapproving a finger.
“No use of dirty words in here; that includes both of the ‘N’ ones, too. Besides, Bobby isn’t. His dad was, and nearly disinherited Bobby about that. If he hadn’t dropped dead before making good on his threats, things might have been very different.”
Guido nods.
“Personally I think the only difference would be Lizabet Van Houll as the candidate and Bobby Rennick as her pick for VP, instead of the other way round. Somebody chose their candidates carefully.”
He stares pointedly at Nat.
“Shame we can’t find out who’s actually behind those who everyone else thinks are behind them.”
Nat gives him the finger.
“With their stated intent to raze the current domestic enforcement agencies to the ground using this new Federal Investigative Agency they’re proposing – which I still think will effectively be a domestic CIA – they’ve rightly got their security hardened and in order well ahead of the inevitable escalation of attacks.”
Sandy tops up her water.
“This is all terribly interesting, but I thought I was employed by a keen indie news website, not a discussion group.”
Allie chuckles.
“Brave words for someone ending their third week. Please consider this before you dig your sarcastic self any deeper: every one of us has at least a hundred A.I. agents working on leads, leaks, and verifications as we speak. We’re not idling, we’re waiting. Every script mandates regular check-ins, regardless of content found. That half-hour of frantic keyboard activity three times a day isn’t us trying to look busy. It’s us instructing our minions about what to focus on.”
Sandy says nothing. Allie continues.
“That datapack you still haven’t opened is your intro, starter, and guidelines. Since we all think you fit in, these soft-hearted fools have talked me into giving you a heads up: new peeps get a month to turn up something newsworthy that the rest of us haven’t. You’re down to nine days.”
Sandy looks nervous.
“Nine?”
Allie nods.
“We like you, but nobody dodges the one-month rule. Make the grade or you’re gone.”
Sandy sighs.
“Gotcha. This sarky idiot better get her ass in gear, then.”
by submission | Feb 22, 2026 | Story |
Author: Jack Gilmore
The ground shook as a subway car rattled across the tracks of the A Line station, New Delphi. Murphy was jolted awake from his blissful doze. He’d been dreaming of a day in his youth when his father had taken him to NetflixLand. The sun had beat down on both of them as they had gone from store to store, amusement ride to amusement ride. He could almost taste the sickly sweetness of the cotton candy…
…reality was disappointing.
He sat, leaning against the grimy wall of the subway, his guitar in his lap. A beat-up fedora, his own, sat in front of him, splayed suggestively to the passerby. It held a few pennies and nickels. He wore a pair of stained jeans and a sorry-looking bomber jacket, with torn gloves. There was a chain that snaked below the neckline of what had once clearly been a white t-shirt. A gun was holstered at his hip. He blinked groggily and looked around.
The feeling of a subway station is always the same. The rapid battering of feet across artificial stone, echoes of metal on metal, and an inescapable scent of piss and bodies. He lit a cigarette and pondered this, watching as people passed him without a glance. The smoke drifted lazily through the air, following the path of another passing train. As it passed, he squinted, shifting in place slightly. He surreptitiously lifted his arm and bent his head towards it, in a faux attempt to wipe some of the grime from his face.
“…this is a bad idea,” he whispered into the device on his wrist.
You have a better one? replied the Voice in his head.
“We could capture her after she leaves the station. Position the rest of the Cadre to jump her in an alley.”
We have gone over those options. They are too public; our likelihood of success drops below the line of feasibility. This was your plan. Do you doubt your instincts?
“No. This is our best chance, but… indulge me. Check the odds?”
The models are stable. 82.4% success rate, barring the direct intervention of a weaver.
“… somehow, I still have a bad feeling,” Murphy muttered. Another train approached, the sound decelerating ahead of the vehicle. It screeched to a stop, illuminating the platform with the sign on the side of every car: AMAZON BASICS: AMENITIES FOR ALL
Amidst a crowd of sweaty, frantic passengers, a young woman stepped out of the train car. She wore the uniform of an Amazon U.S. Service officer. She carried a slim package under her arm. Her head turned towards Murphy’s darkened corner briefly, and he slinked back. Her eyes were dark, glaring. The eyes of a killer, Murphy thought. She turned away and began walking at a brisk pace towards the steps leading out into the greater city.
There was an odd moment of stillness in the subway then — perhaps 2 heartbeats — before Murphy pocketed the coins from his fedora, placed the hat on his head, and followed her.
by submission | Feb 21, 2026 | Story |
Author: Shinya Kato
“Dad, is this haircut okay?” the barber asked, adjusting the chair.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” the man said, glancing at the boy’s hair.
The boy shook his head. “It’s still too long. Make it a buzz cut.”
The barber paused. “A buzz cut?”
“Yes,” the boy said calmly. “The sensors on my head need light. Long hair interferes with calibration.”
The man hesitated. “Maybe not. Your mum would get upset.”
“I don’t think you need a buzz cut,” the barber added gently.
The boy stared at his reflection. “Some kids have buzz cuts. They run faster. Everyone thinks they’re cool.”
“Hair doesn’t make you fast,” the barber said.
The boy didn’t answer.
Outside, banners fluttered: Future Youth Sports Day – Observation Zone 7.
A black cat sat beneath the banners, half in shadow.
Her eyes were brown and strangely translucent, catching the light as if something fragile might live inside them. People passing by glanced at her, then looked away, uneasy without knowing why.
The cat watched the children warming up.
Then she slipped between the parked vans and was gone.
“Sports day’s coming up,” the barber said later, fastening the cape. “Excited?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“People think I’m fast,” the boy said. “But I’m slow.”
“You don’t look slow.”
“That’s the problem.”
He watched other children warming up. They moved smoothly, effortlessly. Almost too smoothly.
“My system’s still adjusting,” the boy said. “It corrects my movement after I start running. Not before.”
The barber frowned slightly. “So… it helps you?”
“It fixes me,” the boy said. “But everyone thinks it’s natural.”
A small drone hovered above the field, blinking softly.
The barber resumed cutting, careful, methodical. Hair fell to the floor in quiet clumps.
“Does it hurt?” the barber asked.
“No,” the boy said. “I just don’t like it.”
“Like what?”
“Being measured.”
The clippers stopped. For a moment, no one spoke.
The boy looked at the mirror again. His hair was shorter now, lighter. The sensors beneath his skin adjusted silently.
Outside, children ran. Some fast. Some slow. All of them were recorded. Somewhere beyond the field, a black cat paused, watching, before disappearing again.
Sports day wasn’t really about running, he realised. It was about observation.
The barber brushed stray hair from the boy’s neck. His hands were gentle.
The drones watched. The systems logged. The algorithms predicted.
But none of them noticed what the boy felt in that moment—
the quiet wish to run, just once, without being corrected.
by submission | Feb 20, 2026 | Story |
Author: Sarah Gane Burton
“Would you look at that—”
“Looks like she went through a meat grinder.”
“Do you think we can fix her?”
“Dunno, maybe if we replaced the midsection.”
“The frame is bent here, and here—”
“At least one of the valves is too stretched to hold fluids.”
“Look at the tearing. Regeneration would take years!”
“Here comes Doc—”
“How’s Ruby?”
“She’s in rough shape, sir.”
“What’s operational?”
“Respiration is fine. Sensors too—”
“Waste fluid system is wrecked though, she’s leaking all over—”
“That’s pretty normal. What’s your plan?”
“Bend the frame back, get some new valves in place—”
“Fix the tension in the diaphragm—”
“Good plan. Keep it basic, boys. No budget for the cosmetic stuff.”
“Think she can handle a few more rounds?”
“Oh sure.”
“Doc, do they ever think about bringing back the original models?”
“You mean—”
“Technically, or rather, biologically, they were built for it.”
“But the wear-and-tear!”
“Isn’t there some kind of natural regeneration?”
“Stick to the job, boys. We’re not going back to that.”
“There was healing, wasn’t there, doc? Surely they didn’t just—”
“Tear open? Leak fluids? Dislocate internally? As I said, not going back.”
“Mother-of-all—”
“Precisely.”
