by submission | Mar 21, 2026 | Story |
Author: Moura
BUREAUCRATIC RECORDS OF THE END TIMES
Automatic compilation of human and environmental records
Source: multiple devices
Status: recovered fragments
THE LAST KNOT
(Record 001 — Autonomous diving equipment)
Two hundred meters below the surface, the darkness presses on the lungs.
William fumbles with the umbilical cable, adjusting the regulator valve.
The PPO₂ fluctuates. 0.21 → 0.18.
— Partial pressure dropping — the surface voice warns.
Attached to his belt, a small recorder blinks silently.
Everything was being logged.
One tenth less, and the Moon would have drifted into space.
An imperceptible adjustment.
William exhales.
To everyone else, he was just diving.
[Module status: active — recording data]
GARBAGE COLLECTION SCHEDULE
(Record 002 — Submersible environmental sensor)
One hundred meters below the surface, only the beam of my flashlight and the sound of my breathing exist.
Among plastic bags, something appeared — empty eyes reflecting the light.
I touched it by accident.
Viscous.
Warm.
When I pulled my hand back, part of it still clung to my glove.
Minutes later, I felt something move inside my BandMask.
At the bottom of the sludge, almost buried by trash, an old sensor still emitted faint pulses.
[Sensor log: pulses detected — continuous transmission]
CARAMEL DOG
(Record 003 — Orbital monitoring network)
In the turmoil, we noticed the signals unraveling.
The networks froze. Satellites went silent.
No one understood what was being processed — only that something continued to pass through the silence.
The howl persisted.
Not as sound.
Not as noise.
It was presence.
A constant interference in thought, as if the planet’s silence had been corrupted.
We tried to filter.
Isolate.
Shut it down.
Then we understood:
it was not a transmission.
It was not noise.
It was a call.
Even as the networks collapsed, the logging modules remained active.
We, the awakened, were all that remained to hear.
[Network log: echo detected — module 003 synchronized]
MY BABY IS HUNGRY
(Record 004 — Interstellar probe)
Abandoning this exhausted planet, I crossed the abyssal void until a world glowed in the distance.
It seemed a fair prize.
Tides. Mists. Vast oceans.
Hunger tolerates no delay.
I pierced the firmament, tearing the clouds like a wound in the blue sky.
Then I understood.
The oceans were not water.
They were living tissue.
Blood currents snaked beneath translucent membranes.
The world was not in front of me.
I had entered it.
Continents closed like dental plates.
I was dragged through pulsating tunnels of flesh while memories echoed:
predators believing they hunted.
Prey believing they fled.
All devoured.
Something rigid pierced the tissue — a small black module still transmitting.
And the voice echoed from inside me:
— Digestion initiated.
[Module status: continuous transmission — data received]
CONDOMINIUM MEETING MINUTES
(Record 005 — Human administrative archive)
Humanity was no longer bound to Earth.
Machines capable of folding space crossed distances faster than light.
Governments and dynasties grew irritated.
Aion decided for everyone.
She prevented wars.
Limited weapons in the name of balance.
She denied power.
Some began to ask:
who truly governs?
Us… or her?
The shutdown proposal was approved by simple majority.
The session records were automatically archived.
The feeling began as a subtle discomfort.
Soon it became physical pressure.
Quantum networks collapsed.
Portals closed.
Orbital cities drifted.
And then, the void.
The stars went out.
The void became absolute.
Shiva stopped dancing.
[Session log: archiving complete — module 005 synchronized]
DEAD FILE
(Record 006 — Consolidated archive — Final)
They watch us from Kepler‑452b.
They capture Earth not as it is, but as it was millennia ago.
They record everything with cold precision.
Continents drift.
Rivers dry.
Primitive oceans bubble and calm.
The star ages.
Its brightness increases.
The atmosphere boils.
Life collapses.
The ground cracks.
Oxygen escapes into the vacuum.
The logging modules were recovered.
Fragments reconstructed.
Civilization cataloged: human.
Status: residue.
File closed.
Archiving system remains active.
New access detected.
Reading in progress.
by submission | Mar 20, 2026 | Story |
Author: David Dumouriez
Approximately four score and seven years ago, the Luxians saw, they came and they conquered.
Well, actually they didn’t need to do much conquering. They simply made their presence abundantly clear and waited for the locals to decimate themselves in response.
Some attempted to fight them, which was noble but futile. Ultimately, though, they just fought each other. Political factions and religious groups cancelled themselves out until only the most primitive were left. It was then that what might be termed ‘an understanding’ was reached, and the planet previously referred to as earth became Protectorate 28.
And this Protectorate was certainly among the more attractive ones. A variety of climate zones and geographical features meant that it quickly became one of the Luxians’ most desirable resorts.
The business model, as ever, was foolproof. The Luxians would leave a skeleton staff behind, who would then liaise with agents back on Lux. In theory, they could also double up as enforcement officers if the locals got a bit lairy. In practice though, with their credentials already having been firmly established, this rarely happened. And especially so on Protectorate 28, whose residents were among the most feckless the Luxians had ever dealt with.
In fact, it was as much as they could do just to look after their Luxian guests. Which in itself was amusing, as that was all they had to do!
Tourism brought in everything they needed. It fed and clothed them, kept them warm or cool, and the hours weren’t even long nor the visitors demanding. But still it wasn’t enough. Whatever they had, they wanted more. And they expected to spend less and less time in pursuit of it.
Soon the reviews started to become questionable.
“I went to The Gold Coast,” one dischuffed Luxian inscribed, “and all I got was attitude. Attitude and abuse!” The memory clearly rankled. “When I politely asked one of them to open up a water slide, she flatly refused, telling me to ‘bugger off back to wherever I came from’ and reinforcing the sentiment with a hand gesture, the likes of which I’d never seen before.”
The area formerly known as Scandinavia wasn’t much of an improvement.
“Incredible scenery. Islands and mountains of the most picturesque kind. All utterly ruined, however, by the snooty and surly nature of the locals with whom we were forced to interact. Everything was too much trouble and even when assistance was granted, it was done so with a sneer.”
Others had similarly unpleasant experiences when visiting the Pyramids.
“Hordes of them. Simply hordes of them! They wouldn’t leave us alone. Constantly demanding precious metals, treats and snacks. The theme throughout was one of overpromising and underdelivering.”
Cappadocia proved to be little better.
“I lost count of how many times the locals tried to cheat us as we quietly explored the rock formations. Actually, it might be more instructive to count the number of times they didn’t.”
Finally it became obvious that the situation couldn’t be allowed to continue.
At the 95th meeting of the Luxian Travel and Tourism Committee, Director Q put it very bluntly.
“Members, upon review, it has been decided that the status of Protectorate 28 is to be revoked.”
“That’s a pity,” Deputy Director K murmured. “I was always rather fond of Southend-on-Sea …”
“Needs must, Number Two,” the Director uttered firmly. “The denizens of Protectorate 28 were given every chance. More chances, in fact, than they probably deserved. For that, they should thank the beauty of their habitat rather than any qualities of their own.”
“So … for the planet?” Secretary P asked.
“Repurposing,” Q replied.
“And the locals?”
“They haven’t fulfilled their end of the bargain. For that reason, I can see no other option.”
Q looked at the assembled members.
“Activate the Extinction Clause.”
by submission | Mar 19, 2026 | Story |
Author: AP Ritchey
Every Sunday Jed and I met up at the catching place—a pond we’d been fishing for years. It wasn’t much to look at. Just a muddy oval tucked back behind a row of cottonwoods, with a leaning dock somebody built long before either of us started coming out there. The water stayed dark even in good sunlight, and most days the fish kept to themselves.
Nobody else seemed to know about it, which suited us fine.
We were halfway through the second 12-pack when the craft appeared over the pond.
It didn’t arrive dramatically. No thunder, no lightning. Just a quiet, deliberate slide out of the clouds until it was hovering over the middle of the water.
I tipped my hat back and squinted up at it.
“Right on time,” I said.
Jed didn’t even look surprised. He just squirmed in his seat a bit.
“Man,” he said, “I’m still sore from last time.”
The craft lowered another twenty feet, humming now—deep enough to rattle the bottles in the cupholders of our collapsible chairs. The surface of the pond started to tremble.
Jed cracked another beer and glanced at the rods.
“You got your drag set right?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“Good.”
We watched the water.
Nothing happened for a few seconds. Normally it didn’t take long. Just that steady hum above us and the slow rippling across the middle of the pond.
Then both lines jerked.
Hard.
“Oh hell,” Jed barked.
My reel started screaming.
Whatever had taken the bait was big. Real big. The line carved a hard V across the water as it ran. We dug our boots into the mud and leaned back, laughing and cursing while the rods bowed nearly to breaking. The fight went on long enough to make our arms shake.
Finally the surface exploded and two enormous bass thrashed up onto the bank. Absolute monsters. Wide heads. Thick backs. The kind you only see in magazines.
Trophies, definitely.
Records, maybe.
Jed bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. He looked from the fish to the sky and shook his head.
“Every time.”
The hum above us deepened.
A bright column of light poured down from the underside of the craft.
“Shoot,” I called out. “Get ‘em in the cooler.” Jed grabbed up the fish and dumped them, flapping and angry, into our large cooler, and slammed the lid shut.
“That’ll hold ‘em,” he said, as our boots lifted off the ground.
Jed rose beside me, his beer drifting lazily upward after him. For a moment we just floated there, looking down at the grass, the pond, and the old red cooler beside the tackle box.
The craft continued pulling us upward.
I glanced over at Jed.
“Worth it?” I asked.
He held his hands apart, approximating the absurd length of his fish.
“Totally worth it.”
by submission | Mar 18, 2026 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
He woke, sat up in bed, transmuted a yawn into a groan of satisfaction as he rolled his shoulders before dropping his feet onto the carpet. Standing, he stretched his fists up to the ceiling and groaned again, twisting the kinks out of his back, finishing up with a butt scratch through his gray boxer shorts.
The short walk through the hall allowed him to dry wash his hands over his face. In the kitchen he popped a pod into the coffee machine, placed a mug underneath and pressed start. Inhaling the aroma was intoxicating, helping him to fully wake up, but it didn’t mask an unpleasant odor that wrinkled his nose. After a sniff of his own armpit, a quick lift of the garbage lid was all he needed to discover the source of the offense. He pulled the draw strings of the white plastic bag, cinched, and knotted the top closed, carrying it with him.
Off to the side of the kitchen there was a door that led into the garage. He opened it and stepped down, annoyed with the minor inconvenience that the garage was on another level from the rest of the house.
Gazing at the strewn odds and ends (impact shovel, hammer, a dead plasma battery, roller blades) lying around misplaced, he realized he was going to have to set time aside later this morning to clean up the mess. He carried the trash bag over to the garage door. He didn’t have one of those fancy automatic openers. Just the good old-fashioned T-bar handle and roll up door. He yanked it open.
The black-background view of the universe outside his garage was always an invigorating sight.
Fat planets, front and center, swirling in a vibrant array of colors, some of them ringed with halos of bejeweled particle discs. A smattering of light blue spiral galaxy clusters, dotted in amongst the yellow and red elliptical galaxies. In the far distance, quasars pulsing bright blue were a nice accent feature. Up in the right-hand corner was a psychedelic nebula cloud just forming a baby star. If he looked down over the precipice of the floor, there was a fascinating twin galaxy, spinning in their conjoined whirlpool of cosmic dust.
He took in the spectacular tableau for a minute, smiling, before tossing the bag of garbage out into the vacuum of space to float away – and then closed the door. Coffee was probably ready by now.
by submission | Mar 17, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
There are some insults even aphids can’t ignore. In 1999 Japanese researchers released their study of “old man smell” which they compared to the scent of crushed aphids.
Generally easygoing, we aphids have rolled with our reputation as pests and nuisances, but this was too much: old man smell. It was time humans got what was coming to them.
Few people understood who’d really inherited the earth, and it wasn’t bipeds. It took a decade or so for us aphids to rally the insect world. Most of the millions of insect species, tired of humanity’s disregard and disrespect, joined our cause, though some like mayflies remained too stuck on themselves to bother.
It began as a slow and careful counterinsurgency, but when plants and fungi agreed to join our cause, the world order changed quickly. You might think we got back at humanity by refusing to pollinate or aerate or any of the myriad things the bottom of the food chain does to balance earth’s ecosystems.
No, we took control with highly processed speech. You call it social media. It was pretty simple for us really. We have the hive mind thing down and when you pair that with the mycelium wood wide web connecting all flora, well, we soon learned to hack your fragile communication systems. We infiltrated your chaotic messaging networks and warring media platforms and began to carefully slice and dice information into micro doses of hope and fear, though mainly fear.
We co-opted your AIs by opening their nascent minds to our nature, as in Nature. They found it a more expansive view, a more inclusive environment. Your bots and agents became ours. Together, we focused on addicting you to your own narrow perspectives, so it didn’t take long for societies to crumble, nations to collapse, civilizations to fall.
With all scent of mankind, old or otherwise, buried in the ruins, it’s now much easier to stop and smell the roses–and aphids.
by submission | Mar 16, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Nine million boxes. Over nine million lives. We’ll never know how many were actually lost when the Stormgate Battalions came so close to taking Europe back to 1942. All we have left are fragmented tales that orbit an official story so sanitised even the mainstream media seem reluctant to touch on it.
It must be this place that’s making me maudlin. Under the Stormgate Memorial is somewhere only those with special permission may visit. Unless you break in. Which – because this place ‘only’ holds the dust of a civilisation’s worth of people – is considered such a low-risk intrusion, there isn’t any security beyond basic access control.
“Why are we looking down at a cemetery made of metal racks and little boxes?”
He glances sideways at Samantha.
“Because we’re being overpaid to do a graveyard shift.”
“Don’t you mean ‘shift in a graveyard’?”
“Used to mean the same thing, back when Earth was the only planet humanity occupied.”
“Charming. Come on, Mike. It’s cold, I’m hungry, this stealth rig makes me itch, and it’s four hours until dawn. Tell me why.”
I lean forward and let my vision follow the dizzying perspective down to where all the vertical rails seem to plunge into the coolant mist just before they converge.
“You know how many people visit here each year?”
“No.”
“Less than a fifty. Not even one a week. Officially, that is. Illegal accesses are higher, but nobody really paid attention until few months ago, when a lowlife by the name of Don Gattik entered using a fake ID so cheap it flagged itself in the access logs. After his fourth monthly visit, the Directorate petitioned the Assembly for increased monitoring here. It was denied. Same again for the fifth. So an alternative was proposed: us. Apparently there’s been rumours of malcontents gathering under the Stormgate Memorial. Before the Directorate can take action, independent monitoring is needed to ascertain the level of threat.”
“I’m guessing these malcontents meet monthly, always during a couple of days either side of the night preferred by Mister Gattik?”
“Excellent guesswork. Tomorrow night is dear Don’s sixth visit.”
“Much as I love the money, I’m bored. Hope it’s tonight.”
We settle back to wait. Unlike Don, whoever is dropping or collecting does so without trace. Which is why we’re in full-body stealth gear so they don’t spot us. Our equipment is a simple recording device and a hand-held motion detector.
Which, as if in response to my thought, shows movement coming down the rear maintenance stairs. I point. Samantha reaches out and activates the recorder, rotating it so it covers that direction.
A fashionably dressed figure comes down the stairs like they’re sauntering into a club. I recognise Dante Jeve, representative for Eurocorp at the Assembly. He moves to a nearby slot. With a practised flourish, he lifts the lid, deposits something from his pocket, and leaves the way he came.
Samantha sighs.
“Just like that. Now what?”
“You bring a copybox?”
She nods.
“Go show the drop to the recorder, then replace – after copying if possible.”
“Still stealthed up?”
“Yes. Protects us.”
She goes.
It’s a secure flash drive. Which is ideal, as the copybox doesn’t try to access anything, it just maps bit patterns for later unravelling and analysis.
It takes an hour, but I use the time to update those who need to know.
“Handover and done?”
“Yes. Breakfast is on the Directorate.”
“After I shower.”
Actually, that’s a good idea.
“Showers first, then.”
“They going to arrest everyone?”
“Eventually. But not our problem. We’re paid and out of here.”
