by submission | May 30, 2026 | Story |
Author: Colin Jeffrey
The first time Elmer Merle realised something was wrong was when his heart stopped beating.
Which surprised him, because he was clearly able to walk and talk, and check the messages on his phone without once falling down dead.
“You’re the eleventh person I’ve seen today with no heartbeat,” said the doctor. “And – like I told the others – I have no adequate explanation. Sorry.”
Merle had left work early that day, along with most of his coworkers. It seemed everyone else’s heart had stopped too. Unlike others, however, he didn’t call in at a place of worship on the way home.
Instead, Merle went to his friend Orson’s house.
He knew Orson Roons had a computer that hadn’t been connected to the internet since 2007, when he claimed to have received an email “from Reality itself.”
Orson wasn’t surprised to see him.
“Your heart’s stopped too?” Orson asked, sipping from a mug that read “Keep calm and carry on coding.”
“It has,” said Merle. “Yours?”
“Yep. Just like everyone else.” He moved a pile of junk from a chair so Merle could sit. “I warned them,” he muttered. “But no one listens to me.”
Orson sat in front of the old computer, turned the crank on a generator, and booted it up. A series of beeps followed.
“What are you doing?” Merle asked.
“Finding the proof,” said Orson, tapping keys. “This isn’t some pandemic – it’s an overdue notice.”
The screen flickered. An inbox appeared, untouched since 2007. At the top:
!!ACTION REQUIRED: Species Subscription Renewal – FINAL NOTICE!!
Merle laughed. “That’s just spam.”
“Open it.”
He did.
> Dear Users,
>
> Your Species Existence Subscription has expired.
>
> As detailed in previous messages, failure to renew within 200 Earth years will result in systematic termination of biological function, followed by gradual pixelation and deletion of your reality.
>
> To renew your subscription, please click on the link below:
>
> [RENEW HERE]
>
> Yours sincerely,
> Universe Management Systems Incorporated
“No heartbeat,” Orson said, “is stage one.”
Merle stared. “A subscription to exist…?”
“Yes. And someone was supposed to handle it centuries ago. There was rumoured to be a Temple of Tech Support somewhere in Mesopotamia, but it was lost.”
Merle clicked the link.
Nothing happened.
“We’re not connected to anything,” Orson shook his head. “Even if we were, the link’s expired. You need the current renewal code. It updates every 78.4 years.”
Merle blinked. “Okay… so how do we get a new code?”
Orson opened a drawer and pulled out a laminated card. He read aloud:
“To contact the Universe Management Systems helpline, please speak into your nearest receiver of cosmic background radiation.”
“Well, that’s helpful,” Merle said.
“It sure is,” Orson replied, oblivious to the sarcasm. “I’ve got an old analog TV in the spare room.”
Bemused, Merle followed.
“When not tuned to any channel,” Orson explained, switching on the TV, “static is displayed – part of that static is actually generated by the universe’s cosmic background radiation.”
The screen hissed with white noise.
“Now,” Orson said, holding up a microphone plugged into the TV “Say: ‘Support Request: Humanity Subscription Renewal Code.'”
Merle raised an eyebrow, but did as he was asked.
“Support Request: Humanity Subscription Renewal Code.”
The screen flickered. A beep sounded.
A synthesized voice came through the TV speaker:
“Your request is being processed. Please stay tuned. Average wait time: 112 to 218 Earth years.”
Merle dropped heavily into the nearest chair, dejected.
“Cheer up,” Orson said, taking a sip from his mug, “at least we’re in the queue.”
by submission | May 29, 2026 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Looking through the illuminated magnifier, Herbert soldered the finishing touches to the miniature mechanical bee. He carried it to the garden where his young son, Drew, waited.
“It looks too little to accomplish anything,” his son commented.
His father sighed. “Once we had organic bees. Real bees to pollinate flowers. Thanks to—well, we’re not sure if it was over-use of pesticides, or herbicides, or the vagaries of climate change here on Earth, or a combination of factors—the little creatures died off.”
Herbert opened his palm and raised his hand up towards the sun. “I created this little worker,” he continued, “for pollinating.”
“I thought people pollinated flowers by hand,” Drew countered. “I’ve seen old pictures of farmers with paint-brushes, and—”
“My bees,” his father interrupted, “are also self-replicating. This single bee in my hand will make four to six more before the season is over. So in our little garden, we only need to use one. They’re quite the labor-saving drones.”
“If they work as well as I think they will,” Herbert continued, “then we’ll use them in the last phase of terraforming a new world. Something you’ll see in your lifetime.” Herbert then added to himself, but not in mine.
Now warmed and solar-powered, the bee stirred and quickly flew away towards the squash blossoms in the family garden.
“Goes to work right away,” Herbert laughed softly. “Unlike my son.” He affectionately slapped Drew on the shoulder. “Now get in the house and start your chores.”
* * *
One Martian sunrise decades later, an adult Drew zipped up his jumpsuit and strolled outside. The air was thinner than Earth’s, but serviceable and getting better. The terraforming project was coming along as well as hoped, and had now entered the final stage.
He made his way up the ridge on the edge of the colony to look over the vast field before him. An explosion of color greeted him: various shades of blue, yellow, and pink, dappled with spots of white.
As Drew walked into the field of wild flowers dozens of tiny humming mechanical bees swarmed about him. He laughed and waved them away. They went back to work as he picked enough flowers to build two bouquets. One he would leave beneath the engraved brass plaque naming the field after his father. The other for his pregnant wife.
by submission | May 28, 2026 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
Carter travelled to the end of the line purely by accident. After drinking with friends he had fallen asleep on the last train. He awoke in the early hours of the morning, cocooned in his overcoat. The lighting in the carriage had dropped to an energy saving low level, but thankfully when he hit the button the doors slid open.
As he stepped onto the platform Carter could tell instantly that something was different. As he walked along he tried to make sense of the place he had suddenly become a part of. Carter struggled to find a word with which to describe it and the best he could manage was an ‘approximation’. It was, he decided, an approximation, and for the first time in years Carter realised that he felt unburdened and light on his feet. He imagined he was an extra on a film set being filmed from above, a series of long shots, necessary to drive the narrative but not really important to it.
When he reached the Station House, Carter spotted a vending machine standing in front of the chain link fence. As he moved closer, he noticed there was no key pad or coin slot and he suspected there weren’t any drinks or snacks inside the machine. Surprisingly he wasn’t hungry or thirsty and did not have the expected hangover.
For the first time Carter glanced up at the sign above the Ticket Booth and again he was baffled. It was merely a jumble of letters thrown together haphazardly and was indecipherable. Carter turned his attention to the posters on the walls and the maps and information on the notice boards, and all of it was gobbledygook and not intended to be read, for someone to stand up close and study it. Carter couldn’t help himself and started to laugh. He sat on one of the benches, facing the line and, gazing up at the sky, Carter thought about those who were watching. Carter supposed he was little more than a speck to them and wondered what, if anything, they could learn from him? What would they determine? Was his behaviour typical? Had the others also lingered, reluctant to leave?
Eventually Carter stood and moved across the platform and when he pushed against the barrier it began to move but he wasn’t ready to leave, not just yet. Carter intended to stay for as long as it was possible.
by submission | May 27, 2026 | Story |
Author: Aubrey Williams
You can practically hear the metal creaking, the knocking of lost air-locks and forgotten corridors, as you pass through the graveyard. It’s the Cemetery; replete with hulks, a collection of battle-blasted wrecked vehicles on the dull edge of the nebula. People have conflicting accounts of whether it was a battlefield or simply a place that different authorities agreed to dump the dreadnoughts they didn’t want to keep. Perhaps ships that flew under different flags simply wound-up here, lost, or maybe they were lured here, killed together by some frightening and unknown power. I venture no comment; other than I find it inherently uncomfortable.
Now, our last salvage run— it was different.
Usually we go to places all the salvagers, rust-pickers, and artefact-hunters collectively agree are safe enough. The Cemetery is so far away, and so unsettling, that it’s considered bizarre if not insane to journey there. My captain— I’m her navigator— was paid a substantial sum by a peculiar trio to take them there, and to look for something specific. A ship with a white underside with decompression damage. Its shape, if intact enough for one, was that of a cigar tube. We murmured when she told us, and all felt the same cold shudders, but it was too tempting to decline.
We were up on the deck, a little bulbous tear on top of the vessel, the passengers practically touching the glass. So many shattered bodies hung in the space around us, huge torn pieces of metal jaggedly hanging in the void. Perhaps there were bodies still in some of the craft. By now they’d be husks, entombed in this uncanny flotsam. There’s something about it, species irrelevant, a forcible imagining of ghost-breath and inexplicable activity.
The trio were, as I said, interesting. An old fellow, bent and gnarled with age, gazed out from his tinted mask. I think he must have been a Gosporan, unable to breathe anything other than his planet’s heavy atmosphere, unless mediated through such a respirator. We’d warred with them before. A tall, upright Human had a sad but proud expression, and his clothes spoke of military service, real wool. He seemed adrift with thought. Then the young Human, who’d clearly seen her fair share of space travel. A scar on her neck, a glint in her eye. She held a satchel with her. We gave them space, not out of dislike, but of some unspoken respect or sympathy.
Suddenly, I saw it— a pale glint from between two massive cruisers, the damaged cigar-shaped vessel. I gave a cry, and rang the bell. My captain turned to the three, who nodded. The military man wiped a tear, and the young woman was flushed burgundy. The old Gosporan seemed awestruck. As we neared the devastated craft, the young star-traveller took something wrapped in silk out from the satchel, and placed it into our jettison tube. I pressed the button, and out from it shot, unwrapped in the void, a wreath of flowers. It made contact with the vessel, and lodged there through an attached magnet.
The Gosporan turned to me, and said in his deep rumble:
“They tried to warn our two peoples, and then tried to save both cruisers when disaster struck. They stayed to give each sailor aboard a chance. Their sacrifice brought the wars to an end. I served on the left, my friend on the right. Her father was a young man who refused to evacuate on the third, our saviour-ship. This is our memorial.”
Suddenly the universe seemed so small, the wrecks glittered. The creaking now had a mournful edge.
by submission | May 26, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Say you run into the creature from the Black Lagoon in a Costco parking lot on a bright sunny afternoon. The creature is just sitting by a massive tangle of blackberry surrounding a brackish drainage pond.
I mean, it’s still the scaly fish-faced, web-hand-and-toed biped meant to scare 1950s movie theater audiences, but it’s just sitting by the curb where your car is parked, looking like it might try to bum a few bucks off you.
Do you sprint screaming back into the store?
Or pull out two cans of Bodhisattva IPA from the case in your shopping cart and offer one to your down-and-out fellow creature?
Even twelve-year-old me knew that answer when I saw “Creature from the Black Lagoon” for the first time. The 1954 horror film was intended to foster fear of the primal unknown and its monstrous threats. Instead, it made me want to explore the densest jungles and dark backwaters to learn about life we had no idea existed.
You see, I don’t think the studio executives who signed off on that 3-D monster movie could ever have imagined it would help save our planet. But it did.
Because a kid like me was more interested in sharing a beer with a freak of nature than shooting it. Before the term was ever coined, I became a self-taught xenologist, searching for and studying life forms seemingly so alien that few believed they could or should arise on earth. I began to study extremophiles: creatures that find ways to thrive in the harshest environments: molten heat, arctic cold, toxic waste, dire radiation, etc.
And I found that I wasn’t alone. From microscopic one-celled protists like solarion arienae to towering 400 million-year-old prototaxite fungal fossils, more and more researchers were documenting thousands of new species each year in biology labs, in crusty museum collections, and in the field. I did my part. I went to earth’s far corners. I collected. I classified. I catalogued.
I collapsed.
It was too much for too few. I lost my breath in the frantic race to identify and preserve species before they were lost, before we could even understand what we were losing, when the total number of species and their potential benefits on our planet is poorly known.
So poorly known.
And I should know. Because, when I broke down, I had a breakthrough. I’d retreated to a little used research cabin deep in the North Cascades to hole up, hibernate and rejuvenate. As autumn turned to winter, as the cold and snow took hold, the routine of rugged living became restorative. Then it became a revelation.
One clear, crisp morning when foraging through an outer storage shed that had been half crushed by a fallen tree, I didn’t quite find the creature from the black lagoon sitting there (though maybe a very very distant relative) feasting on the detritus of the shed’s abundant plastic storage containers. It looked to be a kind of lichen, a colony of cyanobacteria I’d never encountered before.
And it was flourishing. Not just on the piles of plastic it was munching and mulching, but even old gear waterproofed with PFAS forever chemicals were on its diet. It didn’t take long for me and colleagues I shared the discovery with to understand the implications of a microorganism that could consume plastics and PFAS in almost any climate or condition. With a nod to the film that started me on my journey to know what was poorly known, I named the discovery obscurus lacuna.
It’s been a game changer for ridding our environment of persistent waste and toxins. And it’s made me hopeful. Hopeful that we’re finally learning how much richer our world is when our knowledge of it is not so poor.
by Julian Miles | May 25, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
And so they looked down as throughout the world the people gathered as written, there to stage rituals of joyous retribution under the aegis of their chosen divinities. They came in their thousands, in their tens of thousands, and with them came a host of holy drones so all not present might bear witness.
Delbert looks up from where he sharpens an antique cavalry sabre, casting an envious glance at those from more amenable places who’ve brought guns.
He turns to catch Wilbur’s gaze.
“How do we know some of them what came with us ain’t evil ones in disguise?”
Wilbur nods sagely.
“That’s a good question. From my studies of the various screeds, I believe a light will shine down and reveal any with deceit in their souls. Best you have that sticker of yours good and sharp, ready to put an end to those blackhearts.”
Delbert nods and redoubles his efforts on the sabre.
Far away on another continent, Dembe finishes reassembling his AK-47. Sliding the extended magazine home, he looks about in wonder.
“I’ve never seen so many gathered in one place before, brother. How do we tell sinner from saint?”
Ignatius lifts a microdriver from inside an access panel on the assault laser he scavenged from a crashed troopship. He points to the masses about them with the thin tool.
“There will be signs, my man, there will be signs. Smoke some more holy bush, then you’ll be able to see them auras glow. Any turn black or grey you know a sign been given. Gun them down.”
Dembe nods happily, slinging the AK-47 across his back before pulling out rolling papers and a pouch of dried leaves.
On a continent somewhere between Delbert and Dembe, a king stands in his oval office and points out at the masses that throng almost to his windows and stretch away into the distance. A sea of faces, all eerily quiet, kept from pressing against the expanses of armoured glass by barriers reinforced with a double row of protection officers in powersuits.
“Why aren’t they shouting?”
Bertrand peers over the king’s skinny arm.
“All the teachings say to gather, but none tell of what to do afterwards. There’s an expectation of divine guidance. Some just want to be told who to smite. Others pray to receive a download of updated and expanded commandments. Our analysts predict some rioting in a day or two, possibly orchestrated. Nothing we can’t handle.”
“But why aren’t they shouting?”
Bertrand stops himself from swearing. Forgot to make the answer about the king.
“The unbelievers have to build up courage to face you. When they reveal themselves, we’ll get them.”
The king nods, placated. Then he smiles smugly, like he knows something those about him don’t.
As the gatherings wait for revelations to arrive on the dawn of the second day, sun-bright glows illuminate predawn skies, causing many to cry out in wonder that dawn itself has been brought forward.
What’s come are not dawns.
They’d looked down and judged the gatherings to be at their peak, then implemented the culmination of a vengeance instigated centuries ago.
Delbert watches a silver meteor descend, eyes wide in childlike wonder.
Wilbur watches it with tears in his eyes.
“Damn them liars.”
Dembe cowers as another silver meteor thunders down.
Ignatius reaches out to clasp his brother’s hand.
“We will be released.”
The king screams in outrage as two silver meteors approach.
“No! I’m special! They said I’d be saved!”
Bertrand stares at him, expression a mix of anger and horror.
“Then burn with us, you special traitor.”
