by submission | Aug 1, 2026 | Story
Author: James Mack
On the night her mother vanished, Mara followed the path through the bog with a lantern and a lie clenched in her chest. The lie was this: that nothing important had changed. The lantern’s light stuttered with each step, like it wasn’t sure it wanted to keep going either.
She had packed nothing. No food, no second cloak, none of the usual careful preparations her mother had always insisted on. Preparation, her mother used to say, was how you told the world you meant to survive it. Mara hadn’t packed because packing would have meant admitting this was real.
The trees whispered things she didn’t want to hear. Names. Truths. Warnings in voices like old lullabies sung backward. It is time, it might, it may. She stepped carefully, remembering her mother’s last words, spoken from the doorway, cloak still dripping, as though she’d meant to say them for years: “When the world stops making sense, follow the place inside you that always has.”
She’d rolled her eyes. Nonsense, she’d thought. And then her mother was gone.
Now, with the ground breathing beneath her boots and the stars rearranging themselves into shapes she had no names for, the lie in her chest began to crack. She was not a girl walking to find her mother. She was a girl walking toward the thing her mother had always known she’d become.
At the center of the bog stood the Mirror Tree, ancient and silver-barked, its roots wrapped around a pond the color of a closed eye. Nothing grew near it, not moss, not reed, not the bog-flowers that bloomed even in winter. The air around it held its breath. As Mara approached, her lantern flickered out, not dead, but hushed, the way a room goes quiet when someone says the one true thing. She felt it then: a pulse behind her eyes. A knowing settling through her bones like sediment.
She knelt. Touched the surface. And saw not her reflection, but memories that hadn’t happened yet.
Her hands weaving light from fraying threads, fingers bleeding at the knuckles where the power came through hardest. Her voice unraveling a storm over a city she didn’t recognize, a city of spires and burning glass. And one image she could not bear, herself, much older, turning away from a door while someone on the other side kept knocking. Kept calling a name she couldn’t hear clearly. The cost of what she was about to choose, already accumulating like interest on a debt she hadn’t yet agreed to carry.
She understood, then, what her mother had known. That this was not a gift so much as a direction. That you didn’t choose it. You recognized it, the way you recognized grief: not by wanting it, but by realizing it had always been yours.
She almost stood. Almost turned back toward the lights of the village, the known grief, the manageable dark. She could mourn her mother from a safe distance. She could live small and unlit and uncostly.
Instead, she picked up the lantern. It had begun to glow from within, no fire needed, no wick, no source she could name. Warm and steady, the way certainty feels different from confidence. The way a door feels different when you open it yourself.
She rose slowly. Turned her face toward the deeper dark.
She had a path.
She had power.
She had no need, now, for the lie.
by submission | Jul 31, 2026 | Story
Author: Hillary Lyon
Baxie watched the stars swirl through the large viewing window, holding her breath, trying her best not to throw up. She closed her eyes; that made her feel better. She knew her vertigo made the stars leap and dance, made her eyes roll uncontrollably. She’d feel a whole lot better when they ended this trip.
“Hey babe,” Joh said from the in-room bar of their posh hotel room, “come away from the window and join me for a glass of complementary champagne!” Baxie swallowed hard, turned, and put on her most convincing smile.
“Complementary champagne in the Honeymoon Suite of the Moon’s exclusive Tesseract Hotel!” Joh toasted. “Nothing but the best for my new bride!”
Baxie took a sip and promptly passed out.
* * *
Doc Brickell met the newlyweds on landing platform of the orbital base, far above the Moon. He helped Baxie to his office, where he performed a cursory exam—eyes, ears, balance, mental clarity. He checked off several boxes on his clipboard chart.
“Baxie,” Doc Brickell began, “you were born here, on board, correct?”
“Born and raised,” she answered proudly. “One of the first.”
“But Joh hails from Earth,” he noted.
Getting back to his patient he gave her his assessment. “What you suffered from is something we’ve only recently taken note of: spacesickness. This is what ails you.”
“What’s that?” Baxie’s eyes grew wide. “I’ve never heard of that. Is it contagious? Is it curable?”
“It’s like homesickness, but with more pronounced—and debilitating—physical symptoms.” He smiled sympathetically at Baxie. “You will encounter these symptoms every time you find yourself dealing with planetary gravity—no matter how weak. Like on the Moon.”
“We have gravity right here on this orbital base!” Baxie countered. “Doesn’t bother me here.”
“Because it’s artificial,” Doc Brickell pointed out. “For some reason we don’t yet understand, artificial gravity is more endurable than the real thing, for those of us who were born here.”
“My new partner wants to relocate us to Earth after his term is up, can’t you prescribe something so I can—”
“Afraid not,” Doc Brickell answered before she’d finished asking. “Your place is up here with us,” he said emphatically, “not down there.”
* * *
Joh didn’t take the news well.
“If you can’t handle the Moon’s lame gravity,” he muttered, “there’s no way you can survive Earth’s. You’ll never be able to live on my family’s terrestrial farm, or produce heirs.” He folded his arms, something he did when he was angry. “Well, that’s it, then. We have no future together. I’ll put in the annulment request forthwith.”
A week later, the captain of the orbital base conducted the public annulment ceremony by cutting the braided golden cord which symbolically bound Baxie and Joh together. Two weeks later, Joh was aggressively hitting on Vinca, the Earth-born telecommunications tech. Six weeks later, they were engaged, and talking loudly about setting up house on Earth, in Iowa.
Baxie, depressed and ashamed, visited Doc Brickell once more.
He pulled out his prescription pad, jotted down a quick remedy, and tore it off. He handed it to her, saying, “This is a euphoric mood enhancer. It’ll help you knock those blues right out of orbit.”
As she took the prescription, he warmly clasped her hand. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed about,” the doc reassured. “You’re smart, attractive, personable—any orbit-born would consider you a fine catch. Trust me.”
He winked at her. “I would know.”
by submission | Jul 30, 2026 | Story
Author: Daniel Wad
“I’ve got to be smarter next time.” That was my firm resolution as I entered the Redistribution Centre in the between-lives area, following a previous life that hadn’t exactly gone well.
A screen descended from the ceiling, displaying rows of sliding digital bars.
“Please set your character scores,” flashed the telepathic prompt.
Learning from past experience, I aggressively slid every single bar as far to the left as it would go, then slammed the ‘Intelligence’ slider all the way to the maximum right. I telepathically clicked Done.
“Please wait,” replied another telepathic message. I don’t know how much time passed. It could have been five minutes or a hundred years; time doesn’t really exist out here.
Finally, the next update blinked into my mind: “Good news. We have located a new body for you. It is on Earth, in the country of Broodia Miserygovina.”
“Earth? Listen, I know that I messed up last time but Earth is a bit harsh.”
“Don’t be picky,” came the reply. “The major plus point is that neither parent has an inheritable terminal condition, so the chance of a stillbirth is relatively low. There is, however, a 67% chance of severe depression in later life.”
“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” I thought.
“No. We are just letting you know to ensure total transparency. However, based on your custom configuration, we can provide a rapid character analysis.”
“Go for it.”
“Your IQ will be in the 140s. This is the sweet spot: high enough that you won’t be able to get along with normal people, but too low to actually become a groundbreaking scientist or a traditionally successful individual. It will allow you to learn a vast array of subjects quite easily at a basic level. However, because your other attributes—such as dexterity, energy, and persistence—are at absolute zero, you won’t progress any further without a lifetime of agonizing practice. In terms of career advice, we suggest trying to survive childhood first, then reporting back for reevaluation.”
“But how will I contact you if I’m not dead?”
“Good point. Let’s look at the broader outlook instead: since your chance of meaningful success is close to zero, your career options are endless. You could even become an independent writer.”
“Wait! Can I go back to the character design screen? Just for a second!”
“Too late. We have just received the signal from the maternity ward. Initiating neuro-organic merge protocol… 3… 2… 1…”
by submission | Jul 29, 2026 | Story
Author: John Xavier
A swarm of monarch butterflies jewelled the banyan trees and oscillated between these like autumnal leaf-shower as the blue span of Neptune gleamed beyond. The planet took up most of the circular window because the bio-sanctuary orbiting it was tidally locked as close as it could be. That view of the uninhabited world, enduring for over two centuries so far and theoretically there was no reason it couldn’t go on until the heat death of the universe.
Geshti was the only steward left. All the rest had departed for more exotic regions of the galaxy. She was happy though. And not alone. A menagerie of artificial talking-animals provided all the companionship she needed and together they kept each other busy with the blissful upkeep of their shared home.
“What about a windmill?” asked Giraffe. Said giraffe striding lazily in the shallows of the west lagoon.
“It’s possible,” replied Geshti. “But there’s not a lot of wind for it.”
“You could make some though.”
“It would… snarl things. Besides, if the windmill goes on a rampage, who’s going to joust it?”
Since Giraffe wasn’t familiar with 17th century Spanish literature, it’s not surprising that the joke went over even their lofty head. Nodding politely, they waded deeper into the water. Banyan roots uncoiling around their legs like pythons long petrified in the act of drowning.
Among the other animals there was also Tapir, Pangolin, and Condor. The first two of these were lounging on the beach; Tapir on his belly as Pangolin scooped up claws of sand and poured that down his friend’s heaving flank. Surprising both of them, Condor abruptly swooped down. With his great wings unfurled for a moment, he settled on the top of Tapir’s back.
“Oof!” winced Tapir. “You may think you’re a sparrow but you ain’t.”
“Such manners!” Condor laughed. “Like a reptile! A snapping turtle!”
Shy Pangolin smiled at the banter but didn’t feel brave enough to partake so instead he carved calligraphy on a piece of driftwood and listened.
Meanwhile Condor continued: “I asked Geshti about humanity again. I said I’d like to meet one. Hinted we should pay a visit. But she said the nearest human’s a hermit who lives over 700 light-years away.”
“They’re probably not even human still,” suggested Tapir. “Being a regular old human is boring. I did a sim once. The first uploaded guy.”
A lull in the group was accompanied by a large green cube floating past them at a looming altitude. Mother-ship for the synthetic microbes that did most of the more detail-oriented tasks in the sanctuary. Pangolin was the only one who glanced up before a personal chime distracted them; their curiosity quickly turning to panic.
“A meteor storm!” squealed Pangolin. “Geshti!”
Geshti immediately materialized, the air sizzling. “It’s fine my friend. I know.”
“Do something!” wailed Pangolin.
Geshti was going to assure them it wasn’t urgent but reconsidered. It could be taken care of. Why stress the little one?
Summoning a video hologram of local space with an unnecessary gesture, Geshti coaxed this until the bulk of the meteor swarm was visible. 389,000 objects between 1 mm and 4m in diameter. Then a pinprick flash as the Interceptor was launched. Now the hologram divided amoeba-like and in the second hologram a close-up of the speeding Interceptor. A radiant crystal tetrahedron.
And from this a pyrotechnic burst of antimatter whose micro-spores targeted each meteorite perfectly. The abyss instantly a vast sparkling tempest.
“There!” exclaimed Geshti. “Now let’s have some gelato!”
by submission | Jul 28, 2026 | Story
Author: Kevlin Henney
Alcohol is not permitted onboard any landing vehicles or habitats.
“Damn, Natalya!” Don chokes. “You sure this is vodka not fuel?”
“It’s good, right?” Natalya takes back the cylindrical metal flask.
“And you distilled this on the way out?”
“The journey to Saturn is s-o-o long.” She inserts her straw and takes a sip. “Nobody cares as long as you share.”
No food or drink is to be consumed during any extra-vehicular activity.
Suits on, visors up, they stand in the airlock.
“Gum?” Don holds out a gumball.
Natalya pops it in her mouth.
“Ready?” Don asks. Thumbs up. They close their visors.
Except for emergencies, spacewalks shall not be undertaken if any member of the EVA party is in any way mentally or physically impaired.
“Oh, hang on,” Natalya slurs. She locks Don’s helmet into place with a click.
“Good catch,” Don’s word stumble back.
“Me?”
Don leans in to examine Natalya’s helmet. Misjudging, they knock visors. Thumbs up.
Natalya pulls the lever to depressurize the airlock. In the near-absent gravity they float out of the hab, their home from home from home, onto the crater rim before descending the long, icy slope toward the crater floor. Taking flight with each stride, bouncing with each stumbled landing, they head toward the central peak. Only stars, moons and the drifting glint of the station, their home from home, can be seen in the black sky, Saturn hidden from view beyond the horizon.
Equipment shall only be used for the purposes and within the parameters of its original design.
“OK, the sample gun is as level as I can get it,” Don says, adjusting the tube atop the pitoned tripod. “Should be pointing in the right direction, give or take a couple of degrees.”
“How fast d’you reckon?” Natalya asks, handing Don the empty vodka flask to load into the tube. “Too slow, and we just hit the crater floor or, maybe, the crater wall. Too fast, it shoots off into space and we never see it again,” she starts laughing, “but maybe the station picks it up.” Don joins in.
“Just under 600 kilometers per hour should do the trick,” Don says, recovering.
“OK… just under 600 kilometers per hour… 400 grams, give or take… set. Ready?” Thumbs up.
The flask shoots out the tube, lost to the horizon in moments.
“If we got that right, it’ll circle back in about an hour,” Natalya says. “We should probably get off the peak, just in case.”
Equipment use should be planned and thoroughly reviewed before deployment.
Midway between peak and rim, they glance at the time as they scan the sky.
“There!” Natalya points at a glint of light that shoots past directly overhead.
High fives and laughter shared, they head back.
“Something we should’ve considered,” Don says as they bounce up the crater wall an hour later, the hab visible up ahead, “is that flask is now in orbit.”
“I know, right?” Natalya laughs.
“It’s just going to keep going until its orbit decays or it hits something.”
“What’s it gonna hit? The peak is the highest point on the moon.”
“Well, parts of the crater rim are almost as high.”
“Oh–”
They look up in time to see a near bullet-speed glint of light end its journey with the appearance of a hole in the hab. The hole silently rips outward, an expanding confetti cloud of hull, air and everything inside the hab.
In the event of a habitat emergency, suit oxygen supplies should be sufficient for most rescue attempts from orbit or other habitats.
Remember: stay safe.
