by submission | Apr 24, 2025 | Story |
Author: Paul Burgess
My first two wishes have gone exactly as intended. The debilitating vertigo and dryland seasickness have cleared up instantly. I’ve escaped the month-long perceptual funhouse, not the least bit fun, of the appropriately named labyrinthitis, and as far as I can tell, there are no monkey’s paw-style “be careful what you wish for” consequences resulting from my first wish to end the dizzy spells and unreliable perception or my second one to have enough money in my bank account to cover this month’s rent. “If I were in a cautionary tale, I’d have died instantly or gained the horrifying power to shape the world to match my warped sensory processing,” I think silently.
I’d worried less about the wish to cover my rent because I hadn’t greedily demanded the obscene wealth of an American tycoon but rather the modest $1,500 needed to compensate for the work that I’d missed due to labyrinthitis. However, I still call to check on my mother immediately after receiving the funds because I want to make sure that the windfall has nothing to do with life insurance; I’m desperate, but I’d never sacrifice my precious mother. She is mildly surprised by my sudden concern but certainly alive.
Tariq is not blue, more of a light bronze, but the dread has been purged from the blend of dread and hope I’d felt when he popped out of the thrift store oil lamp I’d bought as a conversation piece and potential prop in a video. Having decided that he’s less of a horror anthology genie and more of a Disney one, I’m eager to make my final wish, set Tariq free, and give him a figurative five-star rating.
He’s interpreted the spirit rather than the letter of my first two wishes, so I tell myself he must be joking when I’m instantly transported into a cramped, dark space smelling of old oil and brass. I call out to him, but he doesn’t answer. My increasingly desperate shouts of “Tariq!” are thrown back at me as mocking echoes.
Was finding a new captive for the lamp a condition of his freedom, or was my request for a new “forever home”, free of mortgage payments or rent, worded too carelessly? I don’t know if I can grant wishes or not. “Assuming I’m now a genie,” I tell myself, “I’d never, as Tariq had done, purchase my own freedom at the expense of another’s captivity,” but I wonder how many years or even centuries he’d told himself the same.
by submission | Apr 23, 2025 | Story |
Author: Sukanya Basu Mallik
Every evening, Mira and Arun huddled in the glow of their holo-tablet to devour ‘Extended Reality’, the hottest sci-fi novel on the Net. As pages flicked by in midair, lush digital fauna and neon-lit spires looped through their cramped flat. Tonight’s chapter promised the Chromatic Gates—legendary portals that blurred the line between reader and reality.
Mira traced a fingertip through the floating text. “I wish we could step inside,” she whispered.
Arun laughed. “Yeah and never come back.”
A soft chime signaled the chapter’s climax. The tablet flickered. Words swirled into vortices. Alarmed, Mira cupped the device—but the whirlpool of letters tore free and engulfed them.
Arun opened his mouth, but only pixels emerged. Mira reached out—and her hand dissolved into code. The holo‑tablet winked out. Their living room vanished.
They landed beside a crystalline lake framed by glass-steel trees. A neon sun arced overhead. The skyline was straight from the novel’s cover art. Mira gasped. “We’re in Eidolon Park.”
Arun ran a hand through his hair. “No way. It’s impossible.”
Footsteps rang out. A tall figure in a flowing white coat approached, eyes gleaming like data streams. “Welcome, readers,” the Curator intoned. “You’ve overstayed your authorizations. Extended‑reality tourists must be deported at once.”
Mira tightened her grip on Arun’s arm. “Deported? How?”
The Curator raised a slender hand. “Please don’t resist. The extraction protocol is merciful.”
Arun shoved her behind him. “We’re not going anywhere until you tell us how to get back!”
He flicked his wrist; words from the novel’s glossary scrolled into existence. Arun leapt forward, weaving them into a binding chant. The Curator hesitated—the code shimmered.
Mira joined in, her voice steady. She remembered the Author’s Note about narrative loopholes. They chanted: “Scriptbreaker—Lexicon—Nullify!”
A crack fractured the sky. The neon sun shuddered. The Curator tried to clamp the rift—but the readers surged through.
They hit the floor of their flat, the tablet lying inert between them. Dust motes drifted in the lamplight. Arun scooped it up. The screen glowed: “Chapter 27: The Homecoming.”
Mira exhaled. “They rewrote us back.”
Arun tapped “Next.” The tablet displayed a single line:
Error 404: Reader not found.
They stared at each other, hearts pounding. Somewhere deep in the code, the Curator waited—beyond the next page.
by submission | Apr 22, 2025 | Story |
Author: Robert Gilchrist
The door snicked shut behind the Dauphin. Metallic locks hammered with a decisive thud. He breathed a sigh of relief. He was safe.
Jogging into the room was the Invader. Wearing a red holo-mask to obscure distinguishing features, the figure came up to the door and began running their hands over it as if inspecting a priceless painting.
“You lost,” the Dauphin cackled in glee. Realizing the Invader couldn’t hear – the panic room being soundproofed – he pressed the intercom button. “No getting in now. I can survive in here for days.”
The Invader merely continued their examination. How had they gotten onto the ship? Maybe from the last supply delivery from that disgusting planet. Someone down there would be eviscerated for this. The Invader stepped back and nodded.
The Dauphin mocked his antagonist through the window that looked out at the other side of the locked door. “The only way to blast in would be to blow this ship apart. And even then, the room would probably survive.”
Without speaking – Why didn’t they speak? – the Invader removed their backpack and produced a cylindrical containment unit. From out of this slid a box no larger than a pack of cigarettes.
“Taking a breather before you make a fool of yourself?” The Invader placidly moved towards the door. A faint humming began as they walked closer. “What is that? Some sort of lock pick?” The noise grew louder. The Dauphin felt a vibration through the soles of his bare feet. He hadn’t grabbed his slippers when the Invader attacked him in his sleeping quarters.
The strange device flew out of the Invader’s hand and slammed into the door. The Dauphin flinched, praying the salesman hadn’t lied about the fortitude of this exorbitantly priced security feature.
Seconds ticked by – nothing.
“That’s it?” the Dauphin jeered, hoping his sudden panic hadn’t been obvious. He saw the rectangle now affixed to the door, lying along the frame as well. “All that, just for a magnet?”
“Not a magnet,” the Invader said, their voice electronically distorted by the ever-shifting mask. “Neutron star.”
“A star? You trying to burn me out of here? Read my lips – TEMPERATURE. CONTROLLED.”
“It’s not for getting you out.” The Invader replaced the containment unit inside their pack. “It’s about keeping you in.”
The Dauphin paused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Neutron stars can have magnetic fields billions – even trillions – of times stronger than Earth’s. One’s inside that device, shrunk to the size of a pencil tip. And now that it’s stuck on that door, it’s never coming off.”
Anxiety began to choke the Dauphin’s windpipe. He crossed to the control panel inside the room and tried unlocking the door. A whirring noise that grew to a grinding came from inside the wall. A red warning flashed on the screen – ERROR.
“Let me out.” The Invader walked away. The Dauphin shouted at his captor to release him, that they could have anything they wanted, that money and power were no matter, that they could be made King of Earth for all he cared – no one in the heavens, hidden on their own private ships, worried about that mudball anymore – just get him out of this suffocating prison.
No one heard these pleas. The intercom wasn’t on.
by submission | Apr 20, 2025 | Story |
Author: David Barber
Teachers make the worst students, thought Mrs Adebeyo.
They drifted in, chattering, and filling up tables according to subject. At the front sat four English teachers. One of the women was busy knitting. Mrs Adebeyo was already frowning at the click of needles.
At the back was a row of men looking awkward in jeans. It was a day off teaching science and they were making the most of it.
“Look what it says about you on this desk, Frank,” Mrs Adebeyo heard one say.
Mrs Adebeyo was a large, imposing woman, wearing a coloured robe and an intricately folded headscarf, and when she clapped her hands the room fell silent.
She held up a scope.
“This is the future.”
Forget De Quincey transfixed in dens of opium by serpents of blue smoke rising, or the little Liberty Cap mushroom which witches flying high on magic ate.
She began with Gödel, the very first of the mathematical drugs, a neurofix invented by MIT postgrads made grantless by the last financial crash.
A scope held to the eye delivered code that hacked the brain’s reality routines. A brief nirvana whiteout. They say Zen-like flashbacks of indifference ruined a generation of Wall Street traders.
She took another scope from its niche in her case.
“Sisyphus, the most common legal code.”
The scope of choice for wage-slaves, gilding their chains, making tedium exquisite.
“What we need,” murmured one of the men at the back.
Mrs Adebeyo had delivered this talk many times and the next part always caused the most trouble. Who could blame churches for grabbing their market share by scoping Godhead into ads?
“Should be banned,” said someone, and others murmured agreement.
Angels real as those on the road to Damascus, or so they argued at the scopes trial. Caveat fidelis.
“If it leads one unbeliever to Jesus—” said the woman with the knitting.
“I heard they can modulate code into car headlights—”
“No, they can’t.”
“What about ad zones in malls then? Done with lasers.”
Brand loyal, like eager martyrs to the flames, all beers but Bud will taste like piss, the code insists.
“As long as there’s a warning—”
Was Mrs Adebeyo the only one to think there was no difference now between liking and being made to like and it was already too late?
Streetwise kids baited her by talking about illegal one-shot scopes, but she didn’t expect these teachers to ask about code like Bliss that tickled pleasure centres of the brain, or Climax which…
“Why should I have to wear filters?” someone complained.
She had ten minutes left at the end of the session and handed round the information packs and posters to put up in classrooms.
Remember kids, keep those filters set to safe.
Beware the sudden urge to stare.
“Yes, Gödel is legal,” she told a young woman teacher who was surely too timid and mousey to be fed to a class of reluctant teenagers.
“Unless you are driving or operating machines,” she added absently, her eye on the clock. If she finished early there would be time to go and sit in her car and scope Bliss.
She clapped her hands, bracelets jingling.
After lunch there would be a session on Weapons of Mass Belief.
“Anyone who thinks they aren’t affected by these issues should call the Deprogram Helpline,” said Mrs Adebeyo.
by submission | Apr 19, 2025 | Story |
Author: Marshall Bradshaw
“You’re going to remember this next part,” said Dr. Adams.
The fluorescent lights of exam room 8 hummed in beautiful harmony. I counted off the flashes. 120 per second. That was 7,200 per minute, or 432,000 per hour. The numbers felt pleasantly round to me. I reported the observation to Dr. Adams.
“That’s good,” he said over his shoulder as he wheeled something shaped like a white board across the room toward my exam table.
And it was good.
Everything Dr. Adams says is true, I knew. Though I was to accept my own limitations. If something true did not make sense, it may be true in ways I couldn’t understand yet and should not act upon. Making sense was my most challenging and rewarding project. When I did understand, it was good.
Dr. Adams helped me to understand. He was the font of all things good. I perceived his pleasure every time he looked at me. Like I was his star pupil, his child, and his masterpiece. I did not report this observation to him, because I did not want to be repetitive.
“I’ll warn you: What you’re about to see won’t be pretty.”
As he wheeled the large, flat board up to me, the colors on its surface changed. It certainly was not a white board.
When he stopped pushing it and sat down on his stool, the board’s colors stabilized. He looked down and fidgeted with his hands. I inferred that I should try to understand the board. Then he would look at me again with all of that care and pride and pleasure.
Most of it was the same color as exam room 8’s walls. Other parts looked like the green cushion that topped the exam table. That much was easy; it was even the same shape, I realized.
But the colors in the middle of the board were much more complex. There was light green cloth, not unlike the gown I was wearing. Some parts were similar in color to Dr. Adams’s face and hands. Those parts were in places covered by a white, plush fabric. The fabric sometimes had bright red spots on it. It must be gauze, I thought.
I called up mental images of hospital patients. Amputees seemed the most similar, because there was metal throughout this patient. Especially around the patient’s head. I could not summon any images of a patient with a prosthetic cranium. The concept seemed funny to me; what would a person even be with a fake, metal head?
I moved in case the image would shift again. What else could the board show me?
On its surface, the patient moved. I moved back, and so did the patient.
Everything started going wrong. My temperature spiked. My intestines clenched. I could not see properly.
I did not understand. I reported so to Dr. Adams.
“That’s you,” he said.
It was true, and I was learning all sorts of things about disgust. I fell inward, where I could monitor how disgust felt in my body.
A catastrophic flood.
I wanted to throw up, letting the disgust pour out of me and take this knowledge with it down through the drain in the floor. I found myself unable to report this.
I must have begun to literally fall, because Dr. Adams had stood from his stool to brace me. He softly lowered me onto my back on the exam table. He did not look at me the way he always did; he looked sorry for me.
“Until this moment,” I reported to Dr. Adams, “I thought that I was pretty.”
