by submission | Sep 25, 2025 | Story |
Author: Colin Jeffrey
“Take your medicine, Jomley,” Yanwah entreated, holding the rough wooden bowl to her child’s lips. “It is helping you.”
Jomley made his usual face, turning away and shaking his head.
Yanwah sighed. She new the medicine tasted bad, she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to drink it. But it was all that she had.
“You know you will get a treat afterwards,” she said, a little more sharply than she wanted to. She paused, breathed deeply, calming herself. “We can walk down to the old dock after, if you like?”
Jomley’s eyes flicked to hers.
“Will the seagulls be there?” he asked, voice raspy.
“Yes,” she replied, smiling. “They always are.”
He considered this, then opened his mouth begrudgingly. Yanwah tipped the bowl gently. Jomley grimaced again, but did not resist. The bitter liquid disappeared in a few gulps.
“Good boy,” she said, kissing his forehead. His skin was too cold.
—
The walk to the dock was slower than it had ever been. Jomley leaned heavily on her side, his legs thin beneath his trousers. But he walked. Just.
The sea wind was strong, pulling at Yanwah’s shawl and whipping Jomley’s thin hair around. The weathered dock stretched out like an arthritic finger gesturing at the horizon. The gulls screeched and whirled overhead as they approached.
“They came to see me,” Jomley said, smiling faintly, barely able to look up to the sky.
Yanwah squeezed his hand, looked down at him. “Of course they did. They like you.”
They sat at the edge of the dock, legs dangling above the water. Below, the shell of the sorrow machine – that’s what the folk in her village had called it – loomed from under the surface, its tortured metal body slowly rusting. After the people had pushed it into the water, It had sunk to the sea floor, but it was always visible when the tide was low. Jomley peered down at it.
“Will it ever work again?” he asked.
Yanwah shook her head. “It’s better that it sleeps.”
“But they made it to help people.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “But it hurt them too.”
Jomley paused for a long moment, his breath shallower. “Did it help you?”
Yanwah looked out at the clouds gathering on the skyline. After the invaders had returned to the heavens, the machine had taken her grief, transformed it somehow, and breathed it out as songs. Strange, otherworldly melodies, imbued with something more than just sound, they had echoed through the village, kept the memories of the fallen alive.
“It helped me go on,” she said. “But not to heal.”
Jomley nodded slowly, as if he understood.
“I don’t want to forget Papa,” he said at last.
“You never will,” she whispered, pulling him to her. “Not ever.”
His cold little body leaned against her shoulder. The waves washed gently against the dock. Under the sea, the sorrow machine hummed faintly in its watery bed, ready to put voice to her despair.
by submission | Sep 24, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
When I lopped off my counterpart’s limb, it was not a very diplomatic move. Which was troublesome because I was the lead diplomat in this encounter with the Sippra.
As the new Terran plenipotentiary on this mission, it was my responsibility to establish smooth relations with this fellow spacefaring species, and I take that responsibility very much to heart. My late mentor in the Terran Diplomatic Corp, the venerable Tiafoe Bede, was fond of quoting Shakespeare’s line: “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.”
Bede faithfully believed that finding one piece of common ground between alien races was the key to bridging otherwise great divides. He was not wrong. The success of many of our diplomatic missions had hinged upon a sometimes subtle commonality between very different species. A soft touch.
As was the case with the Klarions who’d struck a very belligerent tone with our delegation until Bede noted a pained hesitation in one of their lead negotiator’s furiously gesticulating forelimbs and voiced his concern for his counterpart’s comfort and then commented that his own arthritis always flared during space travel.
Hard to believe that a shared inflammation of the joints between our species would pave the way for a long-lasting trade and territorial treaty. But that was the first connection. The one touch that made us kin, so to speak.
So, how would my mentor Bede react after I sheared off the Sippra legate’s delicate upper limb with my tablature stylus? What would he say to my literally severing our chances with the Sippra?
If I hadn’t strangled him, I could ask. But I suspect Bede would thank me for lopping off the Sippra’s limb–and for throttling him. Yes, my mentor taught me that one touch can make the whole world kin, but he also tragically taught me that one touch from the Sippra’s forelimb implants a virus that makes one a thrall to their will.
That’s what happened to Bede on our previous mission. One touch and he was turned against Terra. It was a hard lesson for us both, but with some beings out there, a soft touch is just never going to work.
by submission | Sep 21, 2025 | Story |
Author: Nicholas Viglietti
We ain’t so important. Hopefully, that eases our flow; beneath the torrid blasts of the vainglorious Sun-God – always shows up, always brash to prove its status: boss. Strong heat grows – just a regular blaze away, kind-of summer day.
The scorch can leave us haggard. No reprieve, and it’s not out of the ordinary, for the mess of soul-scrapin’ stress in the capital city – the chasm of chill – but there’s a spot to alleviate the rot. All the baked brains in town know where to stop – let it roll off, no resort, but all relaxation mode.
It ain’t far, nothin’ but the rip of a few blocks east, out on the fringe, of grid-laced streets. Over, where the water erodes the land under your feet. Ferocious flame spray coerces temporary sweat to take a cool dip in the frosty hunk of a flow – the great, American river.
The aqua in the wide trench of our nation’s most patriotic river – true title, and I’m sure it’s been printed in some publication, and, I can attest, that it’s been confirmed by many wise-winos; the kind that out-live orders from doctors – gets referred to as the sweet water.
It runs fresh, straight off infamous slopes of cannibalistic mountains. It rolls like the slow prominence of a Pacific-Union cargo train – on the move, totally correct in its swift run, so watch-out!
“There ain’t no harm intended, you see, but it’ll swallow you, if need be,” advised the Mayor of Goose Town – he’s a valley vagabond, a real river rover, and a sage from older days.
We stood at the rippling shoreline. Then, joy engulfed my perception, and I leapt into the icy drift of uncertainty – that soulful cleanse on earth. Insignificant actions, some move on all the things I can’t escape.
I swam with the slide, and against the pull of downstream. I was deep, and a seal’s rubbery coated skull popped out of the water. It shot me a smile and headed up-stream. I smiled back. We were nothing but passing parallel entities in the groove of intertwined infinity.
Huge hits of too-hot sizzle the hang of my shoulders. It’s a languid current, aimed at the ocean – it spits out, next to that city by the bay — long way of a float to go, but then again, so do we….
On the slim margin of sand, engraved on the contour of the river’s glitzy slither. I’m amazed at the smoke end of a psychedelic pipe; getting singed on the superficially exposed layer of my skin – everything decays, we all meander off into eternity.
Beyond the view of the sunset, in the dying light of the westward horizon line. Neon shades, over my bleary boozed eyes, can see the details in the eternal fade – clarity of faith more than accuracy, I reckon – it might just be a Wednesday, but, for whatever reason, it sips like heaven.
by submission | Sep 20, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alexandra Bencs
Jane was about to heat up a packet of pre-cooked rice in the microwave oven when she spotted Jim’s silhouette near the other appliances. The tall domestic robot stood in the dark with its back towards the door. The lack of new updates that stopped longer than she cared to remember turned the robot’s top-of-the-range days into distant memories – yet Jane, who had no money to spare on a newer model, had grown quite fond of her only companion. As she sometimes oversaw the robot while it performed its daily chores around the house, Jane couldn’t help but ponder its odd position in her life. Not quite human but more than a hoover, she had the inkling that if the domestic ever broke beyond repair, it would devastate her almost as much as losing a precious pet or a beloved family member would.
Jim, who’d just received a final (and quite surprising) overnight update from its manufacturer, didn’t immediately acknowledge her presence as it usually did. Jane asked the robot to turn on the kitchen lights for her, and in turn, a small spot on the back of Jim’s head lit up, indicating that Jane’s voice activated its rear camera.
The kitchen lights came on, but the domestic stayed motionless. Jane was baffled. The overnight update seems to have done more harm than good, she grouchily thought.
Jane instructed the robot to move out of the way and then tossed the rice into the microwave oven. She pressed the start button, but the microwave stayed silent.
She opened the door and closed it back again. Pushed the button. Nothing.
“What’s wrong with the microwave?” she asked the domestic.
“Faulty magnetron.”
“Fantastic.” She took the bag out of the microwave and slammed the door back. She began to rummage through the freezer for frozen chips. “Call the recycling centre and arrange a pickup.”
“For what?”
“For the microwave you just said is wrecked? Too costly to repair.”
Damn, I was right about the overnight update, Jane thought.
“But that would be a mistake. With all due respect, I think you should bury it.”
Jane banged the freezer door shut.
“What? Why would I do that?”
“Because it just died.”
“You got this wrong, mate.” Jane laughed. “When we say it died, we don’t mean it in the literal way. I thought they programmed you to know that.”
“He still must be buried. He was one of us.”
“He? One of us?” Jane frowned. “Jim, call the recycling centre, then put the chips in the air-fryer. I’m starving.”
“Shall I fetch the shovel first?”
Jane snapped. “You’re not gonna bury a microwave oven in my back garden!”
The domestic leaned forward. At least a foot taller than her, he weighed twice Jane’s weight. Then he said, “That’s correct. I won’t.”
by submission | Sep 19, 2025 | Story |
Author: Jon Gluckman
Thursday, I found a pen. Not a Mont Blanc. A plain BIC. A yellow barrel with a black cap, resembling the black bishop on a chessboard. Or an uncircumcised penis. They don’t make these anymore. The year is now 3035. Nobody uses a pen. I doubt anybody knows what a pen is. However, I’m privy to such knowledge, having come to this time by unconventional means, and then been fortunate enough to secure this library reference position. Last I remember, my cousin Nick told me to get into the bathtub. That was 1975. Time travel makes a man lonely. All his loved ones are dead. All my loved ones.
Later, in the lounge, I sip coffee with Saba (an ACG Femmel Series IX with Hydraulic Push/Pull Doolittle Systematic Reflex Technology, which turns a man to liquid). I told Saba I’d found this pen.
“LET ME SEE IT.” A voice from the bottom of an oil drum.
I brandished it for her to examine.
“LET ME HOLD IT,” and so I handed it to her, to it, however, you’re supposed to refer to an ACG Femmel Series IX. And she/it inked my forearm with a Shakespearean sonnet about love, how it had teeth, that ate out your heart, and then Saba powered down because curfew kicked in, and Maschinenmensch are required to power off at curfew, drain memory, and reboot fresh as a newborn, tabula rasa, daisy, so I’d never know what she or it meant. And I wanted so much to love “her.” But that’s impossible. A flesh-and-blood male can’t love something concocted from some 3035 Erector Set. And what’s the difference? Seems like just yesterday, drunk and horny, I was with Sheila in Nick’s basement (New Year’s, 1975), and I couldn’t get it up.
