by submission | Sep 27, 2025 | Story |
Author: Frank T. Sikora
My gift certificate for DownTime Inc. permitted me one trip to the past for a time period not to exceed 60 minutes and with a .0016 percent risk to the timeline, which meant I wouldn’t be sleeping with Queen Victoria, debating socialism with Trotsky, robbing banks with Bonnie Parker, or singing duets with Ella Fitzgerald, and so on. Only government-approved historians were allowed more than a century into the past, and no one was allowed a temporal entanglement risk greater than 0.0053 percent. Still, it is time travel. Paradoxes happen.
The clerk asked me to roll up my sleeve, providing access to my bio-port. Once she verified my identity and my data (medical history, psychological profile, employment background, and personal temporal entanglement probabilities), I would be on my way, whoosh.
For months, I have been anticipating this moment with a mixture of dread and excitement. Four months ago, my wife, Esme, gave me this wonderful gift, one she knew I desired but would not indulge, not wanting to further deplete our savings given that my life expectancy predictors had fallen from ‘not terrible’ into an actuarial category best described as ‘oh dear.’
“You do understand your survival data?” The clerk asked, a slender, brown-eyed lady who could have been anywhere from 20 to 40 years old, given the latest age-masking technology. I knew she wasn’t an artificial person since DownTime’s brochure guaranteed ‘humane and human’ service.
Though my mouth felt like sand, I managed a snarky answer, an attempt at courage, “Yes, I have read and signed the required documents. I have waived my right to pursue legal actions on the minuscule chance that a large amount of excrement hits a spinning object.”
The clerk, Akira, threw me a mischievous grin, as if we were long-time friends, and said, “Eli, an efficient ‘yes’ would have sufficed.”
I smiled. I liked her.
“Eli, please step onto the circle.”
I complied. The Temporal Displacement Platform stood beneath a lone, soft, bluish light. Despite hundreds of workers huddled at their computers stretched out behind Akira, I felt terribly alone. “So, with a flick of a switch, I’m back in my past? It all seems so… effortless. Will it hurt?”
Akira drifted away from her desk, slender fingers working her pad. “DownTime takes pride in the softest landings in the business.”
Describe ‘soft,’ I thought.
Despite two days of reassuring prep and temporal toxin injections, my stomach felt like a nest of snakes. I wanted to be brave. I wanted my wife to be proud of me. I had not handled my illness with the grace and courage I had hoped.
Instinctively, I reached for my wife’s hand.
She wasn’t there.
Two weeks ago, she jumped into the future and never returned. She had grown tired of caring for me, or perhaps she lacked the steadfastness and empathy to witness the inevitable. I considered suing UpWhen, Inc. for malfeasance, but my lawyer convinced me that UpWhen did not need my approval. “She’s an independent person of sound mind, Eli. Exactly when and where she jumped is confidential, but she jumped beyond her own survival probabilities and safely within temporal entanglement limits. She’s not coming back.”
Akira adjusted my coat, hat, and mittens. “Sledding with your brother? A lovely moment.”
“I suppose it seems silly, given all the potential options. We were kids. We were happy. At least it’s Immersive. Not Observational. I will touch and feel everything.”
“It’s a lovely birthday gift. Your wife clearly loves you.”
“It’s a goodbye gift,” I said and held my breath.
***
by submission | Sep 26, 2025 | Story |
Author: Emma Bedder
The SS-Parrellian drifted through peaceful, empty space. There wasn’t anything around for light years. Stars dotted its surroundings, planting spots of distant white into the endless black. Orlene stood on the bridge; her face almost pressed against the protective window that separated her from oblivion.
“Commander, there’s nothing here.” Illit said, from the pilot’s seat. “I know this is important to you, but we’re just wasting fuel.”
Orlene looked down at a rusted scanner, clutched in her hand. In the centre of the faded screen was an arrow. Above the arrow lay a flashing red dot.
“Another parsec.” Orlene tapped her foot against the floor. “Please.” Illit sighed to himself and started to push the ship a little farther. After a few seconds’ movement, the lights shut off, and the soft hum of the engines came to an abrupt stop.
“What was that?” Illit said, before he turned back to the ship’s tech officer. He could hardly tell where he was through the darkness invading the bridge. “Run a diagnostic. All systems.” The officer pressed a few buttons on the station in front of him and shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“Then what the hell is going on? Commander?” Illit looked beside him, to find no one there. He squinted, wondering whether she hid among the shadows. It was then that Orlene came into view, on the other side of the window.
Orlene moved herself to the front of the ship, as her grav-boots kept her steady. She leaped from the ship’s hull; her suit and the safety line it was attached to the only things between her and a cold nothingness. The weightlessness took a hold of her and pulled her further into the void.
She couldn’t hear Illit banging on the screen, screaming at her to get back into the ship. She only cared about the cosmos in front of her. Stars reflected in her eyes, and she reached out to touch the abyss. It reached back. They touched, for a second, and Orlene felt the weight of the universe hold her hand.
In that moment, she felt the barriers between her and the universe holding her fall apart. Then, the barriers between that universe and everything in it fell in turn. Before her, everything that is, was, and will be twirled around in a dizzying waltz. Up and down, left and right, past and future all felt like redundant distinctions as she danced with eternity.
She thought of the first time she went into space. When she saw her home planet for the first time from above, all conflict and strife seemed meaningless. Now, she saw the same, on a scale that was greater still. She saw it all; every part of it, all at once.
However, it was only for a moment. She pulled away on instinct, her mind overwhelmed. The cosmos retreated from her, but she knew it was still there. Orlene pulled herself back along the safety line. Her body floated towards the ship in one fluid motion, and she began to swing herself around to the airlock in effortless movements.
Even faster than she had disappeared, she appeared back on the bridge. Everyone’s eyes were fixed to her as she sat down in the commander’s chair.
“Thank you, Illit.” She said, as the lights flickered back on. “Now, if you’re ready, I believe there’s some trouble in the Yullon system.”
“What? How could you possibly-” Illit began, before a distress signal appeared on his navigator. He tried starting the ship, and the engines hummed back to life. “Alright. To Yullon it is.”
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.
