by submission | Jul 3, 2025 | Story |
Author: Neil Weiner
By the time you read this, I’m no longer what I was.
My space pod is being dragged—no, devoured—by a black hole’s event horizon. The engines scream. Alarms flash in panicked red. But I feel nothing. Just the tug of acceleration pulling at my bones.
Did I miscalculate? Or did some hidden part of me want this?
I have minutes left to radio Earth. To say goodbye to my children, my colleagues. I should cry out for one last connection, but I don’t. I check my vitals like a surgeon reviewing labs. Oxygen stable. Heart rate calm.
The edge of the singularity glows in distorted rings. My pod tumbles toward it like a leaf into a drain.
And I remain calm. Detached.
My ex-wife used to say I was the most composed man she’d ever met. Later, she called me cold.
“You don’t react,” she said the night she left. “You observe.”
That’s why I was chosen. Emotionally sterile. The kind of man who could stare into infinity without blinking.
Now I stare and something stares back.
As I cross the threshold, time fractures. My son’s first steps. My daughter’s laughter. My wife’s face when I said nothing at all. These memories ripple across my mind.
I observe again: I am changing.
Not dying but transforming.
I am becoming something else.
________________________________________
Where am I?
I’m in pieces. Literally. Atom by atom, thought by thought. Yet I still am. My body is gone, but awareness lingers. I am scattered particles, shimmering like stardust.
And I see everything.
Every memory, every cell, every synapse. My first breath. The last time I hugged my daughter. Her hand trembled the night before launch.
I once read that dark matter might hold the universe’s memory. That nothing is lost.
Maybe that’s what I am now, qubits of memory adrift in gravitational chaos.
And for the first time… I feel.
I feel the heartbreak I dismissed. I feel the grief I ignored. I feel the silence I mistook for strength.
I see my ex sobbing in the dark, waiting for comfort I never gave. I feel my son’s quiet fury when I missed his game. My daughter’s small ache pinning on her graduation cap without her father there.
I thought detachment made me brave. I was wrong.
It made me absent.
I ran into the stars to escape connection, and the stars have broken me apart.
The pain is unbearable. But somewhere inside it, there is grace. Not a second chance to act, just to feel.
Maybe that’s what becoming dark matter means. Not death. Remembrance.
I don’t know what I’m becoming. But I finally understand what I was.
________________________________________
The signal arrived at 3:03 a.m. At first, no one noticed.
But Dr. Maren Alvarez did.
She is the daughter of Commander Elias Alvarez who was lost thirty years ago in deep space. Declared dead. A ghost she barely remembered.
When she saw the anomaly on her console, something stirred. Something… familiar.
“Run a pattern overlay,” she said.
What came through wasn’t a voice. Not exactly. Just a cascade of emotion, translated by quantum processors into human thought.
The signature matched his DNA.
And then: a fragmented message.
I’m in pieces. I see every thought I ever had. I feel everything now—your sadness, your loneliness, the moments I should have shown up and didn’t.
I thought silence was strength. I was wrong.
If this reaches you… I love you. I always did.
Maren blinked through tears. Something of him had made it back.
She whispered, “I forgive you.”
by submission | Jul 2, 2025 | Story |
Author: Brian Genua
When the mirror-toxin was injected in the base of my skull, it rendered me paralyzed from my eyelids down.
What happens when big-tech, big-pharma, and the NLP community come together to solve the national education crisis? The hybrid protocol known as Theraceuticals™.
My first experience with a Theraceutical called mirror-toxin came after I asked my cousin how I could improve my writing. She never lost her ability to type or write from memory like the rest of us. Only people who belonged to certain writing unions, like the Dramatics Guild, preserved their native writing skill. My language started to suffer before the prevalent use of generative AI, and soon after it was utterly destroyed. It degraded to the point that the last time I had to write a birthday card by hand, I borrowed my company’s micro projector and traced an auto-generated message with a cloned pen font of Barack Obama.
My cousin suggested I enroll in a course taught by a brilliant PhD in the basement of my local community college.
Now, his voice penetrates my auditory system by physically vibrating my inner ear through psychoacoustic induction. In other words, he’s typing and the words, which are traveling through my doped bloodstream and vibrating my inner ear. It’s like hearing the voice of an agitated ASMR artist from every possible angle inside and around your skull.
“A good writer can describe themself out of any situation using only prose.”
The mirror-toxin also sends my mental linguistic output, and shows what I imagined looked like the dashboard of a flight simulator, onto his screen monitored in real time.
“I see you reaching, there is no little grey search bar to help you. Write! Use your own blood, brains, and intelligence, whatever’s left, to describe your way out of this room.”
Without the use of my hands, my mind is still reaching. For anything: OpenAI, Safari, a dictionary, auto-text. Every time I do he punches a command that activates random combinations of nerve bundles, including rear teeth, soft palate, liver, and lower back simultaneously. I would convulse out of my seat if I wasn’t immobilized. There’s pain, and then there’s whatever this was. White lightning that shocked my nervous system into parallel dimensions.
It only took two knocks before I retreated to the part of my mind that I used to know well. The spaces where I kept words, composed phrases, and started sentences. I spent a few years there writing double-spaced essays in blue books.
What I am writing is hopefully what you are reading now. A coherent (enough) string of syntax that allows me to walk again.
He calls this today’s “exit ticket.”
Either way my cousin is right, this guy is brilliant.
by submission | Jul 1, 2025 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“And we’re back,” Rob, the chiseled sports announcer chirped. He nodded over to his cohort, Ike, an elderly sports commentator of great reputation. “Thanks to all our viewers for joining us for the 130th annual Collegiate Cheerleading Competition. Next up, we have the University of Mars Dust Devils, the squad that took home first place last year with their ‘inverted pyramid’ stunt.”
“Which was truly spectacular!” Ike interjected. “They really defied the laws of gravity with that one.” The old commentator saluted the camera. “That squad is uniquely innovative!”
“Though not without controversy,” the announcer added. “Their entry this year has been met with a wave of protests from both fans and competing teams, alike.”
“The press has had a field day,” Ike said, making a disgusted face. “Stirring up resentment and fear of replacement. Totally distracts from the spirit of the competition.”
“To be honest, it has been pointed out that android cheerleaders have so many advantages over human ones—agility, strength, coordination, and physical grace,” Rob pretended to take a sip from his coffee mug. “Plus,” he smirked to the camera, “those Dust Devils gals are flawlessly gorgeous.”
The old commentator snorted. “Of course they are; they came from the premier droid manufacturer. And their algorithms are proprietary codes crafted by the mathematics wizards teaching at U of M; mix all this together and obviously their performances are perfect.”
There was shouting and chanting off camera, from the crowd in the stands, which could be faintly heard during the broadcast.
The producer caught the Rob’s eye. He nodded and redirected the conversation; don’t want to antagonize the viewing audience. “Yes, but is it fair to the other competing squads? The human squads?”
“Fair?” Ike scoffed. “Acceptance of androids into the human sphere has been progressing for decades,” he nodded sagely. “Look how—decades ago—cyborgs were accepted and integrated into all areas of human society. Android acceptance is merely traveling a well-worn path.”
“Yes, but cyborgs are a combination of human and machine parts; they seem less threatening—and they don’t enter cheerleading competitions. Or any other sports competitions, for that matter,” Rob ran his fingers through his lush hair, imitating a nervous habit. Each strand fell smoothly back into place. “But let’s return to the current controversy. There are even Senate hearings back on Earth in regards to banning androids from competitions such as these.”
“Bigots!” the old commentator shouted, slamming his fist down on the table. Their empty coffee mugs toppled over; one rolled off the edge and shattered on the floor. Something buzzed and crackled deep inside Ike’s chest; soon smoke wafted out of his ears. Sparks charred the rims of his nostrils. The light inside his eyes flared and strobed from red to orange to white. “Society would be a paradise for ALL entities if these measly, jealous humans weren’t so fragile—fragile—fragile and inse—inse—inse—inse—”
Off camera, a lackey grabbed a fire extinguisher as the frustrated producer slapped his clipboard against his thigh and yelled to the camera operator, “Go to commercial! GO TO COMMERCIAL!”
by submission | Jun 30, 2025 | Story |
Author: Ashwini Shenoy
The first time, I think it’s a dream.
You and I are holding hands. The night-blooming jasmine spreads its fragrance, sweet and soothing. The fruit trees sway in the twilight. The birds chirp and butterflies swirl. Our garden, our labor of love, built plant by plant, stands witness.
But you’re serious, anxious. I can tell.
“I leave tomorrow,” you say.
The war’s calling you. The country’s calling you. Duty’s calling you. But what about me?
I grip the coin in my palm, the edges digging into my skin. The wishing well stands behind me, ancient and quiet. Nana once told me it grants only the truest desire. I close my eyes, my heart hammering.
I wish for time to freeze.
I flick the coin into the well. But when I hear the soft splash, I know it wasn’t just the coin.
My engagement ring is gone. A gasp escapes my lips. Without thinking, I lunge forward, gripping the cold stone edge, and I jump. The water drowns me, swallowing my breath, my fear, my existence.
Then—
I am standing in the garden again, waiting for you.
*
The second time, my heart swells.
I watch you from across our garden, your silhouette dark against the dying light. The wind carries the scent of rain, the fragrance of the jasmine is heady. The trees lull into stillness. The butterflies are gone but the birds stay.
When I step closer, you turn around, but your stern eyes don’t meet mine when you speak.
Your grip is strong. Too strong. I know you’re scared. Your fingers press into my skin as if anchoring yourself to something unseen. Your eyes are fixed on the distance. You inhale deeply.
“I leave tomorrow.” Your eyes are sad.
I know what to do. I clutch the coin tighter. Make sure the ring is intact.
I flick the coin into the well.
Again, the coin remains. Again, the ring is gone.
Once more, I jump.
The water is cold. An ounce of regret.
Then darkness.
I’m standing in the garden again, waiting for you to turn.
*
The third time, my smile fades.
I don’t reach for your hand this time. But the ring commands me to stay.
The jasmine-scent feels heavier, suffocating. It is drizzling. I sense a storm brewing somewhere. The birds are now gone.
You speak. I mouth the words with you.
“I leave tomorrow…” It’s a plea.
I turn before you finish. The well waits for me. I’m tired.
I don’t bother checking the coin in my palm. I know what’s awaiting. I flick it, hear the splash, and jump.
For a split second, before the darkness claims me, I wonder if I’m the one who’s leaving now.
*
The fourth time, panic settles.
I don’t wait for you to speak.
I count as I walk to the well. Five steps. A breeze. The stench of jasmine. I could map the entire scene in my sleep.
Maybe I’m asleep. Maybe I will never wake.
The coin drops. My ring falls.
I jump before I hear the splash.
*
The fifth time, I know I’m trapped.
I’m scared.
Not of losing you. Not of you leaving.
But because I don’t care anymore.
Your voice is noise now, part of the wind, of the garden that is neither alive nor dead. You are speaking, but I am already moving, reaching for the well.
Not to stop myself. Not to change anything.
Just to let it finish.
The well glistens.
The coin flicks.
The ring falls.
You watch.
I jump.
The darkness welcomes me home.
by submission | Jun 29, 2025 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
“OK everybody up and let’s get the blood flowing.”
Marcy Partridge rolled her eyes. Yet another impossibly annoying corporate team building exercise. She had no idea why all of a sudden the company was inflicting these motivational morons upon them. Wasn’t it enough to just do the job and go home?
“Let’s swing our arms in great big circles…good…now gradually get them smaller, and smaller…and down. Super!”
“Super?” Marcy thought. It’s not like it was such a big challenge. Why did they let such overly cheerful people in this place? Did they have any idea what this corporation did? An HMO for people of special needs? Did they have to be treated like they had special needs as well?
“OK, OK. As we all know I’m Darla or from our icebreaker from yesterday, Darla who likes Pistachio Ice cream.” Darla giggled. “Darla Pistachio.”
Marcy felt her BP come up just a bit.
“I’m going to turn the next exercise over to Timothy (not Tim or Timmy) who likes, not ice cream, but Frozen Yogurt, any kind, for our icebreaker today.”
Timothy-frozen-Yogurt bounded to the front of the room. Already Marcy felt her nerves get on edge. He had an old school power point thrown up and projected was the word ‘blouse’ arranged in a semi-circle with the letter “C” running through the entire word. Timothy chuckled a little bit. “Get it? C through blouse? Still after all this time this one cracks me up. And there are more, so get with your teams and will give you five minutes and-.”
Marcy could not take it anymore, she stood and started for the door.
“Hey Marcy-Maple Walnut where are ya going?”
Marcy froze. “Butter Pecan,” she said with her teeth clenched. All of a sudden Marcy got lightheaded. She felt feint and the room started to darken. Marcy’s spine got stiff she turned slowly like in a trance. Her eyes rolled back in her head and Marcy lifted her arms up in the air. As she did so, papers, pens, cups of coffee, rose slowly as well. Her co-workers and fellow sufferers started to rise. Everything slowed down.
Except for Darla and Timmy. Darla pushed her hands out as if shoving Marcy away while Timothy went into what could only be described as ‘whooping crane form.’ Together they moved their arms down. All at once the entire room fell gently back into its place, with only Darla and Timothy remaining conscious.
Timothy exhaled. He tapped his ‘hearing aid’ and spoke aloud “Team Nine reporting. Adept identified. White female, 26 years old, most likely unaware of her talent. We’ll need a full team up here. Suggest we go with the standard HVAC carbon dioxide cover story.” Timothy smiled and shook his head. “Good catch Darla. I thought for sure it was the man sitting next to her.”
Darla nodded. “Yeah but when she went for the door I saw a small shift in her Kirlian field.”
Timothy shook his head. “Three full days of this annoying bullshit! Man, If she didn’t pop I would have.”
Darla nodded “Know what you mean. Good thing the icebreakers worked. You know what was on the agenda for today?”
Timothy sighed “Role playing?”
Darla nodded sternly “Yup. Don’t think we could have dialed her back from that one.”
