by submission | May 1, 2025 | Story |
Author: Nicholas Johnson
“But what if you didn’t have to experience that pain now? What if you already did?”
The doctor leaned forward, placing his elbows on the shiny glass desk, smiling with predatory teeth.
I tapped my knee and tried to avoid eye contact, angry at my therapist for suggesting this treatment.
“All pain is temporal,” he continued when I didn’t respond. “We get to decide when to deal with it. Why do you think people drink?”
I sensed I was about to fall into his trap, but I couldn’t find an escape route. “Uhmm…to get drunk, I guess.”
“Sure. But mostly they do it to shift when they experience pain. Feel a little better now, a little worse tomorrow.”
I rubbed my forehead and tried to process. I shrugged in acquiescence, unable to handle disappointing him.
“And this is the same,” he continued, leaning back into a perfectly ergonomic chair. “Life is simply choosing when to confront pain.”
“We eat junk food to feel better now but worse later,” I said, a little surprised with myself.
His smile could have jumpstarted a classic car. “Exactly! And here we use that simple concept, that pain is linked to time, to create a new method for processing. We call it temporal pain displacement, TPD. You currently deal with pain now or in the future. But,” he leaned forward to set the hook, “what if you already dealt with it in the past?”
*
The TPD implant changed my life. No anxiety, no depression. Somehow the thing convinced my mind that past physical pain was instead processed emotional angst. That broken leg when you fell off the swing? Getting laid off last week. That time you got hit by a baseball when the pitcher’s curve didn’t curve? Your cute coworker rejecting an offer to grab a drink.
“It’s Your Pain. Why not USE it?” The pamphlet sat alone on my coffee table—two days with the implant and my apartment had never been cleaner. Almost everybody I knew had the implant. Why wouldn’t they? It was like those weight loss shots that were controversial a century ago but were now used by basically everyone. TPD implants kept our minds as healthy as our eternally skinny bodies.
I mused which injury my brain had used to process the divorce. The car accident when I hydroplaned into that streetlight?
Despite the amazing relief, a question lingered at the back of my mind—was I going to run out? My childhood had been relatively cozy. Other than some sports injuries and a couple car wrecks, had I really suffered enough to sustain a lifetime of mental anguish?
I rose from my couch and started to panic.
It vanished.
Fuck! I thought, followed by relief. I must have just used some minor knee scrape as a kid or something. I flipped through the pamphlet but couldn’t find if pain can be used more than once. I sensed I was burning through past injuries as fast as I could worry about them. Pain is temporal, but is it finite?
I felt a momentary wave of envy, instantly cleansed, for those lucky bastards who had been severely injured as kids. Broken spines, fractured vertebrae. That would cover so much mental anguish!
I looked at my freshly cleaned window. Only the fourth floor. I would almost certainly survive a fall to the grass courtyard. I would probably break some bones! I would be able to immediately recover from like the next ten breakups!
My heart never felt lighter, my spirit never freer. I smiled like the doctor the whole way down.
by submission | Apr 30, 2025 | Story |
Author: David Margolin
Maggie and Trent were a self-sufficient young couple, both remarkably dexterous and tech savvy. They did all their home repairs, serviced their own cars, and every few weeks Maggie cut Trent’s hair.
“Home haircuts are great– think about how much money we’ve saved,” Maggie said proudly.
“All we need to do is count the money in the cookie jar. You’ve dropped in 50 bucks each time, right?” asked Trent.
“No, only $35, I gave you the senior discount.”
“Smart alec, I just turned 35, not 65.”
“Just sit still, I don’t want to hurt you.”
There was more to the home haircuts than saving money. Trent’s naked upper body, Maggie’s low-cut bathrobe, and the closeness of their bodies were an erotic recipe. After haircuts Maggie often insisted on a close inspection of her handiwork in the privacy of their bedroom.
Maggie picked up the only dangerous tool involved in the process, sharp scissors. For an instant Maggie held the scissors vertical to the back of Trent’s neck. Jethrow, their 20-pound impulsive, acrobatic, mischievous black cat, chose that instant to fling himself into Maggie’s right hand. The scissors were driven about half an inch into Trent’s neck, puncturing through his skin and subcutaneous tissue. Trent screamed in pain as his left hand reflexively covered the wound.
Maggie coaxed his hand away and examined the damage. She hoped that the blood would be oozing rather than gushing. Maggie, wide-eyed, couldn’t suppress a loud, “Ahhh!” There wasn’t any blood. There was a jet-black substance trickling down the back of Trent’s neck–viscous, mercurial, and pulsating—it smelled like brake fluid. Until that moment, she hadn’t had a clue that Trent was anything other than a red-blooded human being.
“Do I need stitches?”
“Not exactly, more like a mechanic.”
“This is no time for your weird sense of humor.”
Trent put pressure on the wound with a nearby dish towel and went into the bathroom to survey the damage. Maggie followed close behind. They both stood facing the mirror, her body supporting him from behind.
Adrenaline propelled Trent past trepidation into action. He removed the towel. “What th–”
“Don’t freak out, you aren’t the only odd one in the family.,” Maggie said very softly and soothingly. She turned her left arm palm up and firmly pressed her thumb down in the middle of her forearm until something clicked. Then she slid the previously invisible rectangular panel down towards her fingers. Maggie watched Trent’s reaction closely as a glowing green circuit board came into view.
They made eye contact in the mirror. Trent spoke first, “For better or for worse.”
“Until death–or malfunction–do us part,” Maggie chimed in.
They kissed, and Trent said, “Let’s finish the haircut, but maybe just take a little bit off the sides this time.”
by submission | Apr 29, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
One cannot speak of the Universe. One can only speak of rocking chairs, carnations and a pen. This is the path to understanding. Take it on good authority.
Travel writers speak of ordeals as the ideal. I would not say that losing my tablature in Genra was an ordeal in and of itself, but the event precipitated my run in with the Pharph. Many travelers rave about Genra’s pristinity, a term I find a bit forced since the Fall Treaty of 2207 mandated any outloop of the Unified System “leave no trace” under threat of “immediate UniSys revocation.” Zero impact. Zero tolerance.
So, pristinity is the default and prevails in any outloop world. And, I must admit that Genra is particularly fresh and untouched. Chattering cacinadees give off a morning scent reminiscent of cinnamon. Iridescent gullas a hundred clicks distant waft unworried in buoyant thermals along the Tieriesien range. Industrious sticklers wrestle with dew-balls on regolith paths which weave intricately through the ancient settlement.
Genra is Old World without staleness, and I cannot help but wonder if that was why a Pharph was summoned when I reported my tablature missing. I’d set the device next to my morning tea, then been distracted by a merling hopping from a shock of thmaris near the whooping pond. I left the hostelry deck to get a closer look at the merling’s filigreed coat, and when I returned, my table had been cleared including my tablature.
Providing locals with any tech above class one is forbidden on outlook worlds. So, theft of UniSys tech is considered aiding and abetting. It was a sticky situation, and so began my ordeal, which is supposed to be the secret spice of travel.
I went to Genra to find a quiet corner in the Universe. That’s all I wanted. I didn’t need the Pharph. But the Pharph was called when I discreetly mentioned my missing tablature at the hostelry reception. The Pharph arrived promptly for there is no other way a Pharph can arrive.
It perceived me, and I felt my skin prickle like lightning about to strike nearby. Then I felt as if I’d been dunked in pudding. Overly sweet pudding. A Pharph can’t help this, but it is nonetheless off-putting. I gagged.
Steady, old man, came the reassurance of the Pharph directly into my mind. We’ll get this matter settled straight away.
It’s just been missing a moment, I mentally spluttered feeling every bit the naughty child caught.
Tut. I’ll just have a look around.
The last thing you want is a Pharph “looking around.” Normally they are forbidden to do so. That is also a mandate of the Fall Treaty of 2207, but it does not apply to outloop travelers—especially ones that have misplaced their technology.
When a Pharph is in your head, rifling through your recent memories like some big game hunter in a jaunty pith helmet and jodhpurs, you begin to understand what colonization feels like to the locals. The Pharph was unerringly polite, almost jovial, trying to reassure me: What a topper that image of those flocking gullas is! You’ve captured that well. A first rate memory, old man. First rate. You’ve got a knack. But having a Pharph knocking about in your skull is like your mother going through your dating profile. It is an emasculating experience.
The Pharph eventually found what it needed in the reflection of a stickler’s dew ball. A fimtim. The pea-brained marsupial plunged from its tree lair and snatched my device from the table, then quickly climbed back into the courtyard canopy. Fimtims hoard shiny objects in their nests. I cannot say I blame them. Those dextrous and simple-minded arboreal share much in common with us on that count.
The Pharph recovered my tablature from the fimtim’s nest and returned it to me with a too-friendly nod. We got that solved spit spot, eh. Keep an eye on those critters, what say. We wouldn’t want a literary chap like you with such cracking conceit getting revoked. And then the Pharph was out of my head and waving a friendly goodbye.
Only a Pharph had the capacity to mentally zoom into that peripheral memory of mine of the stickler’s dew ball and confirm the fimtim’s “theft.” I could have been grateful. I was not. The Pharph had parsed my memories with almost infinite granularity, and showed me that I was a book too easily read. And discarded.
The Pharph seemed to enjoy its travels through my once-pristine mind as an explorer of a place untraveled. Curious and exulting. But my mind can never be the same. Is that bad? Not necessarily. I haven’t sworn off travel in outloop worlds. But I’ll be more prepared. No tablature. Nothing but rocking chairs, carnations, a pen.
And a humility well traveled in any world less traveled.
by submission | Apr 27, 2025 | Story |
Author: Colin Jeffrey
“I didn’t say it was your fault,” Aldren Kleep moaned, rolling all seven of his eyes at the human standing before him. “I said I was blaming you; It is a completely different concept.”
The human began to protest again, citing ridiculous notions like “honesty” and “fair play”. Kleep shook his heads in unison. “You really don’t have a clue, do you, Earthling?”
Kleep had been working among humans for nearly five of their earth years now, and was still dumbfounded by their naivety. How a race almost totally unable to utilise (or even understand) the art of perfidious bureaucracy had managed to survive for so long, he could not fathom.
“But you’re shifting all of the blame for this failure to me!” The Earth creature whined. “I have done absolutely nothing wrong.”
“Ah!” Kleep smiled with three of his mouths. “Now you get it!” With that, he waved his hand over a console and the human disintegrated. “A pity you won’t be able to use it.” He added.
The communicator on his console honked. Kleep eyed the caller flag. It was Farnit Popple. Right on time, he thought. He opened the screen.
“Popple, you unregistered offspring of a tram driver,” he chided, citing a popular insult amongst his race. “Have you called to congratulate me?”
“Indeed I have, sir,” Popple replied, ignoring the insult, faces smiling in mock bonhomie. “Yours is a triumph of manipulation and underhandedness, unrivalled in the annals of pettiness,” his voice dripped with all the sincerity of someone selling holiday timeshares. “Your work will resonate through the great halls of red tape for a thousand orbits.”
Aldren Kleep allowed his most supercilious smugs to occupy all three of his faces. “Yes, it was, masterful, wasn’t it?” He preened. “And I fully deserved it, because I am so much better than obnoxious vermin like you.”
Popple smiled back, his facade of cordiality unwavering at the verbal abuse.
After watching Kleep wallow in his own grandeur a while longer, Popple politely coughed into two of his hands, spoke again.
“There was one other tiny thing, sir, if I may?”
So full of hubris that he would almost consider the possibility of not short-changing a beggar, Kleep hadn’t caught the slight shift of tone in Popple’s voice.
“Oh, yes?” he replied, absentmindedly, almost forgetting to add a deprecating taunt. “And what would that be, rodent?”
“I have taken the liberty of petitioning the council for your great presence as champion for our upcoming project,” Popple said. “On the Homeworld”
Kleep’s faces dropped.
“What?” He half-whispered.
“Yes, sir,” Popple continued. “it is a gigantic undertaking, and a challenge that must not fail. I thought immediately of you and your vicious work ethic and cruel discipline.”
“WHAT?!” Kleep screamed at the screen, his purple skin turning bright green. “Withdraw it! Immediately!”
Popple could barely keep the smirks off his mouths now. “Apologies, sir, I would not have suggested it, had I known you would not be happy,” a gleam twinkled in five of his eyes. “I humbly beg your forgiveness…” He paused, savouring the moment. “But you have already been accepted.”
Kleep was screaming in rage now, throwing his arms about, knocking over furniture.
Popple continued, unfazed. “Of course, being on our own planet, there will no humans to get in the way,” he added. “Or to blame.”
“Nooooo!”
Popple flicked off the communicator with a triumphant wave of his hand. “Checkmate,” he said to himself, quoting from one of the games he had learned on Earth. My game.
by submission | Apr 26, 2025 | Story |
Author: Robert Duffy
I was bored, so I cranked up an AI-generated version of the 17th Earl of Sussex. Just to chat. It didn’t go so well.
I am shocked, sir, at your lack of propriety!
Well, we’re just more relaxed about things these days than you are.
Are you eating out of a bowl, as you sit at your desk? Is this any way for a gentleman to dine?
Me, with half a mouthful of Ben & Jerrys: What, you want I should dress up to eat rocky road?
What is this…rocky road?
It’s good, you should try some.
Call your servant to fetch it.
You gotta get it yourself. You want it, go get it.
Barbarism! What is this place?
My office. You know what? You’re boring. Deleted.
I’d been working on a model of my Dad, so I decided to run it, just for the hell of it.
Hey Dad, check this stuff out. This is a laptop computer. Can you believe it?
A computer?
Everything you used to have in your office in those tall five-foot cabinets with the spinning tape reels? All in this little silver box. Hell, on this silver tablet. More hell, on my freaking wrist.
Dad stares blankly. It doesn’t seem to register.
Dammit, incomplete model. Delete this rendering.
The new AI generators let you render people up now, in full, three-dimensional form, standing right in front of you. But it depends on how much information you have about them. Render up Boudica, you’re probably not going to get a lot of great conversation out of her, but render your great-grandfather, based on all the archival information available about him, and you get closer to something that can really mess with your head. That’s the beauty of it.
I decided to try the other side of the family. But this time, be complete. Model this one on actual family files—not those half-remembered fantasies I used for rendering Dad. I didn’t have much on him anyway. Obviously. He, uh, deleted too soon. But thanks to that, I got a lot more on Mom.
Yeah! Let’s AI her up into a high-fidelity ultra-real holographic projection that’ll shock my eyeballs and cause my heart to rip itself loose and drown itself in my bowels. I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna AI her in the bloody fur coat.
I’m supposed to do this. This is therapeutic.
I accessed everything—emails, newspapers, court files, and I cranked her out.
And there she stood. Glamorous, beautiful, statuesque, a tall blonde woman wrapped in luxurious mink fur. She wore that same coat into court one day, I swear. Just to make a statement.
She smiled at me, and I felt myself wither. And I just had to look. Even though I told the model not to include that detail, I still had to look.
And yes, there it was. I caught a glimpse when the ermine trim of her coat drifted open. The ugly black handle of the skinning knife.
At this point, you either ask your questions, delete the projection, or leave them there paused like 3D wallpaper. I’m still deciding.
