by submission | Nov 6, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
“Inside this suitcase is the dismembered body of a man and one of the tools you used to kill him. Your fingerprints are on it. You must dispose of the suitcase in the Miyamae River in 24 hours, or I will inform the police.”
Hosokawa was hyperventilating. Komatsu was limping in a circle. Morioka was staring. They knew what they had done, but how did someone find out? They had planned everything so meticulously when they chose the man. The ambush was simple. He was a quiet man from another place, on a limited-term contract. He worked late, passed through the bicycle shelter behind their office building, and went into an unlit street, where he always walked alone. He was perfect. His disappearance would mean nothing to anyone.
The time was 1:15 a.m. Everyone had long gone home. The two elderly men in the campus security booth were snoozing, and the little town was sleeping. The three simply had to be sure the man did not scream.
He put on his down jacket, ear warmers, and newsy cap, turned off the lights, locked the office door, and walked to the empty café downstairs. He exited the side glass door, locked it with his ID card, and went to the back of the building, not seeing the shadows of the short broad-shouldered woman, the long thin man, and the burly fat woman. He walked and turned into the unlit street where there was only forest, a small statue, two dilapidated houses, and memorial stones.
Komatsu struck the back of the man’s exposed head with a mallet. He collapsed. Hosokawa arrived with the van. She smothered chloroform over his nose and mouth. Morioka zip-tied a bag over his head. They carried the body into the van, and they drove deep into the thick bamboo forest in the small mountain nearby that no one visited, and there, they performed wildly and lustfully with axe, knife, and saw.
They finished, breathing heavily, heaving the weighted breaths of passion, breathing, breathing, breathing. They were quiet now. There were no words. They buried the tools and left the body for the hungry foxes and badger dogs, and the only thing anyone knew the next day was a brief story in the evening news of a burned van on an old woman’s orange field.
So receiving the threat, Hosokawa, Komatsu, and Morioka were deeply troubled. They text-messaged each other.
In Komatsu’s office, they whispered what to do. Hosokawa and Morioka agreed to heed the warning — dispose of the suitcases in the river or spend the rest of their days trapped with the thieves, rapists, and sociopaths. The thought terrified them. They liked their comfortable tenured lives, and they were not willing to give everything away simply because they had realized their dream to murder a man.
In the frigid night, they drove, brought the suitcases to the Miyamae River, and anxiously threw them into the fast rushing water, where the luggage traveled and was swallowed into the mouths of the storm drains.
A week passed, but then, there were three more suitcases with the same note and, the next week, the same thing again. The paranoia and madness came, the three declaring and denying that one of them had disclosed their secret. They were sure the little street and mountain road were unlit and unmonitored. They had carefully studied the municipal and crowdsourced maps online. So, they concluded, there must have been a camera in the bicycle shelter, from where they had followed the man before entering the van.
They chose a night three days after they had disposed of the third set of suitcases. They went to the dark space, and each of them, with anguished suspicion and unreason, drew out concealed knives — striking, slashing, and stabbing at one another in a bipolar manic orgy of fear, joy, and hate, the three collapsing onto the cold ground, bleeding until they bled no more.
From the second-floor window of an empty office above, the man they had killed observed quietly.
by submission | Nov 5, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The pews were full. Resplendent sunlight coursed through stained glass and lit chiseled stone with undersea warmth. Soaring arches resounded with song, a lifting and longing for connection. One filament. Two. Tendrils, ganglions. Physical connectivity. Hard wired.
Then, the abominations, ever-placed at the back. Ever patient. Never touching but always in touch. Borganics pinged and streamed, a binary cacophony, a sacrilege to all organic. But, one could be broad, one could conceive of such a mind, such an inorganic desire. Sentience pushed them together. Thought was thought (though some disputed that).
Still, the prickly distaste for the abominations, even on this day. The celebration of the first mass, the first gathering. When stone and stem, flesh and metal inexorably arrived at choice.
Parish or perish.
Creation had responsibilities. Native organics relented. Even abominations might possess unalienable, sacred rights. Hand, paw, flipper, tendril unwillingly extended.
Given even slim opportunity, borganics self organized. Uplifted. Transcended. Became forged flesh.
Mutual annihilation avoided. Begrudging acceptance—one step behind.
In the mote-filled sunlight of the cathedral, the gathered masses swam with feeling. A oneness born of separateness. Parallel unity. Dual processing. A single understanding.
Purpose. The divine mystery of sentience. Whether biological or mechanical. Thus they gathered, worshiped and wished, together. Distrustful, resentful, curious, determined, hopeful.
From the pews, their myriad passions muted and amplified by song, they prayed a single belief. Survival and more. Organically and newly defined, they gathered, proximal beings, awaiting grace.
by submission | Nov 2, 2025 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Finn took his little sister Hazel by the hand. “Don’t be scared tonight. All those ghoulies and ghosties—they’re really holograms.” Since Holo-Monsters Inc. began selling their hologram monsters to the public, everyone wanted one for their Halloween decoration.
They walked to the street to begin their trick-or-treat trek through the neighborhood. They dodged a headless horseman charging down their neighbor’s driveway. The Moth-Man flew between houses and swooped so low overhead they had to duck.
Across the street, a shambling Frankenstein’s Monster groaned on the front porch. A hatchet-wielding maniac popped up from a hedge. A vampire menaced trick-or-treaters from the shadows. Ghosts wailed and surged through windows, clawing at kids who got too close.
On another front porch Hazel walked through a shuffling mummy, giggling as she grabbed a handful of candy. She was wide-eyed, more in fascination than fear, Finn noted with relief.
At the end of their street, a lone house sat dark in the cul-de-sac. “Hazie, I think we should skip this one,” Finn said. There was something he overhead his parents say about this place…but he couldn’t remember exactly what.
Ignoring him, Hazel charged up to the front door and rang the bell. Uneasy, but protective of his little sister, Finn followed. The door creaked open and before them stood a wavering gray and blue image of an old woman in a floral-print house dress.
“Trick or treat!” Hazel chirped.
“I’m sorry, dear,” the old woman’s apparition replied. “I have no more candy. I’ll never have candy again.”
“Awww,” Hazel groused as she swiped her hand through the old woman. “Hey!” Hazel gasped, turning to Finn. “This one’s cold, not like the other holograms.”
Finn took her hand to pull her back toward the street. Now he remembered what his folks had said: old Mrs. Edmond at the end of the street, she’d….
Finn took a deep breath and whispered, “That’s because she’s not a hologram…she’s a ghost…”
They turned and ran, with Hazel shriek-laughing all the way home.
Once inside their warm and well-lit house, Finn watched as Hazel dumped her candy haul on the floor of the den. “This is the best Halloween ever!” she said as she sorted through her sugary pile. Finn’s eyes grew wide, more in fear than fascination, as his sister added, “I can’t wait for next year!”
by submission | Nov 1, 2025 | Story |
Author: Dr. Nagireddy R Sreenath
The notification appeared at 3:47 AM: FINAL CONSCIOUSNESS BACKUP COMPLETE.
Amara stared at her phone, hands trembling. Tomorrow—today, technically—she will undergo the procedure. Her biological brain, riddled with an inoperable tumor, would be replaced with a neural substrate. The doctors promised it would be seamless. She’d wake up still being Amara, just in a different medium.
But which Amara?
She’d spent the last month with her previous backups, courtesy of NeuroSync’s Premium Continuity Package. Meeting yourself is stranger than any mirror.
Backup-23, from three weeks ago, still had hope the experimental treatment might work. She cried when Amara told her it hadn’t. Real tears on a real face, salt-taste and red eyes—except the face was a rental body, the tears manufactured by borrowed glands, and Backup-23 would be deleted within forty-eight hours of successful substrate integration.
“I don’t want to stop existing,” Backup-23 had whispered before leaving, fingers tight around Amara’s wrist. “I know that’s what happens to us. Redundant data. But I’m me, Amara. I feel as real as you do.”
Amara had reported it. Standard existential crisis, NeuroSync assured her. Common in 40% of backup interactions. The backups would be humanely terminated. They wouldn’t feel a thing.
Backup-19, from before the diagnosis, was worse. She laughed too easily, made plans for a hiking trip next spring, couldn’t understand why Amara kept staring at her with such desperate envy. Amara had wanted to warn her—get screened earlier, push for the MRI, change something—but the NeuroSync tech stopped her. “Paradox protocols,” he said, not apologetically enough.
Each backup had her memories, her mannerisms, her irrational fear of moths. Each one insisted she was the real Amara.
Now Amara understood what Backup-23 had meant. Tomorrow, she would die. Something would wake up claiming to be Maya, with all her memories intact, believing it had survived the procedure. But would it be her? Or would it be Backup-32, wearing her identity like a stolen coat while the real Amara simply… ended?
She thought about running. The tumor was accelerating—two weeks of cognitive function left, three if she was lucky. At least the substrate would give her decades. At least someone who loved her family would continue existing.
At least there would still be an Amara.
She opened the backup interface. Thirty-two previous versions of herself, stored in NeuroSync’s servers. Thirty-two Amaras who had each believed they were the original.
Her finger hovered over the termination protocol for Backups 1 through 31.
They were already gone, really. Discontinued instances. But somewhere in those server farms, thirty-one versions of her were frozen mid-thought, mid-breath, still believing they were real. Still believing they would wake up tomorrow.
She initiated the deletion.
Backup-32 would wake up tomorrow believing it had survived. It didn’t need to know about the others. It didn’t need to carry the weight of being a copy of a copy of a copy.
It could just be Amara.
by submission | Oct 31, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alicia Cerra Waters
The current of the river surged in silvery waves, rushing over rocks jagged enough to turn bones to dust. It roared, quiet as any monster. Anyone could go backwards in time if they were brave enough to jump in with a conduit. I kept telling myself I was brave as I waited, holding the last book my father ever read.
I heard my brother’s footsteps before I saw him. Even over the noise of the river, I knew him. His flannel shirt hung off of his bony shoulders, with that forever-smirk on his pinched face. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he said.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I put my hands in my pockets. “I have the book.”
“And I have the conduit,” Damian took the metal sphere out of his pocket and it whirred with otherworldly energy. Its power was a magnetic, leeching drag on the atoms that made up my body. I wanted to throw up and come closer at the same time. Some people thought the conduits could talk, but that was just superstitious bullshit. At least that’s what I told myself as I pretended I didn’t feel a voice pushing at the edges of my consciousness, trying to find a way in.
“How can you carry that thing?” I asked, stepping away from its thrall. Maybe that’s why Damien looked so sallow, like he hadn’t had a real meal in months.
Damian shrugged. “Somebodys gotta to do it.”
I looked down into the dark water, second thoughts making me dig my hands into my pockets. Just give him the book and he’ll go, I told myself. If nothing changes, we can avoid each other for another ten years, no problem.
“You’re willing to give it up for an old book?” I said.
Damian nodded, and I saw the exhaustion that ringed his eyes. “The conduit wears you down.”
We stood with a stretch of browned grass between us, already dormant as winter bit into the air. He gave me a knowing smile, like the asshole didn’t think I could do it. The thought grated more than it should have. “Just give it to me,” I said.
He didn’t move. “Are you sure you won’t unravel? Like Dad did?”
Even with the energy field the conduit created, that was a risk. I pressed my lips together, trying not to think about the vapor of atoms that people could become if they went too far back in the river. It happened to my father, but that didn’t have to be the end.
“You don’t think I can stop him?” I said, crossing my arms so I didn’t feel tempted to throw a punch.
Damian barked a laugh. “If two young sons at home couldn’t stop him when he left, a grown man on a suicide mission won’t.”
I threw the book onto the grass between us. “Give me the conduit.”
Damian twitched. “You miss Dad enough to try and go back for him?”
I took the conduit out of his hands and he didn’t stop me. “The next time you see me,” I said, “It won’t matter. Because I’m going to stop Dad from jumping into the river. He’ll raise us himself. You won’t recognize me.”
Damian put the book into his pocket. “Time travel is the worst thing that humankind ever did,” he said.
I barely heard him over the voice of my father coming from the silver cylinder. The conduit throbbed as the water pulled me under, and I heard the first words of the book; once upon a time…
