by submission | Jul 5, 2026 | Story
Author: Colin Jeffrey
When people imagine an infinite number of monkeys jammed into a containment bubble of twisted infinite spacetime, they think of screaming, chaos…flung feces. But that was just speciest bigotry. Mostly.
Also, an infinite number of monkeys isn’t really a number. It’s more of a nose-thumbing provocation to the universe.
The containment bubble existed at a right angle to determinism and entirely outside the realm of common sense. Inside it, a chunk of spacetime had been folded and prodded until it was convinced to host an infinite workforce without technically being infinite itself.
The monkeys typed. Of course.
They typed on keyboards salvaged from extinct office cultures in a myriad far-flung realities. With keys like “ANY”, “F55”, and “LuNcH”, the keyboards were wired into machines that bristled with smugness, knowing they were designed to do something far more important than anyone understood.
This arrangement of monkeys interfacing with machines was, of course, developed by a panel of Very Important People.
The panel existed – as most panels do – to solve things no one had asked to be solved. In this case, it was what they viewed as The Problem with Reality. The apparently annoying fact that the universe existed and with not a single excuse to justify why it actually continued to do so.
The idea was that, to answer this conundrum, they would generate “ALL possible answers” and see which ones reality settled for.
Hence all the monkeys and the spacetime bending infinity business.
Monkeys were used because they had absolutely no idea what they were typing. This was, of course, important: Knowledge would have introduced bias, and bias would have produced subjective outcomes. Most typed gibberish. Some typed job ads. One typed nothing but the letter Q (which later, in a different dimension, would prove statistically significant.)
The outputs streamed into a central processor – the unimaginatively named “Grand Filter” – a machine roughly the size of a cruise ship and about as sensible.
Most of the generated answers failed to even slightly pique Reality’s interest and were recycled into heat, light, or political speeches. A few were flagged as “Tentatively Acceptable”, including a universe where hairdressing was never invented and biscuits mattered far more than any reasonable person thought possible.
The technicians surveyed the outputs diligently.
“This one posits a universe where the laws of physics are optional,” said Junior Technician Tenth Class Blumpf.
“Already posited,” said Junior Technician Eleventh Class Blumpf. “Put it with the others.”
One day, reality outside the bubble flickered. Constants shifted. Probabilities grew more possible, possibilities more probable. Somewhere, a planet formed.
A light flickered on. Which was unexpected, as the system had not been designed with lights. The Grand Filter had found something.
The printout was taciturn:
OK. THIS WILL DO.
Reality had settled.
All at once, the universe snapped into its new configuration. Constants stopped drifting. Causation resumed its tenuous dance with correlation.
And inside the bubble, the monkeys stopped typing.
The bubble dissolved. The monkeys vanished into improbability, where an infinite number of monkeys – inexplicably – always end up.
The panel reconvened one last time.
“So,” asked the chair, “do we now understand why reality exists as it does?”
“No,” said someone. “But it seems to be working.”
They adjourned to the pub next door for lunch.
Light years away, on a small blue planet, one human looked up at the night sky and felt that everything was preposterous and ephemeral yet, somehow, strangely comforting.
This had been typed.
And the universe, having reviewed all of the alternatives, decided to keep it.
For now.
by submission | Jul 4, 2026 | Story
Author: Alastair Millar
“Are you sure you’re okay doing this?”. That the older man’s question was more than rhetorical was clear. “I wasn’t planning to have you on rotation for months yet, but Simon’s first walk didn’t work out: agoraphobia. He was lucky to make it back. Rough on the kid, but understandable; it’s rough for anyone out there, surrounded by emptiness…”. He shuddered. “I wouldn’t want to do it again, even if I was young enough. Anyway, Marcia can’t go out alone, far too dangerous.”
They sat at a table on the balcony overlooking Aeroponics One, a vital component of the Habitat’s food production system. Far, far below, in the carefully calculated light, someone was tending the plants. The woman couldn’t tell who it was from this distance.
“It’s fine, sir,” she said. “It’s been years since I took a turn, it’s time I stopped shirking my duty.”
“I know about duties, Andrea. But one of mine is the duty of care. Suiting up, going through the airlocks, that’s all routine, and you know we all practice it for emergencies. But I understand if you’re not up to exposing yourself to the whole rigmarole unnecessarily.”
“I know, sir, and I appreciate your concern. But I’m over the miscarriage now.” She meant mentally, of course. Like all the others, staying physically fit was mandatory, and she’s kept up her regimen. “I’ve done it before, I can do it now.”
“Good. Thank you. Tomorrow then; let’s get it over with.”
***
They were from the Habitat’s third generation, and like everyone else knew both that their task would last centuries, and that they were fortunate their ancestors had been accepted for it before the Disaster struck. And they were all lucky, too, that genetic engineering good enough to keep their stock healthy had been perfected shortly before the mission began. While their completely isolated, self-sufficient home was still up to the challenge, though, there was no point being cavalier about it; regular checks of the outer membrane for wear and damage that the sensors might not have picked up were essential, for all that that meant two people had to leave the safety that had coddled and enclosed them all their lives. The Galactic Spirit that drove and nurtured their self-sufficiency helped those who helped themselves, after all.
She spent the rest of the day wandering the grass-lined corridors, humbled as always by how something so simple could be so critical to maintaining their air quality. If the worst happened, it would be a good last memory. On the way, she chatted quietly to the people she met, some of whom knew what she’d be doing in the morning, and some of whom remained blissfully unaware. On the whole, the latter were easier to deal with; the whole ‘maybe she won’t be alive much longer’ vibe was blessedly missing.
She took a leisurely dinner, treating herself to a sweeter-than-usual selection from the Habitat’s dispensers, on the basis that any extra calories would be lost to stress anyway. And if she didn’t make it back, they wouldn’t matter anyway.
***
When the time came, she met Marcia in the preparation room; they said little, tense and knowing their roles. A couple of techs fussed around them as they suited up, checking seals, and vitals, and air supply. Casual lookers-on, an unwanted and unhelpful distraction, were kept far away. All to soon, the pair stepped into the airlock, and the cycle began; in moments, they would step out into that most dangerous and unforgiving environment – the unwelcoming and parched surface of the Earth!
by submission | Jul 3, 2026 | Story
Author: Starlight
When I was a kid – however long ago that was, ten years or a hundred, I wouldn’t know – when I was a kid, there was this game we did in nursery.
Over, under, forward, back.
The teacher would give us all a toy and have us stand in lines like little soldiers. She’d shout her orders and we’d follow them. Over, she’d cry, and we’d hold the toys over our heads. Under, and we’d drop them to the ground. Forward, we’d thrust them out like trophies. Back, and this was the tricky one, we’d pull our arms as far backwards as they went, so that the toy hovered somewhere between our heads and the base of our necks. She’d yell them first in order, then out of order, and sometimes she’d repeat them a couple times and a kid would get nervy and hold the toy up when they were still meant to be holding forward.
It’s a pretty insignificant memory in the grand scheme of things. Still, it’s a memory I cling to. A mantra I repeat to myself.
Over, under, forward, back.
The ground is heavy, aggressive, fighting my every move, threatening to suck me down and keep me there until my flesh disintegrates so that it may flower again. I can’t blame it, not really. I’m far from the first person to tread this earth, I sure as hell won’t be the last.
All around me is the same. Sodden mud, lifeless clay that clings with a dying breath. It’s getting difficult to distinguish which timeline I’m in, and I think I’m one of the few who still knows that there was a way to tell the difference once, by which I mean never. Memories can get hazy when your timeline is overwritten. I’ve long since forgotten the faces of my family and am more worried about forgetting basic human functions that I have never been taught.
Over, under, forward, back.
I press forward. If I recall correctly, and who knows if I have, there’s a pickup point not too far from here. They’ll lock onto my signal, and they’ll take me back to the barracks, and probably give me a dressing down for getting separated from my troop but how is that my fault when my troop forgot to exist?
Water falls from the sky at a rapid pace – there’s a word for this phenomenon, but it doesn’t come to me. I’m soaked to the bone. Was there ever a time when I wasn’t? Sometimes it feels like all that exists is the immediate, that only the now is immutable, that after is unthinkable and before is unidentifiable. I focus on my breathing, focus on my limbs pumping forward and back, focus on the weight of water against my skin and remind myself that I must exist. I cannot forget that I exist. If I forget then I am finished.
Over, under, forward, back.
I can’t go back. Can’t even look back – Scared that if I do I there’ll be no footprints. There is no back to go to.
Over, under, forward.
My vision tunnels – my eyes blurred by liquid that is coming from somewhere. There is ground beneath my feet. I march on.
Under, forward.
Where am I going? What is the point? Did I ever know? Did it ever matter? I can’t keep moving – there’s nowhere to go. Nothing exists past there here and now.
The ground draws at my feet, and I go under.
by submission | Jul 2, 2026 | Story
Author: Brian Ball
There’s a pantry in the basement, or at least there was. It’s gone now.
St. Mary’s, our parish, used it most when the soup kitchen was busy. One Saturday, Judy Grezlick went down to grab some rice and lost her footing. She fell to floor and rice spilled everywhere.
She brushed herself off and stood over the mess. Mumbling, she swept it up and set the broom aside. There was a hollow thud as it hit the basement wall. Curious, she felt along the wall.
Probably an old access panel, Judy said. She mentioned it to Father Brennan. He stood over the cast iron stove pushing a pile of diced onions into a large pot. Recognition flickered. Before Judy could go back and grab another bag of rice, Father Brennan was in the basement with a crowbar.
After an hour, he and some other kitchen volunteers pried off the section of the wall. The five-foot panel looked like the rest of the foundation, but the ancient spackle came off as they pulled.
Dust went everywhere. They coughed as it settled at their feet, revealing rough-hewn stairs that faded into the darkness like sunlight down a well.
They certainly weren’t made by any licensed contractor Miles Ackner said. Miles was a retired home inspector and current church volunteer. He told Father Brennan they could violate any of a number of building codes and telling the city could might close the church. Father Brennan didn’t care for that notion, not one bit.
Miles put some extra batteries in his pocket and took the flashlight. He moved jauntily down the stairs, humming. A small group watched him go. No one said good-bye. He would just peek, he said, he’d be right back.
Soon they were shouting after him and heard nothing but silence and their own measured breathing. By now the group had grown, including Amy, Miles’ wife. Each possessed their own opinions. The sound of their arguing echoed down the stairs. Father Brennan finally called the police.
Then they came in pairs. Officers took notes, asked questions and then went down themselves. One gave Father Brennan half of a two-way radio. She said they’d check-in, but within a few minutes Father heard only static. Judy Grezlik started to cry.
A much larger group came with masks, breathing tanks and a police dog. They set up sonar cameras. Amy Ackner was hysterical then. No one judged her.
More descended. None returned. Each failure was more desperate, more chaotic. Father Brennan shuttered the church.
The McCormick brothers were called. As local contractors, everyone knew them. They would weld a steel plate over the opening. Toxic shale gas was the excuse they gave. It was as good excuse as any.
Four men carried the heavy plate. Mickalean McCormick lit the bright blue flame and dropped down his protective glasses. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Amy shouted for Miles as the torch sealed the last crack.
They still listen for the men and women who went down the stairs, even after the basement was filled in. The McCormick brothers did this work too and said not to bother listening. They were gone.
When it was done, Father Brennan closed the door at the top of the stairs, now a wall of cement. Amy was sent away to rest. St. Mary’s still has mass, but only on holidays.
And that’s the story. That’s why we wait. But don’t worry, Father Brennan won’t forget us. He’ll send more down here.
For God’s sake, he knows we need to eat.
by submission | Jul 1, 2026 | Story
Author: Hillary Lyon
The shining silver ship cruised in, causing waves of wind to unfurl across the landscape, spawning swirling towers of dust and dirt and debris from an abandoned civilization.
Once the craft stabilized, the main door slid open and the four spacemen tentatively descended the ramp. The last man wandered out, hands gripping his helmet. He attempted to adjust his visor, gave up and pulled the head-piece off entirely.
“Arrrg!” Moira groaned. “I’ve already seen this movie!”
She tapped the small glowing green cube on her coffee table. “Bijou! Find me something I haven’t already seen—something weird and alien, something exciting. A game, a movie, anything.”
Bijou, as she called her personal AI entertainment assistant, scanned the planet’s database for her request. Finding nothing she hadn’t already seen or played, it extended its search to the outer regions of the solar system, then the galaxy.
The cube shivered and flashed through a kaleidoscopic assortment of hues before settling on one Moira had never seen before. She wrinkled her nose; how would one even describe that color? A beam of this weird-colored light shot out of the cube, broadened, and within it a humanoid shape coalesced.
First appearing as a hologram, it quickly solidified into a three-dimensional form. Like pouring water into an empty glass, Moira thought. The being wore a dull matte-gray armor of flat scales. The creature was angular like a poorly rendered video game character—yet still exuded strength and determination.
Moira rose from the sofa for a closer look. “Arkzulia awaits,” the being urged, extending one of his four hands.
“This is new,” Moira murmured. “Good work, Bijou.”
“Arkzulia awaits,” the being reiterated. As Moira took his hand, a burst of white light filled the den. She disappeared with the being. Bijou went dark.
* * *
After 30 minutes the cube warmed and began cycling through a panoply of colors, before settling on the indescribable color that opened the gateway to Arkzulia.
Moira first appeared as a hologram, then rapidly solidified. She wore dented and scuffed matte-gray scaled armor; the exposed skin of her hands and face bore long-healed scars. She used her right eye, now a bionic scanner, to scope out her apartment. Finding no enemy warriors, she relaxed, though still kept a firm grip on her Arkzulian war-hammer.
Bijou brightened into his familiar, friendly green upon recognizing Moira.
“Thank you for playing ‘Campaign for Arkzulia: The Final Battle.’ Congratulations! You finished Level 1 with a four out of five star rating. You have successfully unlocked Level 2,” Bijou chirped gleefully, channeling the game’s programmed voice-over.
The cube continued, “The Level 2 access code will be downloaded to your—”
Before it could finish, Moira raised her war-hammer and brought it down upon Bijou with all the strength of a battle-hardened Arkzulian warrior, smashing both the cube and coffee table to bits.
