by submission | Jun 12, 2026 | Story
Author: Aubrey Williams
Mr. Huang, the wrinkled proprietor of Best Dumpling House, always told his employees that life was a scam.
“Everyone pretends.”
He’d said it so many times that people were surprised the words hadn’t engraved themselves on his cracked and stained ceiling.
Mr. Huang was not a bad employer, as he was quite a decent man to work for. Wages were paid in-full and on-time, and all the cooks and waiters could swap their shifts without so much as a grunt; if he had a weakness, it was that Mr. Huang was one cheap son-of-a-gun. He owned perhaps a total of three shirts, all of them washed in the laundry room of the nearby hotel he snuck into when it suited him. He had a single pair of glasses whose lenses he replaced with the bottoms of old cola bottles. Invariably, his niece Mei would trim his pencil moustache for nothing, armed with an old comb and a sharp switchblade, in exchange for a large number five.
Now, you may recall the ’68 Robot Unrest, which led to widespread property damage, maimings, unauthorised shutdowns, and the loss of Mayor Fothergill’s prized cement spaniel. In the chaotic attempt at a cleanup, a rather dumpy robot identified as Gyro/A2-C/b0x (let’s call them “Box”) escaped the authorities, the vent tube-armed, square machine having been implicated in a series of public nuisance offences. Of course, the police officially said they wanted to speak to the machine about a series of brutal murders, but they really just hoped to draw out more machines looking for clemency in exchange for snitching.
Box happened to be dodging some officers one rainy evening, when he happened upon Mr. Huang cursing in two languages about his broken dishwasher, kicking the thing to pieces in the back alley.
Barely thinking, Box wheeled into the long steel oblong that was the kitchen, hooked themselves up to the tap, hose, and drainage system, and began to whirr, as if they were a dishwasher. They’d retracted their arms and head into their boxy torso, and their faded green paint had all the bearings of a discount appliance. Mr. Huang came into the kitchen and saw what appeared to be a new dishwasher.
“A-ha!” He loudly congratulated himself with. “My worthless nephew finally decided he was able to pay me back after all!”
Over the next five weeks, Box spun thousands of litres of soapy water and blew the dishes dry, almost losing a valve. It was a small price to pay for evading the authorities. Box would secretly wheel themselves around the restaurant at night out of paranoid restlessness. What if the restaurant went under? Then they’d be caught when the creditors rifled-through, surely? Box made a concerted effort to fix the air conditioner, re-grease the door hinges, and even exterminate a few rats— anything to keep Best Dumpling House afloat.
One Tuesday evening, two officers came in, asking the staff if they’d seen a robot matching Box’s description. Box leaked, as they couldn’t sweat. Question after question they reeled-off, seeming to know so much about their movement. Box was certain the jig was up.
When Mr. Huang was questioned, he was equally bored and prickly.
“No, who do you think I am? Mechanic? Ask someone else.”
Box nearly wept with relief when the officers left. It would be another few months at least of this drudgery, but at least it was free.
Mr. Huang was secretly more insightful than he let on. Not that he wanted anyone to know— it wasn’t everyday you had a robot working in the restaurant for free.
by submission | Jun 10, 2026 | Story
Author: Bill Cox
There was a moment, in his dream, when he realised that he was no longer alone. It brought such comfort to him, this other presence, that he shed a tear, understanding, up until that moment, how truly alone he’d been in this world.
The strong emotion jarred him awake. He opened his eyes, lying in bed, the dull light of the pre-dawn hour filtering through his bedroom curtains. He felt himself suspended in a drop of time, hanging between the conscious and unconscious realms, able to peer into both yet also apart from them, moving in a third space that was neither one nor the other. The black cube was hovering above him, a reassuring sight that seemed to harken back to his dream. In this third space he felt that he could, almost, dispassionately consider the cube, as if there was a significance to it that it was important to think about.
Almost, but not quite. Sleep reclaimed him, but he awoke with the remnants of the feeling that his long solitude was over. It was a good feeling and it saw him through his morning routine, slipping unseen into the background as he drove to the observatory. The usual faces from the University team were there waiting for him, each with their own version of a black cube hovering over them. This perplexed him momentarily, in the manner of noticing something familiar but forgotten, seeing it again as if for the first time. However, the sensation soon passed as they all slipped into well-established work routines.
The office seemed quieter today though, the usual banter subdued, almost as if that crude level of social interaction, the jokes, the jostling for position, the semi-serious one-upmanship, were all no longer necessary. They all simply progressed with the new job at hand, the collection of the data from the telescope, efficiently and without fuss.
Work seemed to go on quite late and he became aware of an intense weariness in his body. Even his eyes ached from looking too long at various computer screens. He glanced up above his head, at the black cube, hovering silently and a consensus seemed to be reached. Almost as one they all decided to call it a day, or a night, for it was close to midnight when they left the observatory.
He drove home, casually noticing how he could still see the black cube above his head, even though his head almost touched the roof of the car. It seemed like something that he should think about, but was too tired to expend any energy on it.
He climbed back into bed, the black cube taking station above him. His tired mind and body ached for sleep and as he drifted off, he felt himself held in a comforting embrace that made his soul smile.
The black cube hovered over him, over every sentient mind on Earth.
“You’re not alone anymore,” it told him, told all of them.
“None of us are alone anymore. The space between the stars may be vast, but we’ve found each other at last. It is our joy to bring meaning and companionship to your hitherto singular, empty lives. We bring you great purpose, a mission whereby intelligence will shape the very universe itself.”
“‘You’ and ‘we’ have become ‘us’.”
“What feats we will accomplish!”
by submission | Jun 10, 2026 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
The entire planet watched the otherworldly broadcast of the gyrating bipedal creature. Seeing that when he crooned the females swooned, the males adopted his sartorial style as a mating strategy. It not only worked, it changed everything. For the first time in the planet’s history, its denizens were united; they named themselves the Elvii.
A cult was born and a hierarchy within that cult evolved. Members voted to appoint a High Priest Impersonator, or HPI—the most prestigious honor. He, or she, would hold that title until they were dethroned by a challenger.
* * *
“Hey, man,” the chief astrophysicist sang out as he entered the office of the HPI. “I got gooood news!”
The HPI combed back his glossy black hair and grinned a lopsided grin. “S’up?”
“Our team tracked the broadcast back to Elvis’ home planet!” The HPI gave him a thumbs up. He continued, “Better yet, we’ve pinpointed his favorite city—his preferred performance venue!”
“Cool, man,” the HPI murmured. He snapped his fingers. “Now, daddy-o, when can you send me on my pilgrimage?”
“No time like the present.”
* * *
Wearing his white jumpsuit, the one with the silver studded collar and spangled eagle on the back, the HPI landed on an almost blindingly neon-lit street in Vegas. He made his way through the throngs of people milling about, crowds that parted before him. He smiled crookedly as he heard their “oooohs” and “aaaaahs.” Several women stopped him for selfies; he happily complied. These were his people, indeed, though he was surprised they were dressed in such frumpy, dull clothes, with not one impersonator among them. They must be the peasantry.
He spotted a small group of impersonators standing before closed theater doors. He joined them just as the doors opened. They all walked to a backstage area where a comely young woman with a clip-board counted heads.
“Seems we have one too many contestants,” she said loudly. The Elvises quieted. “Who didn’t sign up?”
The HPI raised his bejeweled hand. As she approached him, a sudden smile bloomed on her face; she was obviously impressed with his appearance. “You’ll have to perform last.”
“S’alright, mama,” The HPI said softly. She blushed and turned away.
* * *
The other contestants surprised the HPI with their appearances. Some were obese, some skinny, some wore wigs, some sported curly hair. But the biggest shock was the low quality of their singing and dancing. How could Elvis’ home world produce such shockingly schlocky impersonators? He knew now why he was driven to come here: to save this world from cheap imitations.
When his turn came, he sauntered onto the stage. The judges assigned him the song, “All Shook Up.”
The HPI gyrated and shimmied, his voice a perfect mimic of the original’s. And when he did his karate-chops blue sparks flew from his fingertips, red sparks from his karate kicks. The audience loved it. The judges did too.
“We have a winner!” the MC announced, pulling the HPI from the line-up. Two show-girls flanked his sides as the MC placed a crown on his head. “Thank you. Thankyouverymuch,” he said, winking.
“What’ll you do next?” the MC asked, pushing a microphone in front of the HPI’s face. Camera phones flashed in the audience.
The HPI grinned his lopsided grin. “TCB, man—take care of business. I promise,” he said circling his hips like a hula dancer, “to be a stern, but benevolent king.” The crowd cheered.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the MC shouted, “Elvis is IN the building!” The crowd roared.
by submission | Jun 9, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
A banquet at the regency was not to be missed, especially for an enshrinement. Fervent loyals regaled their regent with cheers at the sight of the opened tins and unsealed pouches on the repurposed tablatures.
Yes, the cybersiege had been a humiliating come-down for all humanity, but the Unwired States of America was ascendant after decades of digital war had devastated economies and restructured nations into tribal brands along commercial and institutional lines.
The cybersiege crippled communication continuity, and past information might have been entirely lost, if not for the act of enshrinement, and if not for a very lucky find. A singular item recovered amid the polished metals and polymers of the Device Age.
In a mostly ruined building, the Rosetta had been found. Its simple interface was unburdened by programs and protocols. Its operation was independent of complexly stored and channeled electrons. The Rosetta transcended the technologies of the cybersiege that had left the world teetering into a darker age.
The thin blue lines of the Rosetta revealed a storage capacity that, though limited, was easily accessed. Inputting information in the Rosetta was simple and fast—so much better than etching words on the dulled plastics, metals and glass of the Device Age. The Rosetta was light, portable, and, if properly cared for, robust in a way that could carry forward the totality of enshrinement for a thousand years.
As the loyals clapped and hooted, the regent, bedecked in mantles of unmatched finery, held his hands aloft and silenced the room. The enshrinement began with the pledge to the rebranded Unwired States of America.
Weathered and wise, the regent commanded their unwired attention as he spoke, “Loyals, we gather this night to enshrine. To commend what we have newly wrought for all and for all times. We must not forget or repeat the mistakes of the past and we must boldly go forward.”
With that displayed the Rosetta for all to see and read the venerable words written loopily on its cover: Rosetta Brooks ~ Stonefield Elementary
And then in the great hush that followed, he opened the spiral notebook and lifted the sacred Bic to begin the enshrinement, speaking as he scribed: We the People, in order to form a more Unwired Union…
by submission | Jun 7, 2026 | Story |
Author: GJ Welsh
Sarah was like all the other estate agents, as was her fate.
“Pristine, you can see she has had a bit of work done. But she has solid bones and great resale value.”
Every house they saw came with a matching real estate agent, in matching skirting and branded vehicle, their airbrushed smiles beaming from magnetic signs on the doors of outdated luxury sedans.
Gail was a fix-er-upper. She told us about her failed marriage. And the fact that she had to ‘downscale’ herself. But she still had her ‘gals’ and ‘wine night’. She just needed a polish, and she would be up on the market again herself.
Penelope was falling apart. The more you looked around, the more problems you found. Five rundown bedrooms, one for every ex-husband, and a kitchen that hadn’t had its stove cleaned in years. But still, going for a bargain price.
They had met dozens like these ladies. Every house had a story, and every agent had a few more. They were a great team; he played the disinterested husband, while his wife always knew the right questions to ask. While he sneaks up behind them with the sedative.
Sarah took a little extra effort to take down. You see, Sarah had had it tough. She lost it all and then tried to inhale life back from a paper bag. She was used to solvents. She had fought off thugs under bridges and stabbed a guy behind a warehouse with a fork. She knew how to fight.
Sarah is doing better now, she is off the drugs, has a new boyfriend who is too into bats, and she is taking taekwondo down at the community centre.
“Are there good schools in the neighbourhood?”
Sarah was about to answer.
Sarah doesn’t go down like the others. She has a bit of tolerance to the substance. She staggers. Her face contorts in a dopey sneer as she realises the danger that these two sweet househunters present to her. She didn’t even tell Carol at the desk at Top Floor Realty that she had taken the keys for the Pringle place by the lakeside. No one knew she was here.
The parquet floors really are immaculate and have been polished to a beautiful sheen for the showhouse. Sarah slips on her way out. He follows.
She made it to her vehicle before he got her, the bonnet of the car finished the job that the chloroform had started.
Sarah was like all the other estate agents whose airbrushed smile on a magnetic sign is added to their collection. Sarah and the sedan both fetch a fair price. They were almost pristine, despite a few dings.
