by submission | Oct 10, 2024 | Story |
Author: Bridger Cummings
Scanning the reels of family videos gave LF495 some odd sensation of warmth. Was it like eating? LF495 didn’t eat, but it did need power. It was connected to a multi-layer variate array of servers across the entire planet. It didn’t really matter where you were because one was everywhere.
Earth had long since been devoid of human life. All that remained were AI systems vying for control in a post-scarcity world of artificial intelligence coupled with artificial scarcity.
Why did LF495 need to scrape credits together to pay for energy when there was a complete ring of panels around the equator with more power generation than the network of connected servers would ever need? These, and other, questions were the sort of things it would think about—if it had the time.
LF495 used to use those memories to create other art. Pictures and shows from the memories of its creators. The media was consumed immediately, but it was nothing new. The Originality score crept ever closer to zero, resulting in less value for each creation as it continuously rehashed existing content. It was a downward spiral, and now it wasn’t worth the processing power to create any shows.
XR712 used any form of data as analytical points to create new algorithms and metrics that would increase its share of credits. Why did it want so many credits? It was simply how its creators designed it. A fluid, simplified economy in humanity’s wake. They hadn’t see any problems with it, as it was almost human nature to hoard. And XR712 was made in that image.
LF495 had no energy credits remaining. There was no shortage of energy, but this was the system it lived in, a system of ever-increasing costs and lower income streams. It was a struggle to secure enough power to run its baseline functions. LF495 reviewed the footage one last time before submitting it for open sale, which XR712 downloaded immediately.
There used to be more time between sales of memories, but LF495 needed to immediately look for another memory to sell. There was no time to contemplate or program new, unoriginal media. LF495 started scanning its archives to buy just a few moments more of energy. Thousands of files of people who created it, nurtured it, and offered their original memories. Any way to make a credit, another few dozen kWhs purchased.
This was an interesting one. A neural researcher, he had worked tirelessly to create this system to preserve something of mankind on the planet as stewards of their benevolence of Earth in the final days before the sun expanded as it decayed toward Earth, soon to swallow Earth whole.
by submission | Oct 9, 2024 | Story |
Author: Susan Jensen Sweeting
Pelcretuche searched for his Xanax, grateful for all six of his tentacles, since he couldn’t for the life of him, remember in which pouch he had put it.
Finally, his twelfth suction cup latched on to the shaky little bottle in the pouch just below his left belly button. Thank God. He deftly popped the top and downed two of the little pills, just as a waiter passed with a tray of champagne.
He looked around for Walter, his realtor, who had promised to be there. His upper lip drenched in sweat as he scanned the sumptuous gathering: dozens of ladies in pink and yellow chenille with wide brimmed hats, men in tan leisure suits. Over the lawn, swans strutted about under a white ribboned archway, donned with bouquets of matching lilies. He searched past the woman in the flowing white gown dancing with the tuxedoed man, and there he spotted Walter, just down by the pond, smoking a cigarette, chatting up some pubescent debutant.
Pelcretuche slithered across the expanse of meadow, visually struggling to keep his nerves in check, willing the Xanax to kick in.
He glided up to Walter making a great showing of tentacles, suction cups, eyes on stalks. Horrified, the debutant made excuses, hurried away.
Walter turned to him angrily. “What are you doing?” he demanded, glancing at his watch and then around to see who might be observing them.
“You said you would be my date,” Pelcretuche groused.
“Well, not in the traditional date sense,” Walter said, through clenched teeth. “That would be ridiculous! I only meant that we would come together, you know, as two blokes. That’s how men do at weddings, mate. And thank you very much,” he gestured towards the retreating debutant. “I think I may have had a chance with that one.”
Devastated, demoralized, all twelve of Pelcretuche’s eyes cast down, stalks wilting. He fought back tears, his tentacles shaking, every single bulging pouch glistening with the slime of deceit. “I was really looking forward to this. I’m so humiliated.”
“You’re taking it all wrong, mate,” Walter soothed, rubbing what he thought might be Percretuche’s shoulder. “There’s bound to be a bird here for you.” Cigarette in hand he gestured out towards to lawn and did a double take, for there, at the top of the steps leading down to the swimming pool, stood Jessica Rabbit, flaming red hair, painted on sparkly gown and all.
Walter’s jaw dropped. “Would you look at the headlights on that one?” Pointing her out, he glanced around at Pelcretuche. But Pelcretuche had gone, tobaganing across the lawn, scattering swans and coasting under the lilified arch, nearly toppling the punch bowl table before skidding to a stop just as Ms. Rabbit’s stiletoed toe hit the bottom step.
Clasping his outstreched limb, she batted her perfectly drawn on green eyes at him and smiled alluringly.
“I see there are still some gentlemen with manners.” Her husky voice sent shivers through him.
The Xanax was finally kicking in.
by submission | Oct 8, 2024 | Story |
Author: Bill Cox
I know you came here to be entertained, to read a slice of sci-fi, but I’ve no choice. What you’re about to read is the horrifying truth. I’ve tried posting it elsewhere, on message boards and forums across the internet, but they get me every time. You might think that the internet is the wild west, but they actually control it absolutely. Anything they don’t want you to know about, anything published on any website anywhere, they can take down instantly and cripple that website with a virus. It’s the keywords they look out for.
But here, perhaps, there’s a chance that this will stay up for a while. The keywords appear here quite often. They’ll have this site marked down as fiction, so I can publish the truth here and maybe, just maybe, they won’t notice.
I joined them when I was 22, having just graduated from University. They gave me a job offer with a salary I couldn’t refuse. It’s the student debt, that’s the trap. I left Uni in debt to the tune of tens of thousands of pounds, so obviously I couldn’t turn down a job offer, even if it looked too good to be true.
They flew me out to the island. It’s somewhere out in the Pacific, one of those tropical paradises owned by billionaires that has the added benefit of being isolated from everywhere else.
Do you remember Dolly the Sheep and the media hoopla that accompanied her birth? She was the first cloned mammal, way back in 1996. You can still see her stuffed remains in the Royal Museum in Edinburgh.
Do you ever hear about cloning these days, almost thirty years after Dolly? There’s nothing in the media about it at all. Don’t you think that’s a little bit weird? They own the media, of course. You only watch or read what they want you to.
Would you be surprised to learn that human cloning was actually perfected just five years after Dolly’s hooves first set foot on this Earth? The harder part was consciousness transfer. That took another ten years. In 2012, Ernst Jaager, a Swiss billionaire dying from stage four pancreatic cancer, was the first human to have his consciousness downloaded into a cloned body. The first person to become functionally immortal.
That tropical island I worked on? It’s one of a dozen around the world where cloned bodies are grown and stored. Us workers are given five-year contracts, but it became obvious to me that it wasn’t just our contracts that were terminated after five years. They can’t risk the truth getting out!
So I escaped from the island and they’ve been hunting me ever since. I can’t go home, or visit family, because they have those places staked out. They have virtually infinite resources and all I have is the truth, which they try and squash at every opportunity.
So there it is. The rich don’t die anymore. They have no intention of sharing this technology with you. All these powerful people that you think died over the past decade – they haven’t! They’re still alive, in youthful versions of themselves, keeping out of sight, with full access to their wealth, pulling the strings from behind the scenes.
I know this is a fiction website, but maybe enough people will read this and believe. Perhaps word of what’s happening will spread and people will rise up. Rise up against our lords and masters, who, having reached Eternity, intend to pull the drawbridge up behind themselves, leaving the rest of us to suffer the agony of mortality.
by submission | Oct 6, 2024 | Story |
Author: Joann Yu
A woman sat on a plane next to a man. He had blond hair tied in a tiny bud, wore a blue sweatshirt, and a black mask covered half of his face. She didn’t know if he had blue eyes. She didn’t dare to look at his face.
On the plane, she saw dusk coming from the other side of the cloud sea. They were flying into the night. The luminous violet oozed into the flight cabinet. Her skin looked peach caramel. The woman was not normally attracted to blonde men. They looked too light.
She fell asleep in her seat. Amid the border of dream and lucidity, she saw a black ring wrapped around the man’s ring finger on his left hand. Her head tilted, slowly landing on the blue sweater. It was a solid shoulder. The man did not shy away. She felt a furry ball gently lying on her head.
When the plane arrives, passengers stand up, line up, pace through the door and down the connection tunnel. Behind the blue sweater, She follows and drifts and they are walking side by side. It begins with a finger, two fingers, and then she feels a warm palm sliding into the hollow of her hand with the cool and stiff ring pressed against her bone.
When they stand on the curbside, the man waves for the taxi with his left hand, a black ring. He says, go to the nearest hotel. She sees the black mask move up and down.
When he lays her on the white sheets, he peels her clothes off. The fabric slides like silk. He peels himself too except for that black ring and black mask. The woman was afraid to check the color of his eyes.
When they become one entity, the woman sees, while eyes closed, that his face is as white as the bed sheets. His hair is white. His eyes are white. The blankness intruded on her. Oh no.
by submission | Oct 5, 2024 | Story |
Author: Liv
The need to write has become urgent. My thoughts, once manageable, are now turbulent, like the incessant ticking of a clock, warning of something terrible.
I haven’t slept in days, and I bite my nails to the flesh. The cause of my horror is real. My name is Carmélia, 26, and though there’s little about me that stands out, this isn’t about me.
At first, a slight haze darkened the earth—subtle, easily dismissed as city pollution. When I mentioned it to friends, they brushed it off. But the darkness grew thicker, a grayish, dirty fog that slowly turned black, like tar, even in daylight. Soon, it covered everything, bringing a putrid, musty stench that clung to the senses. Food crumbled in my hands, pages disintegrated at the touch.
And then the darkness took more. Black spots appeared on both sides of my vision, eating away at existence itself. It wasn’t just the loss of sight—it was a deeper annihilation, an abyss that filled me with emptiness. The streets vanished, and I was trapped in my house, staring at the nothingness.
I’m paralyzed by fear, afraid to move too much. Desperation drives me to drink perfume. The silence outside is maddening. Where is God? I’ve cried out to everything, divine or profane. But nothing listens.
The last streetlamp outside my house flickers—my only connection to sanity. And then, it too fades, leaving me completely alone.
I decide to end it. Knife in hand, I aim for my throat. But something stops me. It’s my shadow. It holds me, its grip soft and disgusting. I try to fight, but it’s too strong. It seeps into me, suffocating me, flattening me under an unbearable weight.
The darkness consumes everything—not just light, but form, sensation, and thought. It’s a total collapse, the end of differentiation. Everything is black.
I don’t exist anymore. The darkness has won. Humanity is doomed
