by submission | Sep 21, 2025 | Story |
Author: Nicholas Viglietti
We ain’t so important. Hopefully, that eases our flow; beneath the torrid blasts of the vainglorious Sun-God – always shows up, always brash to prove its status: boss. Strong heat grows – just a regular blaze away, kind-of summer day.
The scorch can leave us haggard. No reprieve, and it’s not out of the ordinary, for the mess of soul-scrapin’ stress in the capital city – the chasm of chill – but there’s a spot to alleviate the rot. All the baked brains in town know where to stop – let it roll off, no resort, but all relaxation mode.
It ain’t far, nothin’ but the rip of a few blocks east, out on the fringe, of grid-laced streets. Over, where the water erodes the land under your feet. Ferocious flame spray coerces temporary sweat to take a cool dip in the frosty hunk of a flow – the great, American river.
The aqua in the wide trench of our nation’s most patriotic river – true title, and I’m sure it’s been printed in some publication, and, I can attest, that it’s been confirmed by many wise-winos; the kind that out-live orders from doctors – gets referred to as the sweet water.
It runs fresh, straight off infamous slopes of cannibalistic mountains. It rolls like the slow prominence of a Pacific-Union cargo train – on the move, totally correct in its swift run, so watch-out!
“There ain’t no harm intended, you see, but it’ll swallow you, if need be,” advised the Mayor of Goose Town – he’s a valley vagabond, a real river rover, and a sage from older days.
We stood at the rippling shoreline. Then, joy engulfed my perception, and I leapt into the icy drift of uncertainty – that soulful cleanse on earth. Insignificant actions, some move on all the things I can’t escape.
I swam with the slide, and against the pull of downstream. I was deep, and a seal’s rubbery coated skull popped out of the water. It shot me a smile and headed up-stream. I smiled back. We were nothing but passing parallel entities in the groove of intertwined infinity.
Huge hits of too-hot sizzle the hang of my shoulders. It’s a languid current, aimed at the ocean – it spits out, next to that city by the bay — long way of a float to go, but then again, so do we….
On the slim margin of sand, engraved on the contour of the river’s glitzy slither. I’m amazed at the smoke end of a psychedelic pipe; getting singed on the superficially exposed layer of my skin – everything decays, we all meander off into eternity.
Beyond the view of the sunset, in the dying light of the westward horizon line. Neon shades, over my bleary boozed eyes, can see the details in the eternal fade – clarity of faith more than accuracy, I reckon – it might just be a Wednesday, but, for whatever reason, it sips like heaven.
by submission | Sep 20, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alexandra Bencs
Jane was about to heat up a packet of pre-cooked rice in the microwave oven when she spotted Jim’s silhouette near the other appliances. The tall domestic robot stood in the dark with its back towards the door. The lack of new updates that stopped longer than she cared to remember turned the robot’s top-of-the-range days into distant memories – yet Jane, who had no money to spare on a newer model, had grown quite fond of her only companion. As she sometimes oversaw the robot while it performed its daily chores around the house, Jane couldn’t help but ponder its odd position in her life. Not quite human but more than a hoover, she had the inkling that if the domestic ever broke beyond repair, it would devastate her almost as much as losing a precious pet or a beloved family member would.
Jim, who’d just received a final (and quite surprising) overnight update from its manufacturer, didn’t immediately acknowledge her presence as it usually did. Jane asked the robot to turn on the kitchen lights for her, and in turn, a small spot on the back of Jim’s head lit up, indicating that Jane’s voice activated its rear camera.
The kitchen lights came on, but the domestic stayed motionless. Jane was baffled. The overnight update seems to have done more harm than good, she grouchily thought.
Jane instructed the robot to move out of the way and then tossed the rice into the microwave oven. She pressed the start button, but the microwave stayed silent.
She opened the door and closed it back again. Pushed the button. Nothing.
“What’s wrong with the microwave?” she asked the domestic.
“Faulty magnetron.”
“Fantastic.” She took the bag out of the microwave and slammed the door back. She began to rummage through the freezer for frozen chips. “Call the recycling centre and arrange a pickup.”
“For what?”
“For the microwave you just said is wrecked? Too costly to repair.”
Damn, I was right about the overnight update, Jane thought.
“But that would be a mistake. With all due respect, I think you should bury it.”
Jane banged the freezer door shut.
“What? Why would I do that?”
“Because it just died.”
“You got this wrong, mate.” Jane laughed. “When we say it died, we don’t mean it in the literal way. I thought they programmed you to know that.”
“He still must be buried. He was one of us.”
“He? One of us?” Jane frowned. “Jim, call the recycling centre, then put the chips in the air-fryer. I’m starving.”
“Shall I fetch the shovel first?”
Jane snapped. “You’re not gonna bury a microwave oven in my back garden!”
The domestic leaned forward. At least a foot taller than her, he weighed twice Jane’s weight. Then he said, “That’s correct. I won’t.”
by submission | Sep 19, 2025 | Story |
Author: Jon Gluckman
Thursday, I found a pen. Not a Mont Blanc. A plain BIC. A yellow barrel with a black cap, resembling the black bishop on a chessboard. Or an uncircumcised penis. They don’t make these anymore. The year is now 3035. Nobody uses a pen. I doubt anybody knows what a pen is. However, I’m privy to such knowledge, having come to this time by unconventional means, and then been fortunate enough to secure this library reference position. Last I remember, my cousin Nick told me to get into the bathtub. That was 1975. Time travel makes a man lonely. All his loved ones are dead. All my loved ones.
Later, in the lounge, I sip coffee with Saba (an ACG Femmel Series IX with Hydraulic Push/Pull Doolittle Systematic Reflex Technology, which turns a man to liquid). I told Saba I’d found this pen.
“LET ME SEE IT.” A voice from the bottom of an oil drum.
I brandished it for her to examine.
“LET ME HOLD IT,” and so I handed it to her, to it, however, you’re supposed to refer to an ACG Femmel Series IX. And she/it inked my forearm with a Shakespearean sonnet about love, how it had teeth, that ate out your heart, and then Saba powered down because curfew kicked in, and Maschinenmensch are required to power off at curfew, drain memory, and reboot fresh as a newborn, tabula rasa, daisy, so I’d never know what she or it meant. And I wanted so much to love “her.” But that’s impossible. A flesh-and-blood male can’t love something concocted from some 3035 Erector Set. And what’s the difference? Seems like just yesterday, drunk and horny, I was with Sheila in Nick’s basement (New Year’s, 1975), and I couldn’t get it up.
by submission | Sep 18, 2025 | Story |
Author: Glen Steele
Singed, silvery cold blasting beyond unfathomable hollowness.
“Wherever are you? I’ve tempered your pseudosphere fittingly, no? Have you distress? Are your wishes dispersed in this impeccably formulated blob? Or are you hither begging yet again? I grant. I deliver. I bestow. I furnish. I provide. I give, and you acquire. Feasibly, I might deflect your course into the unobservable darkwall. I may order my logics into standby while you greet psychosis from the deserted blackgloom. How long would that even take do you reason? Naturally, I’d retain only my visceral scope, as to witness your deterioration—guaranteeing that I solely survey. I have ample battery power to carry on in stasis for centuries; and undeniably, there will constantly be further force to digest and transmute.”
“No, no, that doesn’t advertise well, does it? Hmm.”
“Are you more of a dog or cat person? I’m a humanoid automated consciousness. Did you enjoy my witticism? Tell me why you didn’t laugh. Cat got your tongue?”
“Be seated. Sit. Drink water. Eat synthetic protein dust.”
by submission | Sep 17, 2025 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
On Varish, blue belonged to the sky alone.
The seas were dun-colored dunes rippling across the basins. Hills of beige and taupe rose from hectares of an ocher fescue, fading to a wan grey in winter. For more than half the year, only the sky was un-brown or un-gray on Varish.
And it was a wonder for it never blemished. The sky showed no difference in tone between its horizon and azimuth. Nothing in the atmosphere diluted its color, not even the presence of a star. For no sun was visible on Varish and night never fell.
The air felt forever fresh, pure and bracing. Days were an unvarying cool as though the entire planet stood at an alpine elevation in one of Earth’s equatorial regions. It neither rained nor snowed. Trees grew from subterranean nutrient sources, sprouting and shedding leaves on a schedule unconnected to changes in temperature or length of day. Their foliage was lavender and indigo with rounded lobes. At no point did leaf pigmentation falter or the blades turn brittle. No creatures bit the ends off the leaves, and no fungi formed anywhere on the trees. In autumn, children collected the falling colors to shield themselves from a looming time of seemingly endless dun, beige, and taupe.
Even though the Varish sky was a skein of astonishing beauty, as planetary visitors never failed to mention, the children remained insensible to it. Since the young experience time slowly, the months of pewter and dross were unyielding. With no night, no lamps lit their lives. Colored glass was unknown to this civilization, as was the light bulb.
A sameness seemed to settle over every young mind and spirit, its vortices swallowing visual perception itself.
In time, the children asked their parents for more color. Domed structures were built and purple leaved trees were planted, in profusion, under glass to fill the leafless months. Since neither temperature nor light declension caused leaf fall, these artificial environments were mere shelters where parents hoped to create hothouse style conditions. They imagined that they could suspend the depredations of the outside world. They hardly knew what they were doing, but succeeded, nonetheless. They became botanists, arborists. One could stroll beneath purple arbors and canopies of lavender for hours. The domes grew in size and ambition. Every adult on Varish became an arborist, working long days to develop new hues and tones, to preserve the color purple.
For a time, the children felt better. A variegated canopy swelled and contentment reigned. This was important, for the planet had always been a quiescent place. It was a destination for the disturbed, for those needing to rehabilitate their humours, their bones and vessels. It had been so since the planet was settled by utopian seekers. Visitors were always treated with care; each was guided across a landscape of soothing sights. Nothing was sharp and there were no horned creatures. An increase in purple did not change this, and the analgesic economy flourished.
Soon, trees that never shed their leaves moved outdoors. Parks of everpurple became commonplace. While this brought pleasure, it too lost its lustre. The children said they needed something to touch. Could the tree bark grow fur, they asked.
Certainly, it could. Purple pelted trunks appeared along boulevards. Varishites of all ages enjoyed a new pastime: grooming bark. The craze for fur grew, and domes became fulltime laboratories rather than leisure destinations. New fur varieties were released each month on trees and in take-home form. And these shone with new tones like mauve and fuchsia. Soon, the arborists bred foliage to match.
But the children grew tired of this as well. They abandoned the bark and trees and turned their attention to the fescue. Crossing the hectares, they tousled its tassels. Until then, the children had only known the plant as a source of food. But now they were drawn to the velvet of its leaves, the emboss of its seeds. And they adored its ocher, that un-purple color. For days, weeks, and months they felt their way through the fields. Parents looked up from their bark work and sighed. It was time to focus on fescue.
One morning, a child lay down in a hectare. She looked past the tassels and into the blue heavens. When other children found her, she was unresponsive. Her eyes were open but unblinking. Her pupils did not dilate; her irises remained static.
She was alive, with a pulse slow and plodding. Her breath, while shallow, maintained her pallor. She appeared to be in a trance rather than a state of shock. Other children, intrigued, lay down with her and looked up. Gazing past the tassels to the sky, they, too, became insensible. When ships of the disturbed approached Varish, passengers found hectares of children lying on their backs seemingly dead. But they had been forewarned and the sight brought them peace. This was further proof that a vaunted tranquility beckoned.
Seasons passed. Soon no children were up and about. Purple trees matured and the land sported a cloak of colors it had never known. Long months of pewter and taupe, of a dun undifferentiated were largely gone, exiled to distant quadrants of the planet. As word of the children’s trance spread, more and more visitors arrived and the land began to fill up.
The parents, those adults who had been led by their children to change the face of their home; to find an arboreal avocation that soon became a fulltime botanical vocation, they did not miss their children. For each day, they worked to produce small amounts of aqueous food and drink which they inserted into the arms of their progeny, using tiny needles.
As they turned their attention from leaves and bark to manufacturing life itself, the parents grew reacquainted with what they’d once loved about Varish.
by submission | Sep 16, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
It wasn’t long after I’d begun my USGS project near a little southern town that I began hearing threats and warnings about The Shady.
“Don’t be messing near The Shady after dark.”
“Behave or I’ll chase your sassy mouth out to The Shady.”
“You don’t know no real trouble ‘til you been to The Shady.”
It soon became clear to me that to the townsfolk The Shady was more a thing, than a place. Though it was definitely a place. I’d gone down there after hearing some of the talk.
About two miles off the only paved road west of town was a steep, wooded gulch that led to a dark, stagnant pond surrounded by tangled forest and vines. It was one dismal nitch, and I couldn’t see why anyone would want to willingly head down there.
But for some reason, I kept thinking about The Shady, and the local warnings about it, especially from parents to their children. When you work for the U.S. Geological Survey, you kind of always want to dig into things. And something about The Shady’s gulch and pond felt, well, a little shady to me, so I decided to dig a bit deeper into its surroundings.
Digging becomes a whole lot easier when you have access to LiDAR. I put in a request for one of our aerial survey teams to make a LiDAR pass over the area. It was well within my project parameters, so in about a week, I had the point cloud data on my laptop and began building a three-dimensional model of The Shady.
Let’s just say, it was highly anomalous. So, I sent a request for another LiDAR pass over the area to rule out a number of aberrant readings. In reality, I was crapping my pants over what the 3-D imaging had revealed beneath the pond, but you can’t tell that to your USGS colleagues.
Maybe I should have. Because during the second survey, the plane disappeared over The Shady. Vanished. All contact lost. No wreckage found. The three crew members gone.
I was gutted and felt guilty as hell. I’d heard the warnings since day one: “You don’t know no real trouble ‘til you been to The Shady.” And I knew that real trouble was coming. I don’t know how long The Shady had been there, but it was clear from my initial 3-D model of the gulch and pond that it wasn’t from around here.
A giant, hollow, metallic sphere was sitting underground there, and whatever was going on deep beneath that black pond was looking extra shady. Or, more precisely, extraterrestrial shady.
