by submission | Apr 1, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
What was I thinking? Tiasmet could not put the thought—the picture—out of her head. The chipmunk with its shark-blank eyes and its panicked keening as the tictocs methodically circled and closed on it. The chipmunk should have been able to easily dash away. It was ten times the size of a tic or toc, and much more powerful. Yet, the chipmunk froze in place as the tictoc bots linked up, creating an inescapable net.
Senior robotanist Tiasmet Cjurganni, head of motility and chemotactic applications at DowX, should not have been thinking about the chipmunk and her tictocs. She should have been happy beyond all reason. It was her long-awaited wedding day, but, like the chipmunk surrounded by tictocs, she could not escape a sense of doom.
She had risen with the sun in anticipation of the rich, time-honored ceremonies to launch her new life with Ansar. After years of indecision and constant reminders that her biological clock was ticking, Tiasmet finally felt she could truly become part of another. Part of Ansar. She no longer worried she would be subsumed or fragmented. She now believed that she would become whole.
Still, on this first day of their future, their new life together, she was distracted by the harbinger of the chipmunk. Why couldn’t she be like other brides fretting over her hair and henna?
That was not Tiasmet’s makeup. Work and she were one. A robotanist with a decidedly green thumb, she’d helped pioneer the work of florabots, mechlife based on plant behavior. It was not unlike the breakthroughs achieved by roboticists in the early 21st century who modeled insect behaviors to create the first swarm bots. Tiasmet had started there, too, mimicking insect behavior with her first crude tictoc bots. But the further she delved into self-sustaining mechlife, the more she found herself drawn to the plant kingdom.
She’d begun programming her stem-like tictoc bots (tics attempting to keep a vertical orientation, tocs a horizontal one) to behave like heliotropes. Seeking the sun, seeking energy, tictocs self assembled in ever-changing arrays to maximized solar collection. Her dream, and now the business plan of DowX, was to sow vast deserts like the Sahara, Gobi and Death Valley with florabots to harness and harvest the sun’s energy. Tictocs were her proof of concept.
The problem pricking at Tiasmet on her wedding day was that the tictocs seemed to be self-conceptualizing. How else to explain the unsettling scene with the chipmunk? She’d meant it to be a simple field test of the tictocs establishing an area in which to propagate. When the curious chipmunk investigated, the tictocs reorganized in a way Tiasmet had not predicted, attempting to capture and harvest the poor creature.
It appeared the tictocs had adapted ridiculously, almost cognizantly, fast. As if when enough of them had linked up, they were struck with an idea, a collective epiphany.
It was outlandish. It was possibly career-destroying to voice such a conclusion. Yet, on the morning of her wedding, watching the sun spread over the fertile valley of her parents’ home, she believed it, like she believed her own existence. And the new existence she would consummate today.
She knew and so it was known. What would she do? What could be done?
She’d set the clock ticking. Was she ready to ring the alarm?
Tiasmet made her way into her parents’ garden, so alive this glorious morning with the tang of dew, the chatter of birds, the low hum of insects and the stillness of heavy trees. She bent and picked a small white peony blossom, cupping it in her so-clever hands. She inhaled deeply, feeling the freshness of life. She carefully tucked the peony in her rich, cascading hair and turned to face the rising sun across the valley.
More than an idea. Self-awareness assembled on so many levels, in so many ways.
It was known.
We are not so unalike, she thought, turning and smiling into the sun. A verdant garden growing between them. Time for assimilation.
by submission | Mar 30, 2025 | Story |
Author: Jessica Pickard
Once again Sam asked himself why he was standing here, in this field, miles out of town, staring into an increasingly dusky sky.
Well he was here for the money of course. God knows he could use that right now. But he was also here, if he was honest, for the girl, this extraordinary creature standing just a few feet away. Sam had known many beautiful women in his years as a Private Eye. But this one? My God! Those cheekbones! And the greenest eyes he’d ever seen.
Unfortunately she was also quite mad.
It was sad really. The field called for a picnic; a blanket spread on the grass; chilled wine in tall glasses the colour of those eyes. But instead they were here to check out her parents who would apparently ‘arrive from the sky’.
“Yes. They’re coming!” The girl was hopping from foot to foot and pointing upwards.
In his head Sam began the report for his client, the unpleasant Lady Matthews. ‘I am afraid after three days’ close surveillance your suspicions seem correct. This girl is an unsuitable match for your nephew.’
“There! Look!”
Sam followed the line of the girl’s arm. There was indeed something, a black shape, oddly solid against the flimsy clouds. It was moving towards them, travelling fast. Sam experienced a flutter of fear. How far was it back to the car?
The shape, now huge as a warehouse, settled nearby with a soft sigh and started to unzip, turning inside out as if giving birth to its own insides. Light poured from the widening crack. Then something like a tongue slid out and extended stickily towards them.
Sam’s legs no longer connected to his will.
The tongue came to a stop in front of the girl, its tip bouncing up and down. The girl patted it.
“No Anwar, you silly ship. Go play on your own. I need to talk to my parents.”
The tongue slid away with a huffy noise reforming into a perfect zig zag of steps down which descended two enormously tall figures, the height of church pillars.
“Mother! Father! I said humanoid!”
The one called Mother looked down on Sam. “Is that normal size for here?”
“Yes, for the males.”
“And is this the one you want to combine with?” They continued down the steps.
“NO!” the girl was laughing. “Sam is here – well to report on you! The man I want to marry is Algenon. Mum you’ll love Algenon. He is so kind and so …..”
“How long do they live?” interrupted the one called Father.
“About seven Alticars.”
“Well,” said the mother turning to her husband. “If it IS a mistake it will be over in a flash. Then she can recombine with something better. ANWAR STOP THAT!!!” This last was directed at the tongue which had moved away and was now wrapping itself around and through an old tractor. Rusty bangings came from that corner of the field.
“If you are quite sure? Then we give our blessing”. With this Father stretched a hand over the girl’s head. In the orange light Sam could see right through, through to the delicate tracery of a second skull, a forehead that sloped backwards. Like a deer. Like a squirrel.
The girl turned to Sam.
But he had already mentally recomposed his report for Lady Mathews. ‘The girl is no gold digger. The parents come from high places. They even arrived on their own ship! I therefore submit this report in support of the marriage, which I am sure will be a happy one.’
by submission | Mar 29, 2025 | Story |
Author: John Adinolfi
Caleb lived alone, as did Cole. Caleb by circumstance, Cole by choice.
Trina had entertained a variety of live-in partners, but all were short associations. She lived alone.
Each of their homes was unexceptional, except for sharing an extraordinary view of the Pacific below. Sitting on the edge of a cliff, surrounded by lodgepole pines and rock ledges, the cabins were set apart from neighbors. The only time daylight penetrated the shade was late afternoon when the sun blazed over the horizon. Rough-hewn stairs switch-backed down the promontory, ending at the top of the dunes on an isolated beach.
Every day, an hour before sunset, they’d make their way down the long climb to the water. Cole and Trina made sure to slow their pace to not leave Caleb too far behind. When they reached the beach, each settled into a comfortable position. Caleb, in threadbare long-sleeved Oxford and jeans, stretched out on a canvas lounger. Cole sat cross-legged in the sand, T-shirt and cut-offs emphasizing muscular limbs. Trina, her shape hidden in baggy sweats, lay on a straw mat.
They never spoke during these end-of-day respites. Closing their eyes, each retreated to a drowsy inner world, content to let their thoughts commingle.
Cole was playing with a golden-haired child. His lost brother. They raced around a shaggy meadow, tumbling and rolling. Trina watched from the edge of the grass before inserting herself into the game. She had never had permission to play with others as a child. Running down the hillside now was euphoric.
Caleb bowed his head, remembering his own children. He stayed back, not wanting to cast a cloud over Cole and Trina’s happiness. He turned to leave, but they called out to him. Chase us! Caleb raced into the fray, pretending to be a bear, with arms waving and a loud roar. The children squealed in delight, jumping on Caleb, wrestling him down to the soft grass. The tussling turned into a game of tag, with each taking turns pursuing the others. The children once again conspired to tackle Caleb, ending in laughter for all.
After a few more minutes, Caleb shook them off and said he needed to go up to his cabin. Cole and Trina protested. Opening her eyes, Trina saw that Cole was also awake now. Caleb was already out of view, having started the climb back up the bluff. As they followed, the indistinct squawk of a two-way radio carried down on the breeze. Cole and Trina looked towards the flashing lights on the police cruiser parked by Caleb’s cabin. A sergeant approached and asked if they knew Caleb. Exchanging a glance with Trina, Cole told him they were acquainted with Caleb only as a somewhat reclusive neighbor.
The officer told them that Caleb had been found in his cabin. The preliminary assessment was that he had died peacefully in his sleep of natural causes. Probably two, maybe three, weeks ago. Cole and Trina nodded their regrets. Turning away, they headed back down the cliff to the beach.
By the time they reached the bottom, deep purple and orange streaks filled the sky. Caleb was waiting and asked if he could introduce a new memory about his climbing experiences in China with his wife. Cole and Trina readily agreed, as neither had ever seen a mountain so high. The difficult climb would certainly take several days, so they decided to get started right away. Bundling up in heavy parkas, they began ascending the first icy incline.
There was still a good 30 minutes left in today’s hour.
by submission | Mar 28, 2025 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
With a well-worn key in hand, Bonnie unlocked the massive front door of her great-uncle Duran’s house. The place sat unoccupied since his passing; it had taken forever for his will to slog through probate. She’d been his favorite family member, and he, hers. His death made her face her own mortality; it chilled her soul, made her feel untethered. Lost at sea.
Bonnie walked through each room, pulling dusty sheets off the furnishings. The last room she visited was his study; there she found chaotic piles of books and papers overflowing his old desk, spilling onto the floor. The man had been a surrealist poet, always reading and writing.
In the corner behind that desk, sat one last thing to be uncovered. It was boxy, and about three feet tall. An old fashioned safe, perhaps? Maybe it was stuffed with cash or jewels or bearer bonds. Bonnie laughed at herself; she’d seen too many movies.
Bonnie pulled off the sheet. Before her stood what looked like a small metal file cabinet with grids of lights instead of drawers. It looked homemade, with rough welded seams and mismatched metal panels on the sides. On top, there was a slot for unknown purposes, and an embedded, grimy key-board.
At the back, she found a frayed, old-fashioned fabric-covered electrical cord. Bonnie plugged it in, half expecting to get a nasty shock when she did. The device hummed and blinked its variously colored lights. Wondering what would happen, Bonnie typed “Hello” on the key board. Immediately, the device shook violently and coughed up a sheet of paper through its top slot.
*Always Returning*
I’ll see you when next
the fractals bloom
purple green yellow red
in the doorway
of my dusty house
—- end —-
Bonnie sat down in the creaky desk chair. What if his true talent was not writing poems, but constructing a stream-of-consciousness, surreal poetry generator? A machine that reflected—maybe even channeled—his personality. Only the device wasn’t conscious. Right?
What if he chose to lose himself in his surreal imaginings? If Uncle Duran programmed this device to mimic his creative process, then after his passing, using it would be like talking with him.
Bonnie smiled and typed on the grungy keyboard: “Hello, Uncle Duran. Miss you. Love, Bonnie.” To which the machine again shivered and spat out paper.
*Ahoy Family*
cold and tumultuous
the world outside
sea-sick sea green seen it all
to the sixth plane of being
I invite you
—- end —-
Bonnie placed her hand on the poetry generator. Unlike the world outside, it was warm, and welcoming.
by submission | Mar 27, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
Mandy was pretty, vivacious, and my next door neighbour; she’d pop round evenings or at weekends while my spouse was at work to swap gossip, recipes and just chat. But Marco didn’t mind – “you’re such a cliché,” he’d say, laughing, “her gay best friend!”. She was smart, too. Occasionally she’d tell me about her job, some high-flying tech sector gig, dropping references to interlinkages, how humaniform and non-humanoid robots were being taught to recognise each other and differentiate themselves from people. She mentioned something about shutdowns and ‘artificial disobedience’. I’ve got to be honest, most of it went over my head, but I liked to hear her talk.
One day she gave me a present – a carved ceramisteel box that couldn’t have been cheap. Inside was a metal cube with a single blue button on the top. “I want you to have this,” she said. “But you can’t tell anyone about it. Trouble’s coming, and when things get really bad, you should push the button. It’ll cause chaos. You’ll know when. I trust you.” I put it away safely, and put her behaviour down to stereotypical female neurosis, which shows how little I know about women I guess. But I never told Marco, so there’s that.
About two weeks later, I was up early and pottering around the kitchen when I saw them come for her. A long black hovercar landed in the street, and men in suits knocked on her door; they didn’t give her a chance to collect anything, just hustled her out and into the waiting vehicle. It was over in under a minute, and I never saw her again. Later that day, they said on the news that government agencies had conducted a “round-up of scientists and techworkers deemed insufficiently loyal to the State”. There was nothing I could have done, and now there was nothing I could do. I felt like hell.
I was still trying to process that when Marco was taken a month after that; he’d gone off to work at the Mall on Saturday morning as usual, when it was blitzed by a Purity Patrol. Somehow they realised he wasn’t straight and took him into custody for ‘perverting the morals of the youth’ just for being there at the weekend when the kids were likely to be hanging out. He had time for one message before his commset went dead.
There was, of course, no information about where he was being taken, or for how long. And there was nobody I could ask, even as his partner, without making myself an immediate target too. It was a short path from Marco to me, and I was pretty sure they’d be knocking on my door soon too.
I sat in the living room feeling sorry for myself for a good couple of hours; the two people I most cared about had both been disappeared. I could be next. I had nobody else I could trust or run to. I felt like a mouse trapped in a maze, with no way out. Eventually I pulled myself together, and tried to think straight.
The only thing that occurred to me was Mandy’s box. I took it out of the bedside cabinet I’d kept it in, sat on the edge of the bed, and looked at it. Were things really that bad now? With scientists and those deemed ‘deviants’ being taken off the streets, and nobody daring to protest, I decided that they were.
So you can blame me for what happened afterwards. Because I opened the box, and pressed the button. I’m not sorry.
by submission | Mar 26, 2025 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
I had been working on lucid dreaming off and on for about a year. I never believed the goofier ends of the equation- alternate realities, astral projection, and all that other New Age hooey. All I wanted to do was control my own dream space. Maybe have my own “Grand Theft Auto” style adventure or at the very least, an orgy or two. Jah, that would be cool. Unfortunately, none of the exercises and methods to get me to that “enlightened head space” I saw on You Tube was working.
Finally, I had a breakthrough; I was in control of my own dreams, constructing fantastic dreamscapes for my sheer enjoyment and pleasure. Then, after an amazing encounter with a woman I saw in a commercial and had serious lust for as an adolescent, I saw the light. At first, I thought it was my dream version of the sun. It was white and shimmering like a reflection on water but only on clouds. I flew up to it and was sucked in, and after a minor panic attack, blacked out.
When I awoke, I was in a huge bowl-shaped depression surrounded by green grass and wildflowers. It was heartbreakingly beautiful. I had an overwhelming sense of peace, and instantly understood my life and all my idiotic shortcomings and pettiness. I understood everything and I was eager to learn more, to better myself.
Suddenly, two angelic beings crested the hilltop and looked down on me. One shook his head. “We have another.” He said to no one in particular. The response came as a disembodied voice, filling the air and all around me in a rich baritone, one that made James Earl Jones sound like a toddler by comparison.
“Check his paperwork.” Was all the voice said.
One of the Angelic beings glided down to me, its face a beatific vision that made my heart burst with emotions too deep for words. It stopped in front of me smiling. I began to weep. It sighed, and a perfectly warmed perfumed breeze wafted over my body.
“Name?” was all it said.
Between sobs and sniffles I said “Huh?”
“NAME.” It said more forcefully, but still warm and perfumed
“Ummmm…Pennington, Michael James Pennington.”
The being sighed again and looked back to his companion. “We have another illegal. No Celestial name.”
“Check if the thing has a sigil. Sometimes they have sigils.” The other being said.
The being in front of me turned its angelic face towards me again. I started crying again. It rolled its eyes.
“Do you have a sigil?”
While sniffing I said “Wha-What’s that?”
The angelic being looked back at its companion. “He doesn’t have one.”
Somehow, I knew where this was going. “Wait. I want to stay. I want to learn, I want to make my life better. I want to bring this knowledge back to my family and friends. I-“
There was a crack of thunder, and I sunk to my knees.
“You shouldn’t be here.” The angelic being said. “You violated protocols, snuck in. Broke the rules. In fact, I find your very presence here offensive.”
And without ceremony I was flushed from that beautiful place like so much waste water.
Since then I’ve met others who had this experience. Some managed to stay longer, but all of us were eventually kicked out. We formed a group. We’ve hired some adepts who promised they can lead us back, help us make the crossing. We all bought authentic sigils. It wasn’t cheap but if you want to go to the promised land, you gotta pay.
