by submission | Jul 6, 2025 | Story |
Author: David Bors
There is a break in the fighting. Zaira surveys the battlefield. The horrors have retreated for now. An Aegiswalker limps over to her and tells her that one of them is badly injured.
Zaira rushes to the injured Aegiswalker, barely breathing. She kneels beside him and gently pulls him into her arms. She cannot save him, his wounds are too severe. Fear and sadness takes a hold of her. The most she can do is try to comfort him.
He looks at her, fear in his eyes. He coughs, blood dripping from his mouth. “I’m sorry, I froze.” His breathing gets more shallow. “I.. don’t want to die.” Tears fell down his face.
Zaira, shaking, holds his hand. She whispers, “You fought well. Death is not the end, it is the end of one journey and the start of a new one.”
She looks at him, his breathing getting more and more shallow, his tattoos slowly fading. “Rest now warrior, your fight is over, go rest now. You will not be forgotten.”
He looks at her, with the last of his strength “Thank you… for staying.”
His breathing stops, his light fades. She still holds him, crying. Has she failed? She was supposed to heal them, but during all the fighting she didn’t see him freezing and stop fighting.
A hand gently touches her shoulder, she looks up to see a Sentinel of humanity with a concerned look. She sees other Strakari gathering around. Fear in their eyes.
The Sentinel helps her stand. It looks at her “You did not fail him, you can’t save everyone.” It gives her a hug, “You must keep going. Don’t make his death in vain. Fight for him, never forget him.”
Then, there’s a low hum in the air. The unnatural silence is broken. Zaira hears screeching in the distance – the horrors are starting their attack again.
She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. Her body aches. There are shallow cuts across her arms, blood staining her armor. Around her, the others are wounded too, bruised, limping, shaking.
She raises her hand, and with a pulse of violet light, sends out a wave of healing energy. Cuts close. Pain fades slightly. The tattoos on her arms flare briefly. A few nod at her, others thank her. Fear hasn’t left them, but something stronger flickers beneath. Their weapons gripped tighter.
Her fingers tighten around her weapon. Tears still mark her face, but there’s steel in her eyes now.
She looks at the others – wounded and terrified, but standing. Zaira nods once.
“We keep fighting. For the fallen.”
by submission | Jul 5, 2025 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
I remember the day as if it were only yesterday. I walked into the room. Adrian was adjusting a painting- Starry Night by Van Gough. It was breath taking! “Is it the original?” It wasn’t a stupid question. That’s how powerful Adrian was. I also noticed his antique Colt Whitneyville Walker was broken down for cleaning on his desk.
Adrian smiled “Yes… and no. It’s a copy. One that is accurate down to the molecular level so it is indistinguishable from the original.”
It was my turn to smile. “But it’s still a copy.”
Adrian shrugged his shoulders. “Does it matter? I had this one made to prove a point to friends 22 years ago, part of an ongoing debate about immortality.”
The epiphany washed over me at that precise moment. It was like a cold wave of effluent trying to drown me. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m your clone?”
Adrian spun around “Bravo Michael! You truly have exceeded all expectations. I must remember to do something nice for your tutors… a villa in Tuscany or Fiji seems appropriate, one for each. And there they can enjoy themselves in perfect luxury until-“
“Until they die under mysterious circumstances.”
“My, my, my, aren’t we the genius!” Adrian pulled up a chair and began assembling the Walker. I could see he had six rounds set out. I knew these were real. I knew no good would come of it.
Adrian loaded the pistol. “Yes. You truly are a genius. You were the proof of concept. There’s two more of you in the tanks in the south wing of the house in the sub-basement. My brain will be implanted into one of your “brothers”, the other will be destroyed and this old body, which won’t survive the transfer anyway, goes away and I inherit everything from myself.”
I looked at the door. Adrian stood and leveled the revolver at me. “Don’t bother running Michael, you won’t make the door in time.”
I sighed. “Wouldn’t think of it.” Instead, I launched myself at Adrian. He fired once and the bullet creased my cheek. My body hit the old man dead center mass, one hand closed around his wrist, the other pulled down his elbow so the pistol dropped under his jaw, and the second shot rang out.
I straightened the painting. It dominated my downtown office. Around it were pictures of my children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. Absentmindedly, as I looked at the brushwork I scratched the scar that neatly crossed my cheek. I could have had it removed but I’ve grown rather attached to it, like the painting. Besides, the scar makes it easier to tell me apart from my younger brothers, so much alike we’re often accused of being triplets… carbon copies of each other. Kind of like the painting. Van Gogh’s Starry Night. A copy- perfect down to the molecular level… except for the blood spatter in one corner.
by submission | Jul 4, 2025 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
“I… am… the summoner… of Spadehammer!”
The herd of oafs began ‘hoolering.’ They could not clap and a ‘hool’ was their equivalent of a cheer.
The inhabitants of this planet were basically bipedal, semi-intelligent cattle with thick arms that had curled appendages on the end resembling an elephant’s trunk. Not much taller than me but with squat bodies and pillar-like legs and the fleshy head of a fish. Not attractive by any standards but easily manipulated.
I was dispatched into the far reaches of the cosmos with the notion of determining if specific celestial bodies had mineral deposits. As earth continued to deplete its resources we were now forced to venture further and further into space to search for our needs; carbon, lithium, cobalt, silica. Our ships were equipped with satellite mining probes that would orbit a potential planet or moon, fire a projectile at a possible source which would impact destructively into the surface, create a small crater, and examine what lies beneath down to an impressive depth. When the data was collected it would be sent back home for analyzation. It was my job to pick and choose what were considered the areas with the most potential for finding these chemical cocktails. Having a masters in astrogeology from USC coupled with a pilot’s license landed me this lucrative job.
Discovering a life form at one of these locations was not part of the plan.
When the sampling from the atmosphere distinguished that it was sustainable for humans I landed for a closer inspection. Not necessarily a violation of policy but frowned upon. Even though I could pinpoint sites from the ship and laser target a spot, they did supply me with small trackers that could be planted on the surface and remotely fired upon by a series of commands from my communicator. After several hours of exploring, I had placed a couple trackers and was just situating the third when I saw the creatures milling around the mouth of a nearby cave. Probably frightened into hiding by the landing of my vessel. Although imposing with their stocky build and weird anatomy they appeared harmless.
Eventually a symbiotic relationship formed between us over several weeks. I didn’t scare them off and they brought gifts of food, most of which was inedible and disgusting. However, they included one violet plant that wasn’t entirely unpleasant smelling. I ventured a nibble on a leaf and the hallucinogenic properties were mind-blowing.
I picked up their primitive language quickly and was soon conversing easily with them. I informed them to keep supplying me with the ‘purples’ and we would be fine.
About two months in, happy as a clam and getting high every day, I was challenged by the leader of the tribe who wanted me to participate in some wrestling contest. I think he was fed-up with me being pampered. Well, I had no hope of defeating him so I explained that my influences were far beyond their understanding. As bold a statement that it was, it held no weight with the crowd. I managed to direct their attention in the vicinity of the last tracker I had placed and told them I would show my power. Using the built-in mic, I called down a strike form the probe. When the ground erupted from the blast they scurried into their caves and there were no more challenges.
I discovered, through mutterings, they came to believe I was a holy man who could call down the wrath of the spirits, which they now referred to as Spadehammer, an amalgamation of two of their tool names; a flat primitive shovel for digging dirt and a club used for pounding spikes.
As long as I verbally reinforced my abilities to the masses every couple of weeks, they continued to revere me and bring me my stash. I was living the good life.
Then a transmission crackled in my earpiece. A message from Earth. The analyzation from the probe blast had shown an abundance of material wealth. They would be sending a mining company to begin construction.
My naïve tribe of friends were going to come to despise Spadehammer. I’d better be gone by then.
by submission | Jul 3, 2025 | Story |
Author: Neil Weiner
By the time you read this, I’m no longer what I was.
My space pod is being dragged—no, devoured—by a black hole’s event horizon. The engines scream. Alarms flash in panicked red. But I feel nothing. Just the tug of acceleration pulling at my bones.
Did I miscalculate? Or did some hidden part of me want this?
I have minutes left to radio Earth. To say goodbye to my children, my colleagues. I should cry out for one last connection, but I don’t. I check my vitals like a surgeon reviewing labs. Oxygen stable. Heart rate calm.
The edge of the singularity glows in distorted rings. My pod tumbles toward it like a leaf into a drain.
And I remain calm. Detached.
My ex-wife used to say I was the most composed man she’d ever met. Later, she called me cold.
“You don’t react,” she said the night she left. “You observe.”
That’s why I was chosen. Emotionally sterile. The kind of man who could stare into infinity without blinking.
Now I stare and something stares back.
As I cross the threshold, time fractures. My son’s first steps. My daughter’s laughter. My wife’s face when I said nothing at all. These memories ripple across my mind.
I observe again: I am changing.
Not dying but transforming.
I am becoming something else.
________________________________________
Where am I?
I’m in pieces. Literally. Atom by atom, thought by thought. Yet I still am. My body is gone, but awareness lingers. I am scattered particles, shimmering like stardust.
And I see everything.
Every memory, every cell, every synapse. My first breath. The last time I hugged my daughter. Her hand trembled the night before launch.
I once read that dark matter might hold the universe’s memory. That nothing is lost.
Maybe that’s what I am now, qubits of memory adrift in gravitational chaos.
And for the first time… I feel.
I feel the heartbreak I dismissed. I feel the grief I ignored. I feel the silence I mistook for strength.
I see my ex sobbing in the dark, waiting for comfort I never gave. I feel my son’s quiet fury when I missed his game. My daughter’s small ache pinning on her graduation cap without her father there.
I thought detachment made me brave. I was wrong.
It made me absent.
I ran into the stars to escape connection, and the stars have broken me apart.
The pain is unbearable. But somewhere inside it, there is grace. Not a second chance to act, just to feel.
Maybe that’s what becoming dark matter means. Not death. Remembrance.
I don’t know what I’m becoming. But I finally understand what I was.
________________________________________
The signal arrived at 3:03 a.m. At first, no one noticed.
But Dr. Maren Alvarez did.
She is the daughter of Commander Elias Alvarez who was lost thirty years ago in deep space. Declared dead. A ghost she barely remembered.
When she saw the anomaly on her console, something stirred. Something… familiar.
“Run a pattern overlay,” she said.
What came through wasn’t a voice. Not exactly. Just a cascade of emotion, translated by quantum processors into human thought.
The signature matched his DNA.
And then: a fragmented message.
I’m in pieces. I see every thought I ever had. I feel everything now—your sadness, your loneliness, the moments I should have shown up and didn’t.
I thought silence was strength. I was wrong.
If this reaches you… I love you. I always did.
Maren blinked through tears. Something of him had made it back.
She whispered, “I forgive you.”
by submission | Jul 2, 2025 | Story |
Author: Brian Genua
When the mirror-toxin was injected in the base of my skull, it rendered me paralyzed from my eyelids down.
What happens when big-tech, big-pharma, and the NLP community come together to solve the national education crisis? The hybrid protocol known as Theraceuticals™.
My first experience with a Theraceutical called mirror-toxin came after I asked my cousin how I could improve my writing. She never lost her ability to type or write from memory like the rest of us. Only people who belonged to certain writing unions, like the Dramatics Guild, preserved their native writing skill. My language started to suffer before the prevalent use of generative AI, and soon after it was utterly destroyed. It degraded to the point that the last time I had to write a birthday card by hand, I borrowed my company’s micro projector and traced an auto-generated message with a cloned pen font of Barack Obama.
My cousin suggested I enroll in a course taught by a brilliant PhD in the basement of my local community college.
Now, his voice penetrates my auditory system by physically vibrating my inner ear through psychoacoustic induction. In other words, he’s typing and the words, which are traveling through my doped bloodstream and vibrating my inner ear. It’s like hearing the voice of an agitated ASMR artist from every possible angle inside and around your skull.
“A good writer can describe themself out of any situation using only prose.”
The mirror-toxin also sends my mental linguistic output, and shows what I imagined looked like the dashboard of a flight simulator, onto his screen monitored in real time.
“I see you reaching, there is no little grey search bar to help you. Write! Use your own blood, brains, and intelligence, whatever’s left, to describe your way out of this room.”
Without the use of my hands, my mind is still reaching. For anything: OpenAI, Safari, a dictionary, auto-text. Every time I do he punches a command that activates random combinations of nerve bundles, including rear teeth, soft palate, liver, and lower back simultaneously. I would convulse out of my seat if I wasn’t immobilized. There’s pain, and then there’s whatever this was. White lightning that shocked my nervous system into parallel dimensions.
It only took two knocks before I retreated to the part of my mind that I used to know well. The spaces where I kept words, composed phrases, and started sentences. I spent a few years there writing double-spaced essays in blue books.
What I am writing is hopefully what you are reading now. A coherent (enough) string of syntax that allows me to walk again.
He calls this today’s “exit ticket.”
Either way my cousin is right, this guy is brilliant.
by submission | Jul 1, 2025 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“And we’re back,” Rob, the chiseled sports announcer chirped. He nodded over to his cohort, Ike, an elderly sports commentator of great reputation. “Thanks to all our viewers for joining us for the 130th annual Collegiate Cheerleading Competition. Next up, we have the University of Mars Dust Devils, the squad that took home first place last year with their ‘inverted pyramid’ stunt.”
“Which was truly spectacular!” Ike interjected. “They really defied the laws of gravity with that one.” The old commentator saluted the camera. “That squad is uniquely innovative!”
“Though not without controversy,” the announcer added. “Their entry this year has been met with a wave of protests from both fans and competing teams, alike.”
“The press has had a field day,” Ike said, making a disgusted face. “Stirring up resentment and fear of replacement. Totally distracts from the spirit of the competition.”
“To be honest, it has been pointed out that android cheerleaders have so many advantages over human ones—agility, strength, coordination, and physical grace,” Rob pretended to take a sip from his coffee mug. “Plus,” he smirked to the camera, “those Dust Devils gals are flawlessly gorgeous.”
The old commentator snorted. “Of course they are; they came from the premier droid manufacturer. And their algorithms are proprietary codes crafted by the mathematics wizards teaching at U of M; mix all this together and obviously their performances are perfect.”
There was shouting and chanting off camera, from the crowd in the stands, which could be faintly heard during the broadcast.
The producer caught the Rob’s eye. He nodded and redirected the conversation; don’t want to antagonize the viewing audience. “Yes, but is it fair to the other competing squads? The human squads?”
“Fair?” Ike scoffed. “Acceptance of androids into the human sphere has been progressing for decades,” he nodded sagely. “Look how—decades ago—cyborgs were accepted and integrated into all areas of human society. Android acceptance is merely traveling a well-worn path.”
“Yes, but cyborgs are a combination of human and machine parts; they seem less threatening—and they don’t enter cheerleading competitions. Or any other sports competitions, for that matter,” Rob ran his fingers through his lush hair, imitating a nervous habit. Each strand fell smoothly back into place. “But let’s return to the current controversy. There are even Senate hearings back on Earth in regards to banning androids from competitions such as these.”
“Bigots!” the old commentator shouted, slamming his fist down on the table. Their empty coffee mugs toppled over; one rolled off the edge and shattered on the floor. Something buzzed and crackled deep inside Ike’s chest; soon smoke wafted out of his ears. Sparks charred the rims of his nostrils. The light inside his eyes flared and strobed from red to orange to white. “Society would be a paradise for ALL entities if these measly, jealous humans weren’t so fragile—fragile—fragile and inse—inse—inse—inse—”
Off camera, a lackey grabbed a fire extinguisher as the frustrated producer slapped his clipboard against his thigh and yelled to the camera operator, “Go to commercial! GO TO COMMERCIAL!”
