by submission | May 28, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Standing among some of the oldest living things on earth, Mourad Du, felt his age. Not just in years, but in possibilities lost. And, now, the impossibility he faced. Who could he tell? Would it even matter?
They would all be gone soon. Nothing he could do, we could do, would change that. Mourad breathed deep and continued up the trail to the Grizzly Giant one last time. There are about 500 mature giant sequoia trees in the Mariposa Grove near Yosemite’s south entrance and once a year Mourad visited them all, but only the Grizzly Giant spoke to him in a special way.
In an unbelievable way. An impossible way. It spoke. Not aloud, but clearly in his head: Mourad Du, Mourad Du, Mourad Du.
The Grizzly Giant spoke to him. To him, a destitute Algerian who’d emigrated to Oakland forty years ago. To him, who’d struggled to find his place and purpose in his new country. Until a friend had taken him to the Mariposa Grove in Sequoia National Park and he, the stranger in a strange land, finally felt welcomed and comforted by the immensity of life and mindfulness of time in these sequoias.
Mourad Du could conceive of no greater miracle, no greater proof of the majesty of the divine, than the Mariposa Grove. Mourad made a pilgrimage each year to the seemingly ageless sequoia wonders. Vigilant sentinels, ever watchful, ever present.
Until now.
Until the ecological balance tipped well beyond survival, and the Grizzly Giant told Mourad that his kind were leaving. Ancient beings akin to pure thought that existed on the fringes of quantum probability, migrating through the ethereal fibers of the metaverse, taking root in local, long-lived life.
They’d settled in the sequoias of the Mariposa Grove thousands of years ago and mused upon our planet. Appreciated the wonders of our world. Sensed our sentience and hoped for our longevity, to become as they.
But, we are we, Mourad Du lamented. Our stewardship of Earth found lacking, and they were leaving. Mourad Du was asked to bear witness. The Grizzly Giant gave a time.
There is nothing like a night under the sequoias. Mourad Du stood among the titans beneath the shimmering depths of the Milky Way. Before they launched, the Grizzly Giant assured him that all was not lost. The tree of life large and humanity young. We could still find a place.
Just as Mourad Du had.
by submission | May 27, 2025 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“I’d do it in a flash,” Jason declared, tightening the lid of the cocktail shaker. “Clone you, I mean. And how about you? What would you do?” In his hands, the shaker was a percussion instrument. The rhythm was enticing; it made Kerra want to dance.
She gave him a teasing, crooked smile. “I’d have to think about it.”
“Wow,” Jason snorted. “Thanks.”
As annoying as her answer was, he couldn’t get mad at her. Looking at her out of the corner of his eye he thought, She’s so lovely. Like the reflection of the moon on still water.
* * *
Jason didn’t have to wait long to act on his declaration. Kerra was dead, taken down by a distracted driver as she crossed a busy city street on her way to work.
He pushed his grief aside to contact reLive, to set up an emergency meeting with a consultant. Within 8 hours after the accident, Kerra was in their industrial compound having her DNA extracted, cleaned, copied, and inserted into an appropriate organic, fully-grown female manikin.
Transferring her memories and personality into the manikin was trickier. It was a delicate process Jason was not privy to, but he signed off on it anyway. He was willing to do anything to have her back.
In less than a month, Kerra was home, lounging on the couch as Jason made martinis for them.
“So,” he said from the bar in their den, “if I died, do you love me enough to have me cloned? If it was you, I’d do it in a flash. Matter of fact…I did do it for you. You didn’t survive that hit-and-run.” Jason never could keep a secret.
“I know,” Kerra said as she rose from the couch and moved to the large window overlooking the city. She watched his reflection in the window as he approached with drinks in hand. You are like the reflection of the moon on water, she thought, but you are not the moon.
“I’ve already done that,” Kerra said absently to his reflection. “Twice.”
“What are you talking about?” Jason asked as he handed Kerra her drink.
She walked back to the couch and sitting, took a long pull on her martini before answering. “Remember our vacation in Mexico last Spring? Remember you got so drunk you decided you’d dive off our balcony into the hotel pool below?”
She patted the couch. He sat down beside her. “You missed,” she said flatly.
Jason shook his head. “But…”
“And two years before, when we were going to see the Cloned Stones Reunion Tour,” she interrupted. “You got in an argument with a biker in the parking lot over an empty spot. You ended up with a knife in your neck.”
Jason put his hand to his throat; there was no scar.
“Every time someone is cloned, they get a fresh health re-set. No more diabetes, no more heart disease. No more carpel tunnel, no more arthritis.” Kerra flexed her hands. “That’s how I knew I’d been cloned.”
“So if you’re a clone….and I’m a clone…what does this mean?”
Kerra squeezed his thigh affectionately. “It means welcome to a whole new world.”
by Julian Miles | May 26, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The bright lights look the same. Sitting myself down on the community server bench, I lean back until my spine hits the backrest. My gear starts charging. Diagnostics start scrolling down the inner bars of both eyes. The trick is not to try and read them. You’ll only give yourself a headache.
I snap the neck off the bottle. Flashy, but I’m distracted by flashbacks of growing up.
Saturday night, beer in hand, waiting for a skimmer or a cruiser to pull up. The kids from upstate could afford the toys, but couldn’t fight their way out of a paper bag. So when their egos took them places their mouths couldn’t talk them out of, they sent a driver to get some heavies.
South side of town, under the grav-ways, the jobs were dawn ‘til dusk and the pay was crappy even for overtime into the night. Sixteen-hour days for nothing much except food tubes and washhouse chits.
Those of us from that neighbourhood, we used to spar at a gym until it got shut down. After that, we freelanced: some thuggery, but mainly bouts. They hurt. First you fought the contender, then you beat the gang who expected you to throw the fight for money.
We were the Nighthawks. We didn’t do that sort of thing. Fighting was our honour. Hell, it was all we had.
I joined the army the day after Sarna died in a gang fight that nearly killed us both. Still remember standing there, both eyes blacked, ribs cracked, swearing an oath I thought I understood.
Ten years and a dishonourable discharge later, I realised it meant you’re expected to throw the fights the politicians tell you to.
I got into a special forces mob. Called ourselves the Nighthawks. I was proud of that. They took to my street corner warrior creed and went all-in. We got a reputation for being bastards to face on or off a battlefield.
Then we refused to throw a fight in Trabanth City, suspicious of the story we were being fed. Proved to be a righteous decision, but the traitors framed us. By the time the carnage got so bad the enemy intervened to save us from our own population, we’d lost eight out of ten. It’s difficult to fight when they starve and besiege you. We got some licks in, but in the end we went out on flatbeds as the ambulances had all been torched.
Spent a while under the taint of that, then someone leaked the story of the betrayal to the news. Soon after that my dishonourable discharge was commuted to ‘Discharge for Classified Reasons’. Got a letter of apology with an enhanced welfare code at the bottom.
That code got used up quick. Helped a few Nighthawks who didn’t make it out whole, and a few families who only got tags and a flag back.
Sad story, world doesn’t really care. But here I am, beer in hand, summer evening, back on home turf. Could be a lot worse.
A flashy cruiser pulls up to the kerb. Door opens.
“People who sit there settle differences, friend, and not by talking. You best be moving along.”
I bring up my tactical and scan him deep from fingertips to back seat. He squirms. Combat tech does that to cheap civilian gear.
“How much for settling your trouble?”
“Two hundred.”
Good start.
“Per body.”
He grins.
“Deal.”
Just like I never went away. Hey, this Nighthawk’s got ghosts to honour and a reputation to rebuild. Plus, I still gotta eat.
by submission | May 25, 2025 | Story |
Author: Lydia Cline
He had always had a quiet appreciation for blue. Not loudly, he would never be as conformist as to declare a love for, like, the number one colour for boys and men. No – he was loud in his love for green – the thinking man’s blue. And yet, as he stared up at the sky – now entirely devoid of blue – he was overcome be melancholy. Oh … the most blue thing there is … gone forever. That day – the sun had risen, birds had tweeted- but the sky had gone.
In its place lay a reflective kaleidoscope of colour. The colours already existing in his landscape replicated up and up and up and up until your neck twists round – such is life on a spherical planet.
That morning everyone had the same conversation over coffee or wheatgrass lattes or matcha smoothies – “I thought I was tripping-“ “me too, I mean I thought – that’s it – I’ve gone crazy” “where did it go?” “Beats me”
And it was strange to think everyone on earth was going through a sudden gut punching feeling at the same time – the feeling being so sure of the next step and putting your foot out and finding just air. And you can’t blame the air or your foot or even yourself really. Just that sad feeling of knowing something has ended and there wasn’t a way of getting it back. He supposed you could call it grief.
So if you can imagine – with the whole world feeling like they had gone through an unprepared breakup… the mood was pretty bleak. Unifying – but bleak.
But what do you do when everything changes around you? I mean, the world still exists. Taxes are still due.
So he went to work. Tried not to look. It was tough.
by submission | May 24, 2025 | Story |
Author: Emily Kinsey
“Jessie! Get over here, I think I found something!”
Annoyed, Jessie said, “You always think you found something.”
“It smells good,” I offered, hoping to entice him.
It worked, because Jessie only ever cares about his stomach. He discarded his half-gnawed jerky and hobbled over to inspect my findings.
“What’d you think it is?” Jessie asked.
“It’s an animal of some kind,” I said. “You ever seen one like this?”
Jessie leaned over and sniffed the animal. It was furless and covered with a hard white outer shell. If not for the smell, I wouldn’t have been sure it was an animal. “No, never.”
“Poke it with a stick!” I suggested.
“You poke it with a stick!”
“You’re older!”
“And you’re younger,” Jessie said, “which means you have to do what I say.”
“I found it,” I argued, “which means you get first poke.”
Jessie knew he wasn’t going to win the argument anytime soon, so he plucked a stick from a nearby branch and poked the animal several times. The animal flinched and used its forepaws to protect its head.
“Still alive,” Jessie proclaimed. “It must be injured if it’s not trying to get away.”
“Nah,” I said, “I think it’s sick. It’s gotta be one of those new animals that’s been spotted lately. They’re not from here; they don’t take to our environment for too long. It’s why they’re always scurrying back to their mechanical homes.”
“Oh yeah! They caught one a couple weeks ago over at the river. It tried to get away—get this, on two legs! But old man Shepherd was too fast for it. Caught it and skinned it and revealed that juicy layer underneath. Said it was delicious.”
“So, this whole thing is its outer skeleton?”
“Think so.”
“Old man Shepherd said you could pry it off pretty easily.”
Jessie tugged on it and—plop! The skeleton ripped off to reveal the animal’s fleshy inner layer old man Shepherd carried on about.
The outer skeleton was hollow and didn’t taste like anything, so after a few exploratory gnaws, it was promptly discarded. There was a tuft of black hair at the top of the animal’s head and another small spriggy patch near its food opening. Other than that, it was hairless.
As soon as the animal’s outer skeleton came off, it was clawing at its throat and making terrible rasping sounds alerting Ma trouble was about.
She came lurching out of the ground faster than the time Jessie got stuck in the tree trying to catch blue-winged Zoster birds. Jessie and I cowered—even he and I were sometimes afraid of Ma.
Despite its frantic fumbling with its throat, the animal still flinched as it spotted Ma. I couldn’t really blame him—Ma was a sight to see.
Ma sniffed the animal and licked it in several places. She pulled at the thick material covering most of its body—the skeleton old man Shepherd warned us about. Ripping enough of the hard outer material away, Ma sunk her teeth into the animal’s side and its red lifeforce began to pool out.
The animal let out an instinctive cry and fumbled to reach its outer skeleton—its skin was now beginning to turn a reddish, purplish hue. Its attempts were so feeble I almost felt guilty swatting the hard head shell out of reach.
Finished with her inspection, Ma gave a nod and headed back to our hole. Jessie and I shared an excited smile. We both knew what it meant: the animal was Ma approved. We would be eating it for dinner.
by submission | May 23, 2025 | Story |
Author: Stephen C. Curro
Veema peered through the glass pod at their latest subject. The human was young, perhaps eighteen years by his species’ standards. Her four eyes noted physical traits and the style of clothing. “Flannel shirt. Denim pants. Heavy boots. This one was hiking?”
“Camping,” Weez replied. “The trap caught his backpack, too. Chock full of materials they use to pretend they are living in the wild.”
“You can’t blame them for trying to connect with their planet,” Veema chided.
Weez was too intent on getting started to listen. He struck the top of the pod with his long tongue to open it. Disinfectant steam poured over the human and then coalesced into pressured restraints over his limbs. “Take the measurements,” Weez ordered.
Veera suppressed a growl as she slipped on the scanning glasses. Weez applied various sensors and appliances to the human. Cerebral wires in his temples. Skeletal clamps on his legs and arms. She recorded the human’s vitals as the devices relayed her information, including height and weight, blood type, and cerebral output.
When she finished, Weez hooked a tube to the boy’s arm and drew a blood sample into a specimen bag. “How much are you taking?” she asked warily.
“Six klarps.”
“That’s more than a human pint. He needs that liquid to distribute oxygen into his system.”
“He’ll grow more.”
The plumage down Veera’s back rippled in distress. Blood fascinated her; no creature on her homeworld possessed anything remotely similar. But Weez was the sort of scientist who would take every drop for research.
Once Weez stored the blood, he handed Veera an extractor. “Take a molar. Or an incisor.”
“That’s not necessary. We have detailed scans—”
“I want a real specimen.”
Veema looked to the human locked in his dreamless sleep. “This will harm him.”
“His species regrows teeth.”
“He’s far too old to grow new ones.”
“Pull a tooth, Veera,” Weez snapped. “That’s an order.”
Veera gripped the device, making the metal hurt her hand. She clenched her feathers to her body as she reached for the human’s mouth.
At the touch of her fingers, the human inhaled sharply. His two brown eyes snapped open.
Weez jumped back. “Curses! He must be resistant to the anesthetic.”
Veera didn’t answer. The human’s eyes were darting in every direction. He spoke something in a human language…words varied across the stars, but tone tone was universal. His was a tone of terror.
“He can’t be seeing us!” Weez reached for the syringe of neurotoxin. When the human saw the needle, he screamed and thrashed in his restraints.
Veera felt her soul twist. How terrifying it must be for him to be pulled from his habitat onto a ship in orbit, prodded and analyzed by creatures he’d never even imagined existed. This couldn’t continue…
“Doctor, stop,” Veera pleaded.
“You know the rules,” Weez muttered. He gripped the human’s neck and aimed the syringe.
Veema lashed out with her claws. Weez collapsed unconscious in a heap of feathers. Stepping over her superior, she approached the human with a compassionate face.
Every inch of the human’s body trembled. His eyes were secreting salty tears, his lips murmuring something that could have been a prayer or a plea for mercy.
Gently, she undid the equipment from his body. All the while, the human watched and held his breath. When she finished, she said in the kindest tone, “I don’t have a heart. But I assure you, I’m not heartless.”
With a crack of her tongue, the pod snapped shut. It dropped through the floor into space and rocketed back to Earth.
