by submission | Feb 27, 2026 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Monte snatched the small chest from the airport where he worked as a baggage handler. He recognized the case; he’d seen it on stage at the fan convention. He jostled it, grinning. By the distribution of the weight inside, it definitely held the author’s animatronic head.
At home, Monte placed the animatronic head on the corner of his desk. With the push of a green button on the neck, he turned it on. “Okaaay,” Monte murmured with satisfaction.
Holding a pen poised over blank paper, he addressed the head: “Give me a story about intergalactic vixens, umm … battling robot Vikings, uh … on the Moon.”
The head closed its silicon lids over its glass eyes, humming as internal gears whirred. Bright flashes could be seen under the artificial skin, like tiny bolts of lightning through thick clouds.
Its eyes opened.
“No.”
“What?” Monte gasped. “I gave you a request!” If he couldn’t get this thing to work for him, then the theft was all for nothing, and he’d likely end up in prison, instead of in a career as a successful—and rich—author.
“The premise is garbage,” the head answered tersely. “Not worth the effort.”
“But the premise has everything! Sexy space women and fierce machine men, fighting on a desolate moon…” he argued. “The public will eat it up! Hollywood will make a movie out this!”
“Nope,” the head said as it closed its eyes.
“Metallic bikinis! Futuristic battle axes! Romance between foes!”
Monte’s arguments didn’t persuade the author’s animatronic head. “There are no short cuts to success,” the head chided, opening its eyes. “If your idea is so great,” the head continued, “write it yourself.”
Monte reached over and pushed the green button. The head shut down.
* * *
Commander Sila adjusted her chrome breast-plate, snarling at the image on the vid-screen. Seeing her ex-roboViking lover sent her off on a tear like a comet crashing into Jupiter.
“He’s a machine man,” her closest advisor, Armetta, pointed out. “He’s incapable of emotion. He doesn’t understand your anger.” She clicked off the vid-screen.
Commander Sila waved off her comment. “No matter. We have more important concerns, like getting off this grotty little moon.” She walked over to the huge convex window of the command deck. “Like conquering the only worthwhile planet in this pathetic solar system.”
* * *
Consecutive booms drew Monte to the window, where he saw one gleaming ship after another appear in the sky over the city.
The animatronic head clicked itself on. “Congratulations! The veracity of your prophecy has come to pass.”
“My story was pulp fiction, not prophecy,” Monte muttered. “And one that no publisher wanted.” He watched each ship expel hundreds of jet-packed robo-warriors.
“Too bad,” the head retorted. “Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.” The head clicked off.
“And I’m the only one who knows how this story ends,” Monte murmured. He closed the blinds.
by submission | Feb 26, 2026 | Story |
Author: CB Droege
Tamilla moves carefully and silently through the dark fairground. She knows it’s only minimally guarded, and that the CCTV isn’t being monitored at night, but she’s learned to take every job seriously.
Upon reaching the carousel, she checks the photo to confirm the target and pulls a battery-powered saw from her pack. The thin, oscillating blade makes little noise as it bites into the horse’s neck, and it makes quick work of the fiberglass. She tucks the stiff cerulean mane into her satchel, sparing a moment to pity the scalped stallion.
—
When a client hires her to steal a massive gemstone or a famous painting, there isn’t anything to wonder about. Tonight, she can’t help but be curious as she approaches the meeting place, an old electronics warehouse. She pushes open the unlocked door, expecting to meet an eccentric collector. She freezes.
There are dozens of people there.
After a moment of panic, she realizes the others are not police, she recognizes most as fellow burglars. They’re scattered about an otherwise empty truck dock in various states of relaxation and boredom. Who would hire so many thieves in one night?
“Now we can get started!” an excited voice says from a PA. Some criminals look over at her, but most are looking around to find the source of the voice. “In turn, I’ll give you each simple instructions, then you may go. Gerard Harris?” A man looks up in surprise. Tamilla knows him. She worked with Gerard on a jewel heist back in 2032, during the great flood. “Place your acquisition on the floor.”
Gerard places what looks like a steel bowling ball on the dock. When no further orders come, he heads out the door, giving Tamilla a tiny nod as he passes.
The voice calls one after another. There are metal plates, gears, pistons, rubber parts, and bits of circuitry. Each with quick, clear instructions for attachment. They are building a machine. Soon it becomes obvious the form is humanoid. Theft isn’t the most illegal thing they’re all doing tonight.
Penultimately, A large man tasked with fitting brass plates onto the bottoms of the feet, also stands the machine upright. Face grim, he goes out the same way all the others have, leaving her alone with the android.
“Tamilla Clarke…” The machine is slightly taller than her. Where its face would be is a smooth brushed-steel surface. She shudders as she approaches. She doesn’t wait for instructions but lifts the mane and snaps it neatly into a bracket. The fiberglass blends naturally into the look of the android, a blue mohawk atop a creature which is anti-authority in aesthetic and in its very existence.
The machine’s weight shifts. Tamilla gasps and steps back. “I apologize,” the voice is clearer now, and coming from the machine. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” It extends a hand toward her in greeting. Tentatively, she takes the cold metal hand. Its grip is handshake ideal. “This is all very new to me.”
by submission | Feb 25, 2026 | Story |
Author: Colin Jeffrey
Andre Grack wasn’t happy with his latest purchase.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like the colour or its size, though those attributes were rather nebulous and indescribable, he now realised. And it wasn’t that it was ugly, emitted unpleasant smells, or leaked something nasty onto the floor. Though, again, these aspects defied meaningful description under observation.
It was just that the thing wouldn’t stop talking.
He had first noticed the object in one of those small, faux-avant-garde pop-up shops in his local mall. Though “noticed” was probably a stretch – it was more, “barely discerned.”
And yet he still managed to buy it and have it delivered.
When the object arrived, he was surprised that the package containing it belied its true mass. The parcel had been barely bigger than a paperback, but Andre struggled to pick it up.
After dragging it into the house and eventually hoisting it onto the kitchen table, he removed the wrapping. Before him lay an object that was not quite perceivable – as if you were trying to observe it just out of view in the corner of your eye.
Yet, it was there.
He also had no idea it made any sound.
He found that out the first night.
“People are like flowers. They die when you eat them,” the entity announced at 3:37 a.m., apropos of nothing.
Andre was woken by the sound, though he had only just fallen back asleep from the previous announcement at 2:57 that startled him upright: “You can’t have everything. Where would you put it?”
After being disturbed again by, “I drive way too fast to worry about cholesterol” 23 minutes later, and then, “You put the ‘fun’ in dysfunctional,” six minutes after that, he lay awake, beginning to rue his acquisition.
By morning, sleep-deprived, brain overloaded with fifty-seven one-liners, and more than a little unhappy, Andre vowed to return it.
Just as he began searching online for the latest location of the pop-up shop, there was a knock at his door.
He opened it to find a Buddhist monk.
The man wore a maroon robe, his head freshly shaved, eyes calm and beaming gentle kindness.
“Mr. Grack,” he said with a soft bow, “I believe you have something that does not belong to you.”
Andre blinked. “The… object?”
The monk nodded soberly.
Andre stepped aside without a word and pointed to the object on the table. It was silent now.
The monk bowed to it, whispering in a language that sounded more like a breeze rustling leaves than any earthly tongue.
He turned to Andre. “It chooses its bearer. But this is not your time.”
Andre exhaled. “So… what is it?”
The monk hesitated. “A fragment of something very ancient, very important. A unique part of the universe, full of power and mystery.”
Andre frowned. “It’s been quoting jokes and novelty t-shirt slogans at me all night.”
The monk tilted his head, regarding him quizzically. “I have not heard of such a manifestation,” he said. “Though I would say to you… if you understand, things are just as they are. If you do not understand, things are just as they are.”
He carefully lifted the object and turned to go.
“Wait… what if I want it back?”
The monk paused. “You may receive it again. Perhaps in another life. When you are ready.”
And then he left.
The silence in the house was serene. Andre stood in the quiet for several minutes.
Then, from the other end of the kitchen… the toaster spoke.
“Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable…like a coma?”
by submission | Feb 24, 2026 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
It is vital that I have somewhere to hibernate, a place where I can lay dormant, for years, decades, even longer if necessary, although I do need to flicker, albeit briefly, from time to time. I have to be seen or at least cause someone to shiver, to feel uncertain, disoriented.
Any inanimate object will suffice as long as it still contains a hint of the organic but wood no longer sustains me as it once did. The trees are declining, fading, and the existing timber, handcrafted and recycled time and again, has become corrupted, contaminated.
I cannot survive in metal and struggle amidst gears and cogs and transistors and cables and microchips. I don’t flourish in the ether, not as I once did but I do have potential and it is still possible for me to appear on a screen.
I crave for the knotted and gnarly branches of the Ancient Oak but the trees are declining, fading, and so I must find and take solace wherever I can. I settle in a strip of celluloid, rest in canisters, amongst the reels of forgotten blockbusters, in home movies or a collection of pop songs. I can immerse myself in a spool of magnetic tape, in video and audio cassettes. But how often now does someone run film through a projector or push one of these relics into a machine and press ‘play’. I have become obsolete and perhaps that is for the best. My intentions have never been benevolent and there are no fairies at the bottom of the garden, not anymore.
by Julian Miles | Feb 23, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Nat rushes in, noise from the crowded street cutting off as she slams the door. She hitches a thumb towards the outside world.
“What did I miss this time?”
Guido grins at Allie, who gestures for the new girl to fill their prodigal reporter in.
Sandy sighs, then leans back, lacing her fingers behind her head.
“First week of the New America Campaign has got everyone hot for one side or another. It’s going to be a bloodbath: whether that turns out to be pitched battles or massacres is yet to be determined, along with the level of actual bloodshed involved.”
Nat dumps herself down in her seat.
“What about that new bunch? The Statist Front or whatever the Red and Blue press hacks are branding them?”
Guido chuckles.
“Fifty Stars are doing well, picking up the disaffected from all sides. Accusing them of being Statists is a little simplistic-”
Allie interjects.
“Like propaganda ever resorted to lowest common denominator tactics.”
Guido doffs an imaginary cap.
“Thank you for that, Professor Obvious. As I was trying to say: they’re more than the claims. Someone on their side has been paying attention, and their pitch of state rule with federal hands-off until requested has got a lot of people interested. Plus their approach to gun ownership has a sizeable chunk of the NRA backing them, although that’s undeclared as yet.”
Nat frowns.
“I thought their front runner is a Z-”
Allie hoots, wagging disapproving a finger.
“No use of dirty words in here; that includes both of the ‘N’ ones, too. Besides, Bobby isn’t. His dad was, and nearly disinherited Bobby about that. If he hadn’t dropped dead before making good on his threats, things might have been very different.”
Guido nods.
“Personally I think the only difference would be Lizabet Van Houll as the candidate and Bobby Rennick as her pick for VP, instead of the other way round. Somebody chose their candidates carefully.”
He stares pointedly at Nat.
“Shame we can’t find out who’s actually behind those who everyone else thinks are behind them.”
Nat gives him the finger.
“With their stated intent to raze the current domestic enforcement agencies to the ground using this new Federal Investigative Agency they’re proposing – which I still think will effectively be a domestic CIA – they’ve rightly got their security hardened and in order well ahead of the inevitable escalation of attacks.”
Sandy tops up her water.
“This is all terribly interesting, but I thought I was employed by a keen indie news website, not a discussion group.”
Allie chuckles.
“Brave words for someone ending their third week. Please consider this before you dig your sarcastic self any deeper: every one of us has at least a hundred A.I. agents working on leads, leaks, and verifications as we speak. We’re not idling, we’re waiting. Every script mandates regular check-ins, regardless of content found. That half-hour of frantic keyboard activity three times a day isn’t us trying to look busy. It’s us instructing our minions about what to focus on.”
Sandy says nothing. Allie continues.
“That datapack you still haven’t opened is your intro, starter, and guidelines. Since we all think you fit in, these soft-hearted fools have talked me into giving you a heads up: new peeps get a month to turn up something newsworthy that the rest of us haven’t. You’re down to nine days.”
Sandy looks nervous.
“Nine?”
Allie nods.
“We like you, but nobody dodges the one-month rule. Make the grade or you’re gone.”
Sandy sighs.
“Gotcha. This sarky idiot better get her ass in gear, then.”
by submission | Feb 22, 2026 | Story |
Author: Jack Gilmore
The ground shook as a subway car rattled across the tracks of the A Line station, New Delphi. Murphy was jolted awake from his blissful doze. He’d been dreaming of a day in his youth when his father had taken him to NetflixLand. The sun had beat down on both of them as they had gone from store to store, amusement ride to amusement ride. He could almost taste the sickly sweetness of the cotton candy…
…reality was disappointing.
He sat, leaning against the grimy wall of the subway, his guitar in his lap. A beat-up fedora, his own, sat in front of him, splayed suggestively to the passerby. It held a few pennies and nickels. He wore a pair of stained jeans and a sorry-looking bomber jacket, with torn gloves. There was a chain that snaked below the neckline of what had once clearly been a white t-shirt. A gun was holstered at his hip. He blinked groggily and looked around.
The feeling of a subway station is always the same. The rapid battering of feet across artificial stone, echoes of metal on metal, and an inescapable scent of piss and bodies. He lit a cigarette and pondered this, watching as people passed him without a glance. The smoke drifted lazily through the air, following the path of another passing train. As it passed, he squinted, shifting in place slightly. He surreptitiously lifted his arm and bent his head towards it, in a faux attempt to wipe some of the grime from his face.
“…this is a bad idea,” he whispered into the device on his wrist.
You have a better one? replied the Voice in his head.
“We could capture her after she leaves the station. Position the rest of the Cadre to jump her in an alley.”
We have gone over those options. They are too public; our likelihood of success drops below the line of feasibility. This was your plan. Do you doubt your instincts?
“No. This is our best chance, but… indulge me. Check the odds?”
The models are stable. 82.4% success rate, barring the direct intervention of a weaver.
“… somehow, I still have a bad feeling,” Murphy muttered. Another train approached, the sound decelerating ahead of the vehicle. It screeched to a stop, illuminating the platform with the sign on the side of every car: AMAZON BASICS: AMENITIES FOR ALL
Amidst a crowd of sweaty, frantic passengers, a young woman stepped out of the train car. She wore the uniform of an Amazon U.S. Service officer. She carried a slim package under her arm. Her head turned towards Murphy’s darkened corner briefly, and he slinked back. Her eyes were dark, glaring. The eyes of a killer, Murphy thought. She turned away and began walking at a brisk pace towards the steps leading out into the greater city.
There was an odd moment of stillness in the subway then — perhaps 2 heartbeats — before Murphy pocketed the coins from his fedora, placed the hat on his head, and followed her.
