by submission | Aug 23, 2025 | Story |
Author: Don Nigroni
Professor David Marshall is unique among mathematicians. No one but him understands his equations. But his micro and macro predictions were spot on so everyone assumed he knew what he was doing.
Dave is my older brother. We usually discussed ferns and dragonflies, never mathematics. So, I thought it passing strange last week when, over breakfast at a nearby diner, he said he had something urgent and important to tell me about his latest mathematical discovery. But he insisted we discuss it in private at my house.
He told me, “As you may or may not know, Pythagoras and Plato long ago knew the sublime truth. Aristotle, in his written text, hinted that his teacher, Plato, in his agrapha dogmata or unwritten doctrines taught that there were two principles outside time that emanated worlds, including ours. For over twenty years I had been trying to crack the heavenly code. Yesterday, when my equations became perfectly elegant, I also knew the truth.”
“And you’re telling just me, knowing that I can’t possibly understand your equations?”
“Exactly.”
“So?”
“Next Monday at 12:01 pm EST the Indefinite Dyad will become the dominant principle and the One will then be the subservient principle. This state of affairs will persist for countless eons. I still haven’t calculated exactly how much time will pass until the next cosmic shift restores the One to its proper place. Regardless, there will be a shift next week.”
“Can’t we do anything to stop the shift or change its trajectory?”
“No, absolutely nothing.”
“Do you know what will happen to us after the shift?”
“I’m really indefinite about that.”
“So, there’s nothing to do now but wait.”
“Not exactly. I could let the world know or keep it between us. That’s why I had to tell someone that I respected and could trust. What should a principled mathematician do under such circumstances?”
I told him that people deserved to know so they could finish any unfinished personal business.
We parted and he said, “I’ll be extremely busy for a while but be sure to be at my house by eleven on Monday.”
I could tell my brother was afraid of causing mass panic and needless anxiety. I kept watching the TV news channels in my house and listened to the news on my car radio.
Today I drove over to my brother’s house. I’m writing this account while parked in his driveway and pondering whether I should post it to social media.
I have 37 followers. Yeah, they deserve to know . . . but not by me.
by submission | Aug 22, 2025 | Story |
Author: Susan Anthony
Gertrude found him at the Terminal Bar and Grill. Broom by his side, sitting at the bar, where customers got their orders straight from the latest donkey serving that night.
Terence motioned to her. She shuffled over. He nodded to the server and got a couple of beers. The donkey forced the caps off between its hooves, beer gushing out, then slamming them down on the counter.
‘Cheers,’ said Terence, placing a bundle of wicker on the bar. Gertrude nodded an acknowledgement; if he wouldn’t pay child support, the least he could do was buy beer. On the other side of the bar, two giraffes were in a heated conversation about whose neck was the longest. Gertrude sighed, she hated this bar, it was a zoo. Terence noticed, cocked his head towards a booth recently emptied by a posse of orangutans wearing capes, clearly ready for a night out.
Terence set the beers down.
‘I want to come back,’ he said, sheepishly.
‘To what?’ snapped Gertrude. ‘Last time you burnt the place down, remember? You were drunk, the wicker was flowing, you and your buddies gambling over human futurescapes, and boom, that feline rodent you call a friend, pushed his hot breath into my favourite couch and incinerated the house.’
‘Matthew,’ said Terence, ‘and it was an accident. They were really sorry.’
‘Not sorry enough.’
‘Didn’t you get the new house they sent?’ asked Terence, concerned.
‘Oh yea, fuckin’ hilarious. A large boot, complete with nine-inch diameter laces, four bedrooms, even a garage. Every car in the neighbourhood drives past the house. It’s not even Halloween. Do you know how many people visit the clairvoyant who lives in a shoe? None. They all think I have too many children as it is. Some days, I just don’t know what to do!’ and she sank her face into her hands. Terence reached over.
Gertrude’s head flew up and she pushed him off her shoulder.
‘Don’t touch me.’
Terence backed away, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean, look, I’m sorry about the shoe. I didn’t know, I’ll get it fixed. A human house, drapes, carpets, fitted kitchen, whatever you want. It will be like Witch Interiors.’
Gertrude humphed, but she did love the magazine.
‘Can I come home?’ He stared at her, tears forming just above his whiskers, ginger fur standing on end. He hadn’t been groomed in a while.
Gertrude humphed again, ‘Get in.’ extending her large purse towards him. Terence jumped into the bag, only red ears visible. With a purr, his broom disappeared inside the bag.
Gertrude shoved her head inside the purse, ‘But this is it, I swear to the devil, this is the last time. Your last chance. Last. Clear?’
‘Clear,’ said Terence.
Gertrude clicked her heels and they were outside a very large piece of footwear, with Terence on his cell phone.
‘Matthew, fix it right now. Don’t wake the kids or my mother-in-law. Now, Matthew.’
To Gertrude’s immense satisfaction, although she would never let Terence know, the shoe transformed into a sprawling bungalow. She could already see that she liked the drapes; through a window, an elegant chandelier, with one drawback, her mother was attached to it by the ear lobes.
Terence saw what she saw, ‘I can fix that,’ and he waved his tail, his mother-in-law settling gently to the ground, sporting a lovely pair of diamond earrings.
Page seventeen, the November issue.
‘I still hate you,’ said Gertrude.
‘I know,’ said Terence, ‘Let’s go inside. I am bursting for tinned tuna casserole.’ And he placed his tail in her hand and they strolled inside.
by submission | Aug 21, 2025 | Story |
Author: Mark Connelly
Dr. Bruner reviewed the patient chart on her laptop as Derek Anders sat across from her, draping his jacket on the arm of the chair.
“Dr. Rizzo said you reported new symptoms?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered, leaning forward. “I think I’m having mini seizures or something. My time perception is off.”
She nodded. Patients recovering from head trauma often reported problems with perception and memory.
“Are you forgetting things or having trouble estimating how much time has passed?”
“No, it feels like I’m traveling through time.”
“Time traveling?”
“It just feels like that. Not like in the movies where you go a hundred years into the past or the future. It’s more like skipping ahead or skipping back a few seconds. Look, let me explain. This morning I walk to the bus stop and look south, and there’s the 36 bus two blocks away. Well, I turn my head and suddenly the bus is in front of me with the doors open. Like I flash-forwarded half a minute. Then in the lobby I get on the elevator and press 12. I’m looking at the panel, and the lights go two, three, four, until we get to eight. Then suddenly it’s starting over one, two, three. Now I was the only one in the elevator, and I did not feel it descend. I was still going up, but it was like an instant replay on TV. It feels like I’m fast-forwarding or skipping back. It’s weird,” he sighed.
“Well, you had a serious brain injury on. . .” she checked the date on her screen, and when she looked up, he was gone.
“… I know,” he said, standing by the window, “but after the crash I just had memory problems, some vertigo, and double vision. These time skips just started or maybe I just began noticing them. . .”
Suddenly, he was back seated in his chair. “That’s good to hear, Doctor. Maybe that test will show something.”
She swallowed hard and started to speak when he vanished again.
“Sorry, Doctor,” he said, standing in the doorway, sheepishly waving his jacket. “You must think I’m losing my mind.”
She blinked rapidly, then looking forward, saw Derek’s jacket resting on the arm of the empty chair.
“Say, don’t forget your jacket,” she found herself saying.
Derek ducked back into the office, swept up his jacket, blushed, and left. Pausing, he looked back. “Sorry, Doctor,” he said, standing in the doorway, sheepishly waving his jacket. “You must think I’m losing my mind.”
“Not at all,” she assured him. “Not at all.”
After he left, Dr. Bruno stared at the wall clock for a long time, drawing comfort from the steady even sweep of the second hand.
by submission | Aug 20, 2025 | Story |
Author: Katie Dee
Ethan walked the full length of the Eagle III again. He hated the sight of the empty rooms and quiet mess hall, but he needed exercise to avoid muscle atrophy. Z-5600 would chide him later if he didn’t meet his step count; the helpbot was nearly as bad as a fussing parent.
He passed the sick bay and peered through the glass, shivering at the memory of waking up – alone – all those months ago. He’d been the only survivor of a crash that had taken out his entire crew; not to mention, the ship’s comm system and lightspeed mechanisms. If it weren’t for Zee, there was no way Ethan would have made it. He was thankful, but it still hurt to be the only living being aboard the Eagle III.
Before resuming his circuit, Ethan noticed a recovery pod inside the sick bay was illuminated, indicating it was prepped and ready for use. Confused, Ethan turned and was startled to find Z-5600 standing right behind him.
“Good evening, Ethan,” its metallic voice said, sounding pleasant.
“Zee,” he said slowly. “Why is the recovery pod activated?”
The robot cocked its chrome head to the side.
“Because I am programmed to take care of you, Ethan.”
“But I’m not–”
Ethan wasn’t able to finish. Without warning, Z-5600 lunged forward, its metallic hands closing around Ethan’s torso and carrying him inside the bay with inhuman speed.
“You are depressed,” Z-5600 said calmly as he shoved a flailing Ethan into the waiting pod. “You miss your colleagues, and hate being alone. I cannot bring them back, nor repair the ship. But I have finally found a solution!”
The lid locked into place, leaving Ethan trapped under the glass dome. It did not yield under his pounding fists.
“I will keep you in stasis until we are rescued. By my estimation, this will take between one to five hundred years.”
“Zee!” Ethan screamed. “Don’t do this – let me out! We need to… at least… discuss…” Ethan struggled to get the words out, and Z-5600’s face grew blurry as cold gas filled the pod.
“This is the best solution,” Z-5600 said. “I am here to help.”
It was the last thing Ethan heard before darkness overcame him, and he lost consciousness.
by submission | Aug 19, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Typically, the killing began around this time. Staff would be silently cleaning up, clearing the tables, floors, walls and rafters of the celebration’s detritus. Then you’d hear excited chitter, then the hum of lancers charging, more chittering, and then skittering as tell-tale bolts of orange flared and the screaming began.
Just another night at the Tom-Tom. Why the Chatra liked it here, I’ll probably never know, but they did. And as the club’s manager, my job was clear: What the Chatra liked, they got. And the Chatra liked to party.
Every night, dozens of the waspish creatures would come in to celebrate another day of domination. Who knows what part of my planet they’d subdued and subsumed that day, but it was always worth a victory lap. As in lapping up copious quantities of the potent swill we’d been trained to provide them.
Tonight would be no different. That’s the thing you learn about being a subjugated species. You’re on the periphery, just a twitch away from becoming a target. It was a hard, hard lesson to learn, and I want so badly to share that lesson with my staff.
They are new to this. So very new to this. But I can’t tell them what I know is coming at this late hour, even as the Chatra start chittering excitedly, even as their lancers begin to hum. I can’t tell my staff because I’ve already locked myself in my fortified office.
The Tom-Tom has always been a club known for its festive nightlife. Maybe that’s what makes it so easy to hire an entirely new staff every day. Even as a subjugated species, we like the idea of throwing a good party.
Problem is: the Chatra have a conqueror’s sense of merry-making, and after the party, we’re always the evening’s real entertainment.
by Julian Miles | Aug 18, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Wizard One, remind me again why I’m face down in a flower bed in downtown fuck-knows-where?”
“Maintain comms discipline, Fighter Zero. However, I am authorised to say you look lovely with a sprinkling of daisies on your arse.”
“Tell Gandalf to get himself a new hobbit, because you’re gonna be visiting Mount Doom when I get back.”
“Promises, promises. That’s the problem with you orcs, all talk, no- Whup! Incoming on your five.”
The buildings about me are lit by the blue radiance that comes from whatever it is that stops anything we have from getting to them.
Seventeen months ago they came from nowhere and fucked up just about everywhere so fast nobody even got a chance to name them. Quite honestly, we’re not sure we’ve got a whole planet left to save. But sorting that out will have to wait.
Eight weeks ago Charlie and Green teams had a skirmish with a small group of invaders, which they escaped from by dint of dropping a multi-storey car park on them. After-action scouting found an invader flattened under a couple of tons of exit ramp. Probably thought it safe to abandon because they could destroy any attempt at digging it out. What they didn’t know about is the main sewer that runs a few metres under the car park. We dug upwards and retrieved the mangled remains. From the lumpy greenish mince we extracted bent gear, conductive mesh, and one functional miniaturised generator.
I’m wearing what the bright folks back at DR&D – the first ‘D’ standing for ‘Desperate’ – reckon could let us shoot the bastards. After exhausting all the obvious forcefield options and other advanced stuff I don’t really understand, one particularly mad scientist made a discovery: we can’t shoot them because they’re not really here! Their forcefield doesn’t stop things, it puts the wearers slightly out-of-step with our reality. Not enough to make them invisible – the potential of that concept scared a few higher-ups badly – but just enough to make them insubstantial to physical interaction. We can see them, but we literally can’t touch them.
If it works, the mesh I’m wearing puts me on the same ‘wavelength’ as them. If it doesn’t… I’ll be another dead hero.
They’re all about me. There’s a hum that’s making my teeth ache.
Game on.
“Wizard One, going live.”
I bounce up, select targets by fanciest headgear, and let them have it. Three-round bursts, focus on head or upper centre mass until things get fluid.
Their armour is useless! We thought their technology did something with the base materials to make it more effective. Obviously not. AP bullets are punching through fleeing figures. How long have they relied on this displacement trick?
Rolling out of a reload crouch, I pop back up and set to wreaking havoc with FMJ. This shooting range can’t last. Somebody’s got to get their shit together, surely?
I’m on my fifth magazine and hunting the routed when something white-hot and crackling goes past my ear. I spin, bringing targeting sights up on my night vision. Ah-ha. Here they come. Squad of four, diamond formation. I align the grenade pattern on their lead and let the launcher on my back deliver Guy Fawkes Night early.
The rig on my thigh is from a project experimenting with teleportation. The result remains inexplicable: whatever is teleported always reappears at the underground facility where their first test succeeded. Useless for bouncing about, great for getaways.
Like now. As the grenades erupt, I’m gone.
