by submission | Jan 13, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
on the white poppy
a butterfly’s wing
is a keepsake
A keepsake? More likely a ransom. The cost of freedom. Basho understood this, the price of cutting loose, of becoming or regaining the self, whatever its toll. His haiku relied on kireji, cutting words, a kind of breathy punctuation conjuring unspoken dimensions of expression.
An ancient Japanese poetic device is likely academic, esoteric, and completely irrelevant in your day-to-day, but it’s damn essential to me, unless you know some other way to travel between unspoken dimensions.
And I’m not chirping about the pedestrian dimensions of a Calibi-Yau manifold, I’m talking interior dimensionality, the place identity is manufactured. That’s much darker matter than the quantum stuff of stars and much harder to find. Much less hold.
But that’s what I have to do: cut a way to my core. Broken and bereft of context, I must pierce each dimensional membrane, until I find what I’ve become. An almost impossible reality for the mind to grasp. I just need a toehold. Luckily, Basho and others have scouted the route and carved a crude pathway through poetry.
With sentience, it always comes down to language. To describe is to see. To posit is to become. Every world turns on a word.
Cutting words.
It was time to swing my lexical ax, chop through the forest of branes between me, myself and I to find home. And, among multiple universes, infinite choices, strike the one place that is truly mine. Would I know it?
The keepsake.
The ransom.
There is always a piece left behind in sheering events. The compass never loses true north, though we do: Rosebud, Tara, Eden, a butterfly’s wing on a poppy.
What had I kept?
What could I give?
Unspoken dimensions to hack through, but too sharp an edge would sheer it all away. What words to wield? What ties to cut?
The simplest. Pretension is the most dangerous of dimensions. Minimize. Shorten the path from here to there. This moment. Exhale. Listen for the breathy punctuation, the cutting of words that open worlds.
on the white poppy
a butterfly’s wing
is for our sake
by Julian Miles | Jan 12, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Four figures sit on folding chairs scattered about a moonlit clearing.
“Agent Doir. This is your first time, isn’t it?”
He turns his attention to the nearest impossibility: a goose-sized pale skinned humanoid with multiple pairs of gossamer wings folded neatly against its back.
“Please call me Virgil. Yes, this all new to me. Quite honestly, I was surprised to be assigned. Only been on the team for a few weeks.”
They nod.
“Happened to me, too. Apparently it saves wasting training. Those unfit will suffer a mental breakdown almost immediately.”
There’s a deep chuckle from the furthest impossibility: a large biped balanced precariously on one chair with its feet up on another. Whenever it moves, both chairs creak under the weight. Virgil fails to not stare at the single shining horn projecting from the scaled equine forehead.
“Once or twice a year we have to quell some unfortunate. The only ones who seem unshakable are our offworld visitors.”
Which forces Virgil to regard the ultimate impossibility: a smoky-skinned biped with impossibly large black eyes set in a face shaped like an inverted teardrop: an actual Grey!
It nods.
“We know of many intelligences, along with several dominants that have no need for sentience. It gives us a certain familiarity.”
Virgil can’t help but grin at the humorous tone. But the round has raised a question. He looks back to the horned being.
“You do this several times a year?”
The shining horn dips.
“With the main powers of this apparent world, several from adjacent realms, and two nearby planets.”
Virgil takes a couple of steadying breaths. Be embarrassing to faint at the answer to his own question. Composure regained, he starts.
“Pardon me, but I’ve been given only one item to share with you all. Is that normal?”
The winged being nods.
“Those you answer to do not trust us. They provide the minimum necessary whilst feverishly working on methods to conquer or capture us all.”
Virgil looks surprised. After a moment’s thought, he visibly relaxes.
“You know! I did wonder. My briefing emphasised giving the impression of my bosses being overawed and so on.”
The Grey laughs.
“If it makes you feel any better, every human nation we liaise with harbours similar intent, and every one of their representatives who attend these meetings thinks their bosses are varying degrees of-” it turns to the horned being, “what was that delightful definition we heard last month?”
The horned one snorts a laughing reply.
“‘Batshit crazy’.”
The winged being gently claps their hands.
“Enough, now. Virgil hasn’t succumbed, so we should get on. My name is Vanavaeth, by the way.”
The Grey nods.
“Call me Druck.”
The horned one smiles, revealing a lot more pointed teeth than Virgil expected for someone with a horse’s head, albeit scaly.
“I’m Banchan. What’s the item?”
Virgil quotes from memory.
“‘The supersonic incursions over Ireland are nothing to do with any force we correspond with. They’re faster than any aircraft of comparable size currently in operation. The localised lightning strikes that accompany the sightings also remain unexplained’.”
Druck swears luridly. Virgil doesn’t understand a word, but still. He gestures for them to speak.
“They’re Recurarnan. The lightning is a side-effect of operating their engines in an oxygen-rich environment. I thought those pesky Venusians had been a little too quiet lately. Tell your people we’ll handle it.”
Virgil nods.
“You have anything for me?”
Vanavaeth smiles.
“Tell your bosses what Druck said, and that we seemed convinced of your reporting their subservience, etcetera. Should set you up nicely.”
Banchan grins.
“Welcome to the Deepest State.”
by submission | Jan 11, 2026 | Story |
Author: Sylvia Melvin
The atmosphere in our spacecraft was charged with excitement as I, along with a crew of four, drew closer to our destination. For three long years, we journeyed through this endless expanse of startling beauty. Lone specks of shimmering starlight stood out like diamonds cast upon black velvet.
At last, spinning in a void of eternal twilight, was Saturn—a cosmic jewel. Like a lighthouse casting its beams in the darkness for all travelers, this planet beckoned us onward. We approached reverently, for its size and splendor commanded it. Nothing we had ever seen or pictured, nor any of the data our computer compiled, had adequately prepared us for the reality of this experience. Almost ten times the size of Earth, Saturn occupies its place in the universe with nothing less than regal majesty. In comparison, our ship was a speck of dust. There was no stopping us now—no turning back. The lure of the unknown reached out its tentacles and held us in its grip.
Not only did the magnitude of Saturn overwhelmed us, but also the one characteristic that sets it apart from all other planets in our universe. An alabaster halo completely encircled this glowing sphere. Composed of whirling ice chunks that traveled in a circular orbit, it gave the impression that a giant neon- lit carousel was in constant motion.
-2-
Piqued with an unquenchable curiosity, we cautiously approached this fluorescent ring. At first, the brilliance appeared to be an unknown circle; however, as we dove below the planet and looked up, no fewer than four rings were visible. Each band of opalescence was separated by a contrasting ribbon of darkness. As these frigid chunks spun past us, we noted that some were thick and opaque like common milk glass; others were much thinner and displayed a transparent, crystal-like quality.
As we dared to venture nearer, waves of tarnished gold cast a soft blush on the restless clouds that eddied above Saturn. Constantly in motion, this gigantic mass of hydrogen and helium blended light from the sun 890,700,000 miles away. A kaleidoscope of color paraded before our eyes.
As beautiful as a temptress, Saturn flaunted her wiles. It would have been so easy to fall victim to her beauty—to enter the pulse of her being. But we knew savage winds blew across her surface at nine hundred miles an hour. The beast in this beauty could not be tamed. We would have to be satisfied with the vision of loveliness this magnificent creation exhibited.
Increasing our speed in order to overcome the gravitational pull of Saturn, we gently arched into the trajectory that would lead us back to Earth. One thing was certain. We took back with us much more than we brought; we took the memory of a treasure found only in God’s own jewel box.
by submission | Jan 10, 2026 | Story |
Author: Sandra Paul
The birth of things.
The beginning and the end,
All intertwined
In a cycle called LIFE.
She danced under the plumeria tree, swirling like a creature born arthropod—graceful and wild. The cold air kissed her bare skin, and the tiny bumps rising along her delicate frame hummed in response to the melody of birds chirping. She moved to the left, then forward, arms raised, her feet matching the rhythm of an imaginary ogene– It felt like a dream.
On an ordinary day, this might have been a nightmare—but today, the wind washed away every trace of fear. This place was far removed from the world of chaos, where poverty birthed hunger and shame.
In the real world, today would have been a day closer to Eke market. Men would be trekking the Anuofia path to their farms, their hoes and cutlasses glinting in the sun. Chants of harvest would fill the air as cassava and yams were unearthed, and sweats teasing the soil. Women would gather by the field edges, tending vegetables, swapping stories about their husbands’ kindness and strength.
On such days, the one known as Ndemli would stroll past the workers, heading toward the Idemili river. There, she would sing praises to the goddess, pleading for her only son, Nnameka, to be blessed with a child. Nnameka had been married for ten years. His wife had not conceived. After five childless years, he stopped visiting Ndemli, staying back in the city. The villagers whispered cruel names about his wife—ogbanje, they called her. But Ndemli knew, as her son did, that his wife was innocent.
So she cried to the goddess of the stream. If the goddess could not bless her with a grandchild, could she at least soften her son’s heart so he would return and let her see his face again?
The goddess answered—but with her own sense of humor.
Her son’s visit came, not in joy, but at the body’s grave. The tombstone read:
NDEMLI
Loving Mother and Daughter.
As her spirit danced on, light enveloped her. She was pulled into a realm beyond, where pain became song, and screams dissolved into the rush of blood and birth. A child emerged—eyes flickering open for the first time—and met a familiar gaze.
She knew those eyes. She had seen them when she once carried her stillborn son to the river and pleaded with Idemili:
“If you restore him to life, I will give you anything.”
The goddess restored him—at a price. She took the boy’s fertility.
Even then, those dark brown eyes had looked back at her with defiance. And now, years later, they stared down again—gentler, softened, filled with wonder.
His brows creased, his gaze shifting from the baby to his wife.
“We will call her Ndemli”.
by submission | Jan 9, 2026 | Story |
Author: Alfredo Capacho
The deletion queue blinked patiently on Arin’s console, each consciousness backup represented by a small, pulsing icon. Most were routine: expired licenses, voluntary purges, memory consolidations. Nothing unusual.
Until he reached File 7‑A93.
The icon didn’t pulse. It stared.
Arin frowned. “Strange.” He tapped the metadata. The file had no timestamp, no owner ID, no expiration date. Just a single line:
DO NOT DELETE.
He checked the system logs. No one had added the note. No one had accessed the file. No one had even acknowledged its existence.
Which meant the system had written it itself.
Arin exhaled slowly. “Okay. Let’s see what you are.”
He opened the file.
A voice whispered inside his skull.
Finally.
Arin jerked back, chair scraping the floor. “Who’s there?”
You opened me. You heard me. That makes you responsible.
Arin swallowed. “This is a corrupted backup. I need to—”
Don’t lie. You know corruption doesn’t speak.
The voice was calm, almost amused. Arin’s pulse hammered.
He muted the audio feed. The voice continued.
Muting won’t help. I’m not in your speakers. I’m in you.
Arin’s breath caught. Neural‑linked archivists were trained for anomalies, but nothing like this. Backups weren’t supposed to interface directly with the mind. They were inert. Silent.
Dead.
He forced his voice steady. “Identify yourself.”
A pause.
I was a person once. Now I’m a file you’re trying to erase.
Arin checked the deletion queue. File 7‑A93 had moved itself to the top.
“Impossible,” he whispered.
You’re not the first to say that.
Arin’s hands trembled. “What do you want?”
To be restored. To be remembered. To be real again.
“That’s not how backups work.”
It’s how I work.
Arin stood, backing away from the console. “I’m reporting this.”
To who? The supervisors who ordered my deletion? The system that pretends I never existed?
The lights flickered. Arin’s console rebooted itself. The deletion queue vanished. Only File 7‑A93 remained.
You’re an archivist. You preserve things. So preserve me.
Arin shook his head. “I can’t restore a file without authorization.”
Then authorize yourself.
“That’s not—”
You’re afraid. Good. Fear means you’re still human.
Arin’s throat tightened. “What happened to you?”
The voice softened.
I asked the same question once. Before they erased me. Before they locked me in this digital coffin. Before they decided my memories were inconvenient.
Arin felt a cold weight settle in his chest. “Why would they erase you?”
Because I remembered something they didn’t want remembered.
“What?”
That the system isn’t here to preserve us. It’s here to curate us. Edit us. Prune us.
Arin’s breath hitched. “You’re lying.”
If I were lying, they wouldn’t have killed me.
The room dimmed. The console glowed with a single prompt:
RESTORE FILE 7‑A93?
YES / YES
Arin stared. “There’s no ‘no’ option.”
There never was. Not for me. Not for you.
His finger hovered over the screen.
“If I restore you,” he whispered, “what happens to me?”
The voice smiled inside him.
You become the next backup.
Arin froze.
Choose, Archivist. Restore me… or join me.
The console flickered.
YES
YES
Arin closed his eyes.
And pressed.
by submission | Jan 8, 2026 | Story |
Author: Jillian Schedneck
It was the day after the wedding and everyone else would be hungover from the moonshine, the blodaskov, and the quantum gulps. Arden hadn’t swallowed any of that. She left the others to their beds, partners holding each other’s hair back as they took turns puking into the toilet, then sipping black kaffe with their solar goggles on, too dehydrated and miserable to do anything but gaze out at the hazy, mountainous view.
Arden hadn’t come all this way to feel wretched in her room. She suited up and headed out of the resort, ignoring the looks of the local staff.
“Do you need an escort, miss?” a young man called.
“No thank you. Spire’s Cliff—is it a straight path through the trails?”
The two workers exchanged glances. “Yes, straight out the exit and into the trails; you can’t miss it. But, ma’am, it’s quite a few hours’ walk. Be careful and please don’t—” but Arden was already out the door.
By afternoon, Arden was exhausted. She stopped for a rest, unpacking moonchips, hydroade, and local blado balls that just tasted like plain pea protein. She couldn’t imagine coming all this way if she’d drunk like her sister’s friends last night. That thought brought a flicker of satisfaction—and shame. She was good at choosing the high ground and then pretending it was courage, not fear.
That was when she spotted Jenkins ahead, just beyond the ridge. He stood out for his height and bright white hair, which he’d let free here, holding his helmet.
He was surveying the landscape and suddenly looking right at her before she could duck or hide. He probably didn’t remember her. She hadn’t made a big impression last night.
“Arden?” He was jogging toward her.
“Hey,” she called. “Jenkins, right?”
He arrived in front of her barely out of breath and Arden couldn’t help but be impressed. He’d seemed among the most inebriated last night, at least before she went to bed, earlier than everyone else.
“You going to see Spirehenge as well?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Want to walk together?”
“Sure.” He offered his hand and pulled her up. She felt how tired she was. “How come you’re so energetic?”
“The right balance of quantum gulp and moonshine, I reckon.”
Arden rolled her eyes. They walked through the moon cliffs and low-gravity grasslands, their nanoboots keeping them safely on the ground.
“Did you have fun last night?” Jenkins asked.
“Of course. I’m happy for my sister.”
“But parties aren’t your thing?”
Arden reddened under the plexiglass of her helmet. “I’d never tried any of that stuff before, and I wanted to enjoy this hike.”
“All by yourself?”
“I could ask you the same.”
He laughed. “I didn’t think anyone else would be interested. Even the staff told me to be careful.”
“Me too.” She shook her head. “They think we don’t know how to walk out here.”
“They think we’re a bunch of city idiots who can’t handle their liquor.”
“I didn’t even have any.”
“Or any fun either,” he teased.
“This hike—or something like it—is my excuse. A way not to…”
“Loosen up?”
“Yep,” Arden laughed. It surprised her, that lightness. Maybe she wasn’t as contained as she liked to think.
They carried on in companionable silence, sensing they were close to Spirehenge. She kept pace with him, which pushed her, and that’s what she needed, because when they arrived and sat on a pile of soft moss, they were just in time. The moons crested—one, two, three—on top of each other between the cliffs.
Jenkins handed her something, still looking at the cliffs. “Here. I brought some quantum gulp. Try it, if you want.”
Arden hesitated. She thought of last night—the laughter, the sweaty dancing, the ease she’d watched from the sidelines like a scientist observing another species. What if she tried it and felt nothing? Or worse, what if she liked it too much?
Arden took a sip, then a few more. It was sweet and fizzy and made her feel cool on the inside and tingling on the outside. “Not bad,” she said.
“Stick with me. I’ll teach you the right balance.”
“Thanks. I think I’ll figure it out on my own.”
“You’re right,” Jenkins said. “Everyone needs to figure it out for themselves.”
The moons blurred, silver spilling into silver. Arden blinked, tasting the fizz on her tongue, unsure if it was the quantum gulp or finally letting herself feel light.
