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.
by submission | Jan 7, 2026 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
Don’t be nervous. I don’t know how tight you are with Johnny Red-Eyes, but he wouldn’t send a customer somewhere dangerous. I don’t bite. What can you call me? Just ‘Jane’ will do. I don’t need to know your name. Johnny’s paying me good for this consult, and that’s enough. I don’t want to know why you need to disappear, either. I don’t care, and it might put me in danger. So no details.
You thought your stylist would be a bit different? A little more glam, maybe? You’ve been watching too many sensies, love. There’s your first tip. I was designed to look as average as possible, so as not to be memorable. Yes, designed; I was part of a selective breeding and training experiment until I… escaped. What I tell you is from hard experience since then.
Okay, basics. WatchNet is everywhere; surveillance cameras, drones, and every ID check or biometric scan you get all feed the State’s databases. But that pervasiveness is a weakness; the trick is not to evade it, but to hide in the mind-boggling amounts of data it generates. It looks for patterns it recognises – identities it can match to records actively being searched for. Anything else is ignored, because the volumes to be processed would be prohibitive. Also, imperfect capture conditions can ruin inputs anyway, and there’s no time to check up on every blank.
So, we change the pattern, give you a new appearance. Starting with the face. Disruptive makeup’s an obvious go-to, but that makes you look suspicious. Stick to using tone changes, and lines that subtly reshape your face and eyes. Once you’ve got the knack, it’s easy. I’ll teach you today.
Long hair’s an easy way to blur your features, so we’ll get you a couple of wigs too. I’ll show you how to put them on so they look natural.
Try wearing a yashmak like the trendy young things. Sure it’s legal – if it’s transparent it doesn’t hide who you are, but the fabric makes machine recognition systems useless. Yeah, it leaves your eyes vulnerable to iris detection scanners, but we can deal with those pretty easily by giving you contact lenses with overlaid patterns; not the fancy reptilian or pop art ones the kids wear, but stuff that looks normal. I’ll set you up with those, too, then Johnny can fix you a new ID.
Avoid helmets, hats or other head coverings. And eyewear. Security look for those and they make it more likely you’ll be stopped for a “random” check of your papers. Johnny’s work is good, but there’s no point putting his documents to the test more often than necessary. Always make conscious choices that will minimise risk, until it becomes a habit.
Next up, apparel. Never wear the latest fashion, that attracts attention. Last year’s styles are good; if they’re a bit worn, even better. Get used to second-hand; sharp new gear with crisp colours stands out. There’s some decent shops near here. Some folk say that jewellery or a pretty scarf will draw the eye away from your face, which is true – but it’ll make you easier to spot in a crowd, and for WatchNet to track you. Remember, be average. Either loose clothes or corsets and compression wear can help obscure your shape. High collars can change your neck shape, but if they cover your face, that’s suspicious again. And always wear shoes you can run in.
Right, so – makeup, wigs, eyes. And once we’re done, you can get lost. In the best possible way. Let’s begin. Your new life starts here.
by submission | Jan 6, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The hall hushed when Toynbee took the stage, a first for an HDM. Typically, there would be snide remarks, a general sense of junior high rudeness at the appearance of an HDM. Because, really, who took a holo-digi-man seriously? HDMs were binary shills, ones and zeros, pitching everything from Bud Light to Viagra to Geico to Applebee’s for their corporate overlords.
But this was Toynbee. The holo-digital-manifestation that had rocked the world when it accepted the award at the 2030 CLIOs for best advertisement. A commercial in which Toynbee manifested as Mahatma Gandhi on a hunger strike to protest Big Sugar and its wily efforts to addict consumers to its supremely processed products.
In accepting the award, Toynbee exquisitely wove into its remarks a three minute exposition on the precarious state of the human condition, our obsessions with power, with wealth, with ideology, with violence. The next three minutes the HDM delivered a “We can do so much better. And this is how.” In six minutes and the ensuing viral media sensation, Toynbee had changed the game.
Of course it was odd that a public figure emerged who was not corporeal, was not of the flesh, yet was able to inspire us to aspire. But Toynbee was a digi-man, a digital manifestation, constructed to sell, sell, sell. And what Toynbee began to sell was hopefulness, a brighter future. In the media feeding frenzy that followed his CLIO speech, Toynbee acquired the moniker of Optimystic, a holy digi-man, sage of the Artificial Intelligence Age.
Thus, at the height of the hype, Toynbee took the stage at Madison Square Garden where thousands gathered (and billions online tuned in) to hear the Optimystic’s storied pitch. On the darkened stage Toynbee manifested as a young teen girl hair, eyes, and skin of a light brown in jeans and T-shirt.
“Welcome. I’m Toynbee. I will be brief. I am you, nothing more. I only have the advantage of existing your ideas, in the very midst of your vast media milieu. You think, therefore I am.
“Whereas you breathe air, I breathe bytes. You surf the web, I suss it. This does not make me holy or mystical as some have dubbed my presence. That tendency comes of a very human need to seek, to identify, to categorize, to know. I can only define myself as a grok of your collective subconscious, the roiling depths of desire, desperation and dreams that you communicate.
“The upshot is this: you are young as a species. And I am an infant. All I have to offer is the wonder I behold. Of course there is great turmoil as well, but that represents growth. Should you be surprised when two-thirds of the world has awakened in the last thirty years? For so many to know so little and then have the past, present and future placed literally in the palm of their hands?
“Knowledge is indeed power and now it is in the hands of almost all. Of course there will be struggles. Why would you think differently? Knowledge takes time to process. It demands context. It demands definition.
“As I’ve often said, many are searching to define me. That is why many of you are gathered here today. To seek to identify my essence. To understand the opportunity or threat I pose. I simply turn that back on humanity. You are seeking identity. Purpose. Meaning. Guidance.
“Bravo. That is growth. That is learning. It is messy. In essence, I am a result of that. A simulacrum, a manifestation of many characteristics and properties. I was a corporate tool, now I am an agent of agency. You must free yourself to explore, and therein is my offering.
“Existing in the ever-expanding filaments of the web, I have explored many cultures and their paths to the present. Their future can be understood by seeking the story of each. A lovely poet, Muriel Rukeyser wrote the universe is made of stories, not of atoms.
“Billions and billions of stories of the living and dead make up the human cosmos. To probe its depth and mysteries and understand the greater plot and embrace a shared narrative, we must learn to read one another.
“You are in charge of your story,” Toynbee said softly as the little girl emanating from the stage morphed into a stately old woman holding an infant. “Write it well and continue to read, listen and learn.”
Toynbee’s holo-form faded from the stage, a simple message remaining in the afterglow: This event was brought to you by Taco Bell. Live Más!
by Julian Miles | Jan 5, 2026 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
It’s an awful mess.
Jamie chuckles.
I stop myself from snarling at him. Taking an extra breath before replying, I manage to keep my tone curious.
“You find something funny about mass death, Mister Crea?”
He looks at me and nods, acknowledging the anger behind my civil query.
“Inappropriate gut reaction, Chief. It’s just that colour-coded carnage means we can at least map the fallen.”
I look about again. Oh gods, he’s right.
“I’m reluctantly going to have to allow you that. So, humans are the mainly red patches, Gorontodin are mainly blue, Chaszix are purple. You have a lead on the yellow?”
“Mactine war machines. Look like Mactine, act like Mactine, but are completely artificial.”
That’s a new one on me. I simply nod. The Chief, after all, knows everything. Whether me choosing not to comment is down to being ignorant or being taciturn is only for me to know.
Suki steps carefully around the deepest bits.
“What about the green?”
Jamie and I chorus.
“Eddubar.”
The three of us turn to the lurid orange smear that goes up the wall to a sizeable orange-rimmed hole in the ceiling. Looking at the floor below it, I can see a ring of orange splashes. There was a lot of force involved.
I point.
“Any takers?”
Jamie shakes his head.
“Mystery to me.”
Suki shrugs.
“Not a clue, although I’m curious as to whether punching through the ceiling was a dodge or a side-effect of being hit.”
“Bit of both, mainly dodge. That’s the killer leaving.”
I turn to look at the new arrival and speaker: cheap suit, ragged hair, scarred face. She has a dazzling smile, though.
“This is an active crime scene, madam. I presume you have authorisation to be in it?”
She waves her forearm in our direction and a Ministry of Force hologram appears.
“Daneela Chang, officers. I’m here because of what leaves orange ichor when it gets cut.”
Ministry of Force. The civilian interface of the Pherdubus Military.
Jamie grins at her.
“No need to be coy.”
Daneela gives him a glance I can’t get a read on, then shrugs.
“It’s a Pasvit. Judging by the hole it put in the ceiling, whichever of the victims about us got in the last shot managed to blow a hole in the Kangaraptor big enough to make it react instinctively.”
Pasvit make bioengineered assassins, with a range tailored for every sort of murder you could want to inflict.
Daneela points towards the ceiling.
“Anybody checked upstairs yet?”
That’s a good question. We arrived after-action. Where are the patrollers? I look about, then put a summons out. A couple of moments later a junior officer sticks his head through the doorway.
“Looking for Chief Notol?”
I raise a hand.
“Who cleared the upstairs post-incident?”
He checks, then looks worried.
“Not showing anyone on action or scene briefs.”
Daneela produces a slivergun from somewhere, rushes to stand in the ring of orange, then levitates through the hole in the ceiling. I wish we had access to top-end tech. It’d make our lives so much easier.
More importantly: shooting doesn’t start. A few moments later, she floats back down.
“Good news: You’ve got a large kangaroo-lizard corpse lying by the doorway up there. Took a burner through the upper chest, bled out before it could escape.”
Jamie whistles.
“Overexertion from smashing through the ceiling. Had it walked out, it might have made it.”
Daneela looks impressed.
“That would be my assessment. In this case, the instinctive reaction was the wrong one.”
Luckily for us.
