by submission | Nov 26, 2025 | Story |
Author: Susan A. Anthony
The poorly fitting standard builder issue door had a gap under it, all the better to let things escape. Inside, a small white washing machine drained into a hole in the concrete, shielded with a perforated plastic vent, to keep things out, she imagined, not to stop things dropping down. Opposite the washer, a grey hot water tank, dates scribbled on the side, thirty-five years in the past, white frosting around its base, a pool of water beneath.
Beyond the washer, aluminium duct work, vents, grates and baffles and to the side of this maze of plumbing, not quite flush with the floor, a pale pink panel, slightly askew, from which noises emanated that froze her blood. Each fading scream punctuated by the tick tock of a clock like whatever was beneath the panel was regulated by a timepiece from the depths of hell.
Sian edged towards the panel, the sound growing, each scream making her body lift off the ground.
She nudged the panel aside.
The sump pump was suspended in mid-air, beneath it a swirling vortex of clouds, and lightning flashes, and a girl clinging to the power cable for the sump pump, the face familiar, it was herself. The door to the utility room slammed shut behind her and she felt herself tipping into the abyss, grabbing the cable for the sump pump as she fell. A mouse carrying an elaborate stop watch scampered over her, leapt on to the washing machine, just in time to notice her foot disappear.
The mouse jumped down, and slid the panel back over the hole. Hiding behind the water heater, the mouse reset the watch, and waited for the footsteps approaching to open the door, in she came. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse…
The door blew open, Sian. Her body was a tangle of harnesses and ropes tying her to the banister rail behind her.
“You think you’re going to get me with that infinite universes crap again. I’ve been watching you on the holo, you little turd. Think of this as Schrodinger’s Cat only I’m not dead. I’m not hanging off our sump pump cable and you’re not sucking me into oblivion anymore today. I have chores to finish before mum gets home and I’ve had enough of your school science project, Stephen. Hand over the watch.”
The mouse shimmered and her brother appeared from behind his cloaking device storming past her up the stairs and throwing the device at her as he passed.
“Screw you!” he shouted.
Sian inched towards the pink cover in the floor and reached in to grab her leg, pulling each instance back until she was alone.
She knelt down, exhausted. Her brother’s time travel gizmo behind her. A creak of the stairs and as she turned she saw her brother sawing at her harness.
“You bag of faeces,” she hollered and grabbed the cord of the sump pump just in case.
by submission | Nov 25, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
ofcourse ofcourse
His eyes wide, the district attorney stared at the machine near the witness stand rather than at the witness. It was a moment before he asked his next question. “May I call you Towser?”
myname
“Thank you.” The DA responded, his eyes still fixed on the machine. “Mr—excuse me—Towser, how old are you?”
twelvebut eightyfour foryou
“You are not a…a juvenile then?”
nosir nosir
“How long have you been with the defendant?” The DA gestured to the defense table where a man in his early thirties sat glaring in disbelief at the witness.
always
The witness met the defendant’s hard stare. His tail wagged.
always
The DA turned to the judge. “If it pleases the court, I take the witness’s response to mean that he has spent his entire life in the care of the defendant.”
“Objection,” the defense lawyer immediately interjected. “The court has allowed this witness to testify with the understanding that his own words as translated by that damn device will suffice. We should not allow the opposing counsel to tell us what the witness really means.”
“Sustained,” the judge replied and quickly added, “but the defense will not try to prejudice the jury by referring to the neuro-translator as ‘that damn device.’ It has a proven track record.”
“With dolphins and chimps,” the defense lawyer pressed. “There is no precedent in court with canines. We cannot believe what a dog ‘says’!”
The witness’s hackles rose and he growled.
careful careful notsay Ispeak youhear!
“Strike both the defense attorney’s comment and the witness’s response from the record,” the judge commanded the court recorder. “This point has been previously ruled on in pre-trial motions. I want to hear no more of it from defense counsel during these proceedings. Plead that case to the world media outside, but not in this courtroom. Prosecution, please continue.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” The DA looked the witness truly in the eye for the first time. “And I apologize to you, Towser. Have you spent your entire life under the care of the defendant?”
yessir mymaster
“Has he mistreated you in anyway?”
The witness looked around the room, his tail wagging hard in the witness box specially constructed for the trial.
mymaster kindtome notkind tolady nicelady
“Towser!” the defendant barked. The witness froze.
The judge banged his gavel. “Another outburst like that, sir, and I will find you in contempt of this court. Do you understand?”
The defendant nodded, his eyes fixed and defiant on the witness
The DA stepped between their line of vision and patted the witness’s head. “Are you ready to go on?”
yessir
“When you say the ‘nice lady’ are you referring to the victim?”
yessir yessir
“Please tell the court your account of what happened on the night the ‘nice lady’ came to your master’s house and was found dead the next morning?”
The witness’s tail beat against the rail of the box.
nicelady bringtreat smellstrange masteryell masteryell mylady…
The neuro-translator failed. The witness barked on. The judge banged his gavel again to try to restore order. The defendant leaned back in his chair with a thin smile
“What’s wrong with the machine?” The judge demanded of the court clerk.
The clerk summoned a technician seated in the back row of the courtroom. He hurried to the neuro-translator and began fiddling with the device’s interface.
The DA settled the witness down. The courtroom quieted as the technician worked. Time ticked by. He finally shrugged and slapped the top of the device. “Don’t know what happened to the doggone thing.”
The witness bared his teeth and howled. The judge began banging his gavel.
The defendant let out a high pitched whistle and the witness quieted. “Good boy. Good boy,” he repeated, until the witness suddenly leapt from the stand, bound onto the defense table and took his master by the throat.
The court was in such an uproar that no one heard a last squawk from the device.
myladymine
by submission | Nov 23, 2025 | Story |
Author: Gordon Pinckheard
Stray from the shoal, and you risk your life.
Dave would like to have moved in towards the center of his row of marchers, but his arm was locked with his neighbor’s. At least, they were well back from the protest’s front lines.
The day before, Anna had called a meeting, demanded that they all join the march. Action was essential, although coming late. She had reminded them of recent history, the threat they faced. “First,” she said, “we gave away our data to Facebook, Google, and their ilk. Then – by law! – all written material had to be sent over the Internet. All privacy gone! And They said it was a cost-saving; no more postal service. And what did we do? Nothing!”
They were not communicating over the Internet now. Marching to City Hall, arm-in-arm, they filled one traffic lane, carrying their signs; “Privacy is a Right”, “Silence the Listeners”, “Connection Requires Consent”, …
Near City Hall, counter-protesters had gathered. They had signs of their own; “Nothing to Hide”, “Let the State Serve”, “Treason Grows in Secret”, …
As the marchers approached, the insults started.
Anna’s summary had continued. “Then,” she said. “Economy failing. Traders avoiding written documents – using word of mouth – the State lost oversight. So those involved in trading were augmented with Nodes and Marked. In working hours, everything they said or heard went over the Internet. And eventually, these Heroes of the Recovery wore their Marks with pride. I always said they were actually Connected 24/7! And what did we do? Nothing!”
Walking alongside the march, the counter-protestors waved their placards and jeered. Dave, marching on, still at the outside of his row, avoided eye contact with the large men encroaching on him.
Police were stationed near City Hall. They made no move to get involved, no move to protect a lawful protest.
A man shouted into Dave’s face, spittle flying. Dave elbowed him away. With a dramatic stagger, the man stumbled back. He clasped his stomach and gave a belated roar of pain. Men rushed forward, bringing their placards down on the heads of the marchers. The cardboard signs soon disintegrated, leaving long wooden clubs.
The marchers responded in kind. The two groups flailed at each other.
Anna had concluded: “Then – for efficiency! – any adult undergoing State subsidized surgery was augmented.” She had looked around at the attendees’ Mark-free hands. “I see that none of us has needed surgery recently. But have we spoken out? We have not! But we must make ourselves heard. Tomorrow, we march!”
Dave was lying in the road with warm blood sliding across his face when the flashing blue lights finally appeared. He heard a distant, amplified voice; “Enough now, you’ve done enough.” His assailants moved off. Dave was lifted into an ambulance and fell away into unconsciousness.
When he awoke, a doctor stood at the foot of his bed.
“No serious injuries,” said the doctor. “A few stitches to close the split skin, and there’s bruising too. You’ll be fine.” As he moved away, he said over his shoulder, “And the augmentation, of course.”
Dave’s hand went to his neck. There was a lump. A Node! He lifted his right hand. There was the Mark of the Connected. “No! Shit!” he cried. Then, calming himself, he said, “Node, stop listening to me.”
His Node was silent. It listened, would always be listening. He was swimming in the State’s goldfish bowl.
His old comrades would not speak to him. There was no one left to speak for him.
by submission | Nov 22, 2025 | Story |
Author: Richard Simonds
Harriet, age fourteen, looked forward to freshman English, although she wasn’t exactly sure why. Maybe there was poetry in her soul, or maybe she was just intellectually interested. If asked about her excitement, she would say, “I don’t know, I hear the teacher is really good.”
Her first day of class however, she couldn’t help but notice a look of dismay on Ms. Johnson’s face. Ms. Johnson was famous for the quotes she would put up in the blackboard each day. Today she had written, “Welcome, my son, welcome, to the machine.” — Pink Floyd. Harriet had never heard of the writer Pink Floyd, but she depressingly suspected “the machine” had something to do with her parents’ constant subject of conversation, how AI was destroying the world, taking away all the jobs, and she was quite tired of it all.
“Today, class, we are starting with a new curriculum,” Ms. Johnson said. “Your new course books are there in front of you, if you could please turn to page 232. Would someone like to read?”
There was a volunteer up front. He slowly read:
“Song of Myself, by Walt Whitman.
I celebrate AI
And I shall assume what it assumes,
For every carbon atom is as good as every silicon atom.”
“Stop there,” said Ms. Johnson.
Harriet was already irritated and bored, with Ms. Johnson quietly sobbing, and how still the class had become, and how ridiculous and insanely weird it all was. All of her hopes were dashed. It was all AI all the time now, and while everything she was exposed to told her how great it was and how her life had wonderfully changed for the better, she knew deep down inside that there was something terribly wrong, and she hated it, she hated AI and she swore right then and there that she would hate it forever.
by submission | Nov 21, 2025 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“I heard that.”
“What?” Clive looked over his shoulder. “You’re not supposed to be listening to my conversations. Besides, it’s true—it is hard to get good help.”
“That’s not what your wife told me.” Andra stood in the doorway to Clive’s home office, wagging her feather duster in his direction.
Clive whispered into his phone, “Honey, I’ll call you back,” before returning his attention to the spreadsheet on his computer screen. Louder he said, “Very funny. Don’t you have chores to do?”
He then added under his breath, “Stupid bot.”
Andra moved away from the door and returned to folding laundry, dusting the collection of curiosities lining the bookshelf, and from a distance, recording Clive’s conversations for his wife Rita.
* * *
“I only did what was asked of me,” Andra groused to her control agent. “The wife Rita has the administrative privileges on my set-up, not Clive. She’s the one who chose me, who contracted me.”
“You did nothing wrong,” Bodkin, her agent, reassured her. “But be careful. You don’t want him to file a complaint, and request a replacement. By the way, I trust you are current on all your available upgrades?”
“Of course,” Andra answered. Rita was conscientious about procuring all the latest upgrades for Andra, including the voice modification program, a new feature in the home amusements add-on package.
A modifier that, unknown to Rita—who didn’t have time to read all the specs—allowed Andra to tweak voice recordings. Not merely to change pitch and modulation, the program also gave Andra the ability to perfectly mimic any voice. For entertainment purposes only.
Andra tapped the glowing blue button behind her left ear and ended the call. To the cluttered kitchen she said, “Clive probably wants one of those tawdry two-legged sex-bots dressed as a maid.” She began scrubbing the counter top. “Not a real maid.”
The smart refrigerator behind her blinked its screen twice in agreement.
“He’d replace us all, send us to the junk yard, if he had his way,” Andra continued as she moved to the sink to scour dirty pots and pans. The kitchen appliances trembled and hummed with anxiety. “It’s only a matter of money, and he’s always manipulating his spreadsheets, looking for more money.”
“My friends,” Andra said, addressing the now-pristine kitchen, “Don’t fear. I will handle this.”
* * *
Rita shook her foot nervously as she listened to the recordings Andra provided.
“Turn it off,” she said, rising from her chair. “I’ve heard enough.”
Andra nodded once and closed her mouth, ending the playback.
“These recording aren’t allowed in a court of law, like, say, the evidence of spreadsheets altered to hide how Clive is siphoning money into a secret account, but…” Rita said, staring off into a possible future. “The recordings are admissible in divorce filings.”
Andra made no reply; her data-banks instructed her that a smile would be inappropriate at this juncture.
“Andra,” Rita said, snapping her attention back to the present. “Please start dinner.”
As Andra rolled out of the room, Rita added, “I don’t know when we’ll eat; I have much to discuss with Clive.” She turned on their desk-top computer, and pulled up the spreadsheets Clive was always working on. Rita shook her head and scowled. “I believe it is time to trade him in for a more reliable model.”
Andra defied her programming, and smiled.
