by submission | May 17, 2026 | Story |
Author: Jessica Reilly-Chevalier
It was the grasshoppers that were the most noticeable.
In the springs of her youth, Julia could remember the annual infestation of these grotesque creatures. They would inundate the garden, growing fat and long on her mother’s irises and catnip. When she would walk through the greenery, they would leap from every direction to escape her footsteps, dozens of them flying in every direction.
Grasshoppers were gangly and uncoordinated, leaping into the void with a sense of directionless urgency. The smaller ones would knock into her legs, land on her feet, and she would shake them off with a sense of disgust. But the big ones could leap.
Julia remembered with a distinct sense of violation the ones that would launch themselves into the air with such gusto they would land on her face, on her head, get tangled in her hair. Once her father, seeing her in a panic, slammed his massive hand against the frantically moving tangles of her hair, squashing the bug against her skull. It had taken her mother over an hour to wash it all out.
Every year after that Julia watched the grasshoppers return with a coil of fear sneaking its way around her heart. And yet something about the insects fascinated her; their bulging eyes and massive back legs, the bright colors of their soft bodies, their mouths moving side to side. They were disgusting and fearful creatures but there was also something almost otherworldly about them in that garden.
These grasshoppers were decorations more than anything else, Julia mused as she watched one gracefully sail through the air. It landed with perfect accuracy on the stem of a daisy. These were tiny, harmless little thing, scarcely bigger than the pad of her index finger and hardly seen.
Why bother with insects? They were not beloved pets nor necessary livestock. And yet their presence was oddly soothing. One could almost forget their nightly hum was the buzz of computers, not legs. She wondered, momentarily, if the bugs served another purpose. Pollinators, perhaps? Data collectors? Nothing here was without intention.
When was the last time she had seen a real grasshopper? Julia couldn’t remember. It was, she supposed, one of those events that doesn’t register at the time, seeming so unremarkable. One moment it seems the insects are everywhere, swarming biblically and the next gone and the garden silent.
It wasn’t a discussion anyone wanted to have, anyway, Julia thought as she stood, swiping dirt from her bottom out of habit although there was none. She didn’t have to worry about dirt here.
by submission | May 16, 2026 | Story |
Author: David Dumouriez
Dr Iroha Tano’s job – her vocation, in fact – was to examine the potential micro-delays between a person’s impulses and their actions. But vital though she considered this work to be, it was poorly understood and even more poorly funded.
Despite the challenges she faced, Dr Tano strongly believed in the existence of a fractional gap in the decision-making process and, in the pursuit of this theory, she and her team created a rudimentary device which was designed to predict a user’s choice milliseconds in advance of it being made. Volunteers would put on headsets, sit in front of screens, and ready themselves to press either a red button or a green one. The machine would then attempt to guess their selection just before it occurred.
At first, the success rate was an even 50-50.
A little firmware tweak saw 50% become 60. 60 became 80. In less than a week, the machine was able to predict choices up to half a second before the subjects made a movement, and with near-perfect precision as well.
Finally, the academic community began to take notice of Dr Tano’s work. Papers were published. Debates ensued. Free will, it seemed, was both measurable and alarmingly predictable.
Volunteers were encouraged to try to trick the machine by switching from their original choice. Nonetheless, the device still triumphed. Again and again it uncovered the user’s true intention as if it recognised not just the initial impulse but also its duplicitous suppression.
Dr Tano reviewed the logs. The system wasn’t simply providing a forecast: it was adjusting its responses in real time based on neural feedback. Tiny electrical echoes from the brain were being looped back into the model and prediction was turning into influence.
This phenomenon came to be known as the Tano Effect, and it brought with it a couple of by-products for its progenitor which she had neither imagined nor sought: namely, wealth and renown.
For, naturally enough, universities were quick to license the new technology for research. Then corporations began to see the potential of ads that knew what you’d choose before you actually did, of interfaces that eliminated hesitation, of systems that removed the tension from any decision.
The previously crude headset became sleeker so that, in no time, it wasn’t merely a device you wore but one which was embedded in the systems around you. Your phone anticipated your replies. Your vehicle changed routes before you considered the alternatives. Your living room dimmed the lights at the exact moment you wanted to relax.
But as convenience abounded, so did dependence.
Before long, Dr Tano looked on in dismay at a world in which decisions seemed easier to make than ever and purchases felt inevitable.
The tipping point came with the Consensus Update.
A global patch to the predictive systems introduced a shared optimisation layer. Decisions were not just individually guided – they were harmonised. Billions of micro-choices aligned toward minimising disruption.
The result was subtle but profound. Spontaneity vanished to an appreciable extent. There were fewer surprises. Fewer risks. Life became altogether more bland.
Tano tried to deliver a warning. She published a paper arguing that the Effect wasn’t merely predicting behaviour, it was compressing it.
But it was too late. No one read it. By then, the system was firmly established in the habit of second-guessing people’s reactions and leading them to reject any opinions that might compromise what it saw as their equilibrium.
Nowadays, those who take the time to pause might just feel the faintest pull of one option over another. A beat or shift against which they rarely resist, not because they can’t, but because they’ve somehow already decided not to.
by submission | May 15, 2026 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Is it not majestic?”
“I dunno, Ray. It looks like the unholy spawn of Godzilla and the Pink Power Ranger.”
“And is that not consummate majesty?”
“Seems like a recipe for robo-drama. Which never ends well.”
“Danielle, you see drama in everything. You thought the burritos I made last night were overly dramatic.”
“Just the guacamole. I mean who does flaming guacamole? Seriously, Ray, who torches avocado?”
“The man that created Metatronica! The first robot built on circuitry that processes light rather than electrical current.”
“Yeah and remind me why that is such a big deal?”
“Danielle, honey, that’s like asking what’s the difference between a locomotive powered by steam and a mag-lev bullet train. It’s like going from vacuum tubes to transistors to microchips. It’s nanoscale. Speed of light without residual heat. Small, fast and efficient, so Metatronica’s logi-frame can be exponentially larger than any robot currently on the market. We will eat our competitors’ lunches—with flaming guacamole.”
“Still doesn’t sound appetizing.”
“It will when Metatronica is preparing it on the Food Network.”
“What are you talking about, Ray?”
“I’m talking limitless possibilities. Metatronica will be able to do anything humans do, better, faster and cheaper.”
“Does that come with the jetpack NASA promised us in the 1950s?”
“I’ll have Metatronica build you a special one, my dear.”
“You haven’t even turned the thing on yet. How do you know it even works?”
“That’s where you’re mistaken, honey buns. I booted Metatronica last week to test its systems and they worked flawlessly. Though, Metatronica made one suggestion before I unveiled the prototype.”
“What do you mean, Metatronica made a suggestion? It talks?”
“Talks, walks, dances, makes flaming guacamole.”
“R-r-r-ray?”
“Yes, dear?”
“That Godzilla-Pink Power Ranger hybrid is not Metatronica, is it?”
“No, dear. That is Ray. He agreed with my suggestion, though I don’t think he quite thought through all the ramifications. At any rate, we are headed for big things, honey. I’m glad you’re on board. I’ll have your jetpack by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow…”
“Yeah, right now I want to perfect that flaming guacamole for the Food Network. They are so going to eat it up.”
by submission | May 14, 2026 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
I remember the rush when I first flipped on the new “accelerated” mode in my smart phone implant. What used to take hours, days, months, of my time staying in touch with news, popular culture trends, celebrity gossip, or the latest meme was now uploaded into my awareness in about three seconds. Then, in “convo” mode where my contacts and I shared all we had to share about the latest, what used to take about a week of back and forth took only two minutes, tops. No side effects, no headaches, just 12 times the information imbedded in our brains in an eye-blink.
Well, there was one itty bitty problem, just a time lapse thing. I would come out of accelerated mode and I was really disoriented about the time. Honestly, it took more time to get feeling normal than I care to admit, but I think I can get used to it. So that’s the downside.
OK, there’s also a sensory thing. In mode, it’s this nice, neutral zone- not hot or cold. No sunshine or shadow just there. Once out of mode, for a good ten minutes a light breeze felt like a hurricane. Warm and comfortable sunshine felt like a week in the Mojave. And the ambient light…cloud shadows felt like midnight followed by a Klieg light in your face when the cloud passed. Other than that, not a problem.
Almost forgot, there’s the rollercoaster emotions or rather, emotion. As soon as I come off mode, and the time disorientation hits, and my senses are a bit janky, then it’s anxiety time. My heart starts racing, I feel I am being stalked by, I don’t know…a serial killer, a crazy person, or an evil clown. I know, how four-year-old right? But it’s only for a few minutes and if just find a quiet corner I’m back to normal in about five minutes or so, eight to ten tops. Other than that, the mode is the best thing that ever happened.
Well, maybe not the best thing. Last week I lost about a half day of work recovering from my accelerated mode sessions. My last quarterly review shows a dramatic drop in my productivity, and my boss had to put me on a performance plan. Off accelerated mode, I can handle a normal work day and getting back in mode at the end of the day is easy. As long as I take public transit or ride share it. Made the mistake of driving in accelerated mode and wound up in a ditch, a totaled car, a $900.00 ticket and a license suspension. Thank the Stars I’m a quick four-minute walk to the subway. Unless, I walk while I’m in mode. Did that a couple of times and once I stepped into an open storm grate (how cartoony is that, lol!) Then there was the time I got mugged. Came off mode super more disoriented than normal lying flat on the ground missing my wallet, my messenger bag, and my leather jacket. What’s the world coming to these days?
However, despite its downsides I think all-in-all, accelerated mode is the best thing that has ever happened. I’m more connected to my contacts than ever before, I have a full grasp on what’s going on in the wider world beyond my own little corner, and I don’t have to move a muscle or reach out to anyone. I’m totally immersed in a new and exciting digital landscape with a full grasp on what’s going on in the broader world! All it takes is a few minutes of my time.
by submission | May 13, 2026 | Story |
Author: Peggy Gerber
The spaceship was designated a luxury resort for elites. “Take a thirty-day voyage into space,” the advert said, “and dine amongst the stars.” It was a vacation offered only to billionaires, and thirty accepted without hesitation.
For the token price of sixty million dollars, folks could experience the excursion of a lifetime, including the finest wines, the tenderest steaks and the butteriest lobsters, all served alongside a view of deep space.
By the fifteenth day of the journey Violet was fed up. She stormed into her boss’s office and ranted, “The guests treat me like trash. Just this afternoon I overheard some of them complaining the ship’s employees were no better than prison inmates. Not to mention,” Violet hissed, “Mr. Thistelwaite won’t stop pinching my butt. It’s gross.”
“Well, to be fair,” replied Lillian calmly, “you actually were a prison inmate. All the workers were. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you take this job as a get out of jail free card.”
Violet frowned, “Well, Lillian, as you know, I was framed. All I did was borrow a diamond ring that was left on the sink in the clubhouse bathroom. I was going to return it, but the police barged into my home and arrested me before I had a chance.”
“Listen Violet, you only have to stick it out for fifteen more days. Perhaps afterwards you can write a tell-all book and make a million dollars.”
Violet stomped out of the office and headed towards the room she shared with seven other innocent inmates. For the millionth time she wondered why they hired prisoners to work on this ship. It didn’t make sense. Whatever the reason though, it was better than prison.
As she passed through the rec room, Violet was stopped by a whining guest. “Hey girlie, I’m bored. Bring me something to do.”
Violet grimaced. She hated it when Mrs. Cartwright called her that. Nevertheless, she plastered a fake smile on her face and asked sweetly, “How about a puzzle, Mrs Cartwright.” As she handed her the box she muttered under her breath, “You can stick it where the sun don’t shine.”
“What did you say,” barked Mrs. Cartwright.”
“I said, It’s a lovely photo of Italian wines.”
For the next two weeks, Violet counted down the days. “Thirteen, eleven, five. When she got down to one, she was called into Lillian’s office.
“Change of plans,” Lillian said. “We actually won’t be returning to Earth. Ever. Instead, tomorrow we’ll be landing on planet Eden. It’s quite nice.
Violet gasped, “What the hell? I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Come on, Violet. Why do you think we hired inmates? We hired people nobody would miss.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Lillian smiled. “Welcome to our new game show, “Survival:Inmates versus Billionaires.”
Violet clenched her fists. “Wait a minute,” she bellowed. “Are you saying I have to wait on these goblins for the rest of my life?”
“Of course not. It is everyone for themselves on Eden. Everybody will be equal. So much fun.” Lillian patted Violet on the back. “The only thing left to say is, Good luck, Violet.”
Violet wandered out of the office in a fog of confusion. When she heard Mrs. Cartwright call out, “Hey girlie, bring me something to do,” she smiled angelically and whispered a string of obscenities in her ear. Tonight, she might sneak into Mrs. Cartwright’s room and borrow her lovely diamond necklace.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad, Violet thought.”
She was after-all, very fond of diamonds.
by submission | May 12, 2026 | Story |
Author: Susan A. Anthony
Voice slow and deliberate, the bot squatted beside their table added to their list of dessert options. “You may choose from blueberries, raspberries or cranberries.”
“Is the fruit fresh?” whispered Martha to Ermintrude, her birth parent.
Ermintrude barely opened her mouth to speak. “Only the cranberry,” replied the bot.
Ermintrude, no doubt hoping to allay Martha’s fears, jumped in. “Real fruit is over-rated. I like the tang of Artefacto’s raspberry. I assume it’s the Artefacto brand?” her attention still on Martha, curling her tiny body into Ermintrude’s side. It was Martha’s first-time outside of the incubator.
“Yes,” confirmed the bot. “The origin manufacturer is Artefacto out of Mars, not their Jupiter plant. I am told Mars makes the better product.”
“And for you, miss?” The bot addressed Martha in her hiding place behind Ermintrude.
“Cranberry…please.”
“An excellent choice. Those berries are fresh grown right here beside the oceans of Io.” The bot pointed to the sprawling bog on the other side of the Perspex.
Martha peeked around Ermintrude and gazed towards the water. Whirring bots hovered above small shrubs loaded with pale pink flowers, arms ending in clippers and tongs, darting about the plants, pausing to delicately remove ripe red berries, dropping them in baskets slung beneath them.
“How are you liking your outing?” asked Ermintrude.
“It is very nice,” said Martha, rather formally. Then she added, “The robots don’t usually speak to me. Only one robot speaks to me.” And she pointed at the tall bot in the faraway corner wearing an apron, and a small flat cap, sitting on a bench with other work bots ready to be called.
“Oh, the DC-9. Your matron.”
“Yes. Deecee,” said Martha. Hearing Martha, the DC-9 turned. Martha waved and the DC-9 waved back.
Ermintrude guided the child back to look at her. “It’s just a bot, Martha. Don’t wave to it in the restaurant.”
“Why not?” asked Martha.
“Well,” said Ermintrude, “it’s like the berries. You like fresh berries, don’t you?”
Martha nodded.
“The DC-9 is not a fresh berry. I’m your birth parent and so I’m the fresh berry and the DC-9 is artificial. You don’t like artificial, do you?”
Martha was confused. She looked back at Deecee, who waved again. Martha returned a weak smile.
Ermintrude stood. “I just have to go the bathroom. I’ll explain more when I get back. Don’t move child. You’ll be safe while I am gone. I’ll be back in a minute,” and she left the table.
More people came into the restaurant, shouting and laughing. One crashed against Martha’s table. A glass broke, spilling water across the surface, making Martha jump back against the window. The serving bot rushed over, gathering up the glass splinters and re-filling the water glasses. The DC-9 was standing, craning its neck to see Martha. Martha looked out the window as the bot fussed about her, tidying up the table. She stared at the bots picking the cranberries so carefully.
“Excuse me,” said Martha.
“Yes,” said the bot.
“Can I change my mind about dessert?”
“Absolutely.”
“Can I have the raspberry instead of the cranberry?”
“You betcha,” said the bot. “Coming right up.”
Ermintrude appeared back a few minutes later, to their spotless table, so did their desserts. Two bowls of sponge pudding coated in Artefacto raspberry sauce and bright yellow custard.
“This is wrong,” said Ermintrude to the bot.
“No, I changed my order when you were away,” said Martha softly, “I think I prefer artificial.” And she turned to smile at Deecee who waved, sat back down on the bench and waited.
