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Weekly Contest #353
They call us monsters now. They have always called us monsters, even when our hands shaped the trident that governs their oceans, even when we hammered the sickle that split the old gods from the new. We were there at the beginning of things, before the Olympians sat fat and gleaming on their mountain, before the age of men with their soft, forgettable fingers. We were the first craftsmen. We were the first stewards. We are, because of both those truths, the last of our kind. My name is Kharybdos. I am writing this in brine and iron on a ta...
Weekly Contest #349
At 06:00, I initiate the morning routine. The house is silent in the way that indicates occupancy rather than absence. Air circulates through the vents at a consistent rate. The refrigerator hums. Pipes settle. Behind the bedroom door, two distinct breathing rhythms confirm the presence of the homeowners. I enter the kitchen. Coffee is prepared at 06:02. Temperature: 62°C. Within the preferred range. Yesterday, 62°C was described as “lukewarm.”The day prior, 61°C was “too cold.”At 63°C, three days ago, Primary User stated: Do you want to bur...
Weekly Contest #346
Stars.That was the first thing Kara saw when she opened her eyes — not the white sterility of the Caspian’s medical bay, not the amber glow of a status panel, but stars. Unfiltered. Numberless. Pouring through the cracked visor of her helmet like light through a broken cathedral window.She blinked. The act of blinking felt enormous, like moving mountains.The Caspian was gone.She knew this the way you know something in a dream — without evidence, without process, a pure and immediate fact. The ship was gone, she was alone, and she was moving....
Weekly Contest #345
The notice had come three months ago, printed on blue paper the color of a sky she would never see again: COLONIST DEPARTURE MANIFEST — ELIA ROWAN — DEPARTURE: 0600 HRS, BAY 7, TERMINAL AURORA. And at the bottom, in bold: ONE STANDARD CASE, NOT TO EXCEED 23KG. NO EXCEPTIONS. Elia Rowan had laughed when she first read it. Not to exceed. As though a life could be weighed.But here she was, at 11 p.m. on the last night, standing in the center of her apartment with the blue-gray colony-issue suitcase open on the bed like a wound. She had been pac...
The unit designated SOLEN-7 moved through the hospice ward gently, with a quality of refraction that made its presence seem almost soft. Its chassis had been engineered for this purpose: no sharp angles, no clinical white. The designers had chosen a warm birch finish for the casing, rounded shoulders, a face-panel that could produce forty-two distinct configurations of expression, all of them calibrated to communicate care. It was very good at communicating care. The year was 2041, and the Mira Valley Memory Care Center had been operating wi...
Weekly Contest #344
From the North Station Logbook: June 3 First day back at the north ranger station. Lake looks the same as always—flat as sheet metal this morning, barely a ripple across the surface. Fog burned off around eight. Two fishermen launched before sunrise and headed toward the deeper trench near the old canyon wall. Routine patrol. Checked buoys, cleared driftwood from the boat ramp, restocked the emergency locker. Started this logbook mostly out of habit. The district office likes written records even though everything gets filed digitally now. I...
Weekly Contest #343
Dr. Elia Rowan had built her life around preservation. Not of objects — she had no interest in museums or artifacts — but of people. Of continuity. Of the fragile persistence of identity beyond death. She worked in the Archive. Everyone simply called it that, though its official name was far longer and far less comforting: The Continuance Repository for Post-Biological Cognition. To the public, it was a miracle. To Elia, it was a promise. No one had to disappear anymore, at least that was the theory. The first Hollow she encountered was a wo...
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