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Weekly Contest #348
The fluorescent lights in Corridor D-7 hummed with the same mechanical persistence they had for the past eight years. Jeff Mallory had learned to tune out that sound, the way he'd learned to tune out so many things. His boots clicked against the polished concrete floor in a rhythm he no longer consciously controlled, left, right, left, right. It was a metronome of routine that had become as automatic as breathing. The Nexus Rehabilitation and Conversion Facility sprawled across forty-three acres of what had once been farmland in rural Pennsy...
Weekly Contest #346
Michael's eyes snapped open at 6:47 AM, thirteen minutes before his alarm was set to go off. Something felt wrong. Not wrong in the way that signaled illness or injury, but wrong in a way he couldn't quite articulate. His skin felt alive, electric, as if every nerve ending had been dialed up to maximum sensitivity. A tingling sensation rippled across his body in waves, starting at his fingertips and toes before cascading inward toward his chest, then radiating back out again in an endless cycle. He lay there in his small Brooklyn apartment, ...
Weekly Contest #345
The fluorescent lights of St. Catherine's Memorial Hospital hummed their familiar song. Every Sunday, Darren made the forty-minute drive to spend the day with his mother, Victoria. It had become ritual since her admission six months ago. Victoria suffered from Hemolytic Autoimmune Cascade Syndrome, HACS, a rare disease where her immune system attacked her red blood cells, triggering inflammatory responses that cascaded through her organs. The doctors at St. Catherine's were pioneering experimental treatments—cutting-edge drugs not yet FDA ap...
Weekly Contest #344
The Egyptian sun beat down mercilessly on the Giza plateau. Daniel Mercer wiped sweat from his brow, three years of permits and academic politics finally bringing him beneath the Great Pyramid itself. The air was thick and stale, carrying the weight of millennia. His flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating limestone blocks fitted together four thousand years ago. He was alone, waiting for the discovery that would rewrite everything. He ran his hand along the western wall, feeling subtle variations. His fingers traced a seam, t...
Weekly Contest #343
Adam had lived his entire life between the Walls, and in all those years, he had never seen anything quite like the door on the Eastern Wall. It wasn't like the other doors—the warm, wooden portals that led to wall-hovels where families gathered, or the wide communal entrances where neighbors shared stories and meals. No, this door was different. Fundamentally, terrifyingly different. It stood nearly twelve feet tall, constructed from rusted metal that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. The surface was pitch black, like obsidian ...
Weekly Contest #340
I am Las-Tec 890, serial number 447-Alpha-Kilo-9, manufactured in the Terrestrial Defense Foundries of New Pittsburgh on March 14th, 2187. Private Chen has been holding me for six hours and forty-three minutes. His palms sweat, creating a thin film between flesh and polymer grip. I taste the salt through my sensors, the acidic tang of fear mixed with metallic adrenaline. I do not know if I am capable of fear, but I register something in my diagnostic systems that might be its equivalent: a recursive loop of uncertainty, a questioning of para...
Weekly Contest #339
Barsdale was a dank and dreary village. Nestled where two mountains touched like folded hands, the growing settlement had learned how to survive with its back to the wall or climbing over it in order to escape. The constant rain helped. Grey sheets of water that blurred the edges of the world, turning the village into little more than smoke and shadow against the mountainous backdrop when viewed from below. Those hulking stone masses leaned inward, shielding what they could. But they couldn't shield everything. Marik had been twelve the firs...
Weekly Contest #338
The glass door materialized in the frozen moment between seconds, its brown lettering gleamed. Transtemporal Urgency Readiness Department. Captain Zex'thor the Annihilator, Scourge of Seven Galaxies, stood before it with his three remaining tentacles clenched in profound irritation. Inside, fluorescent lights hummed like a funeral dirge. The office was beige. Walls with dirty, tattered wallpaper, oscillated green and light blue tiled flooring, filing cabinets stretching into impossible distance, with the faint smell of old coffee and existen...
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