Satire
The Real Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything, Not 42 As That Pesky Douglas Adams Suggested
And so it came to pass as things so often do and as we unveil the oldest recorded words from the distant past of the earth on the passing of its existence - the meaning of the universe (not 42, that pesky Adams). It said, "sorry, we dropped acid first."
By Paul Stewart5 days ago in Fiction
A Grey Area. AI-Generated.
When a Grey walked into the 41st Street Starbucks, all the Reptiloids drinking their mid-day macchiatos turned yellow with surprise. No Greys had been seen in a Starbucks since the Cinnamon Wars. The Grey, a short elderly fellow in a worn brown overcoat, approached the counter and ordered a grande cappuccino. The barista was human, although determining that required a second look. His face was almost entirely covered in tattoos, and enough metal protruded from his ears, nose, and lower lip to defeat any facial recognition algorithm. His name tag read ASH PHOENIX — PROUD/THEY. Behind him hung a municipal poster: GOTHAM COFFEE FOR ALL — $1.50 PER CUP. ALL SENTIENT SPECIES WELCOME. Ash considered the Grey for a moment.
By Vadim Kagan8 days ago in Fiction
The Unqualified Prodigy
“Finally finished.” Eleven-year-old Melissa gazed at her creation and had the satisfied grin of a prodigy. And a prodigy she was. Her birthchild—a water purification device—transformed contaminated water at minimal cost. It was a manifestation of youthful ingenuity. A child had solved a problem that had baffled scientists for decades! The scientific community was completely floored.
By Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin9 days ago in Fiction
Your first 24 hours on my rock by the sea . Top Story - October 2026.
Hey you! Yes, YOU! This rock you see in the photo before you? It belongs to ME! My family and I discovered it while exploring an untamed, island wilderness east of New York City. The Atlantic island we traversed was largely unpeopled (or at least unsettled by Spinellis).
By Sam Spinelli11 days ago in Fiction
Meet Sheriff Archer Crowe
Sheriff Archer Crowe has served Ashveil Hollow for the last eleven years, ever since he replaced the late (not always great) Sheriff Steve Calloway— who didn’t so much as retire as stopped returning calls. It took the town a week to notice, and three more days after that for the then-Deputy Crowe to go check on him himself, on what was meant to be a routine welfare call. The bloat wasn’t the worst part. It was the smell. Ten days, all told, before anyone thought to go looking for a sheriff. (See, he wasn’t a very good sheriff.)
By Chel Writes11 days ago in Fiction
Walled Her
You carefully position the fog machine on the floor, and angle it toward the jewelry cases. Behind you, the vacant dark of night is all that the windows admit. The only light comes from a small headlamp that you wear for these sorts of missions. You take a few more minutes to adjust the headlamp and reposition the fog machine. You need to avoid setting off the alarms. On your last mission, you narrowly escaped being arrested by the police. You were only able to slip away because the cop was a horny young jock, and you were half naked. That's probably the last time that officer will believe a suspicious woman when she pleads for a chance to go into the next room and change. Your phone rings, and the name 'Aidan Lawrence' appears on the screen. You answer it. "Hi God," you answer sweetly. "How long until the package is ready?" says a voice from the phone. "About ten minutes," you reply. "This has taken too long again. No tv privileges this month." "But I love tv! Please?" "Don't argue with me. Pick up the package and leave the post office." "Okay." He hangs up and you return to your task. You turn on the fog machine, and a steady stream of white vapor rushes into the room. As your headlamp shines on the plumes of white vapor, thin green lines of light become visible. They form a sort of web around the glass cases of jewelry, but you quickly find a hole big enough to reach your arm into. You lean carefully over the glass case, reach your arm through the gap, and angle it toward a diamond necklace. You notice that your breasts, full and pendulous, are swinging very close to one of the little green lines. "Ugh...why won't God let me wear a bigger bra?" you think aloud. "Years practicing on alarm systems, and I'm gonna set this thing off with my boob." You continue to move your hand through the gaps toward the neclace, and your breasts swing precariously over a green line. "Oops." The alarm begins to blare. You can't hear yourself think. You quickly pull away fron the glass cases, and rush toward the door you came in. As you exit the building and grab your locksmith gear, police sirens become audible. You begin to run away from the store, away from the sirens. You're running so fast that you stop looking around you, then WAM! You feel a sudden impact, as if a car just hit you. You crumple to the ground, and slowly fade from consciousness. *** You hear voices. It sounds like they're talking about you. You try to get up but your limbs and eyelids are so heavy. "God, is that you?" you ask. Your mouth feels warm and wet. Harsh male laughter erupts from the figures talking near you. "That one's gonna need medical attention," says a deep voice. "Yeah, dude walled her."
By A. S. Lawrence11 days ago in Fiction
Whatcha' Doin?. Top Story - October 2026.
Pardon me, but what exactly are you doing here? You keep invading this space, regardless of the fact that you're clearly not naturally equipped for it. Biologically, that is. Your long, narrow body. Those long, mutated appendages, evolved to facilitate grasping on one end and locomotion on the other. To be honest, your locomotion in your own environment isn't exactly elegant.
By Dana Crandell11 days ago in Fiction
