Satire

The Last Garden Beneath Glass
In the Year 2149, under the sterile gleam of steel skies and synthetic suns, the world was no longer earth—it was Earthware™, trademarked, monetized, and managed by the United Nations of Automation. The rivers were silicone, the trees were polycarbonate, and the clouds floated not on water vapor but on encrypted data packets.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Probably Probable Probabilities of Person A, Person B, Person C, and Person D
We are taught to not make assumptions, yet we live in a world where despite our knowledge of this idea, we still choose to judge those that we cannot understand. What we cannot understand we laugh at, ridicule, tease, make an entire calamity of it.
By Slgtlyscatt3redabout a year ago in Fiction
Time is Money 💰
In the city of Chronovale, time wasn’t just measured—it was currency. Every citizen wore a sleek, silver wristband that ticked down their life’s seconds, each tick a coin spent on survival. Rent, food, love—everything cost time. The wealthy hoarded years, their wristbands glowing with surplus, while the poor scrambled, their bands dimming toward zero. Elias Kane was one of the latter, a street artist whose wristband flickered at 3 days, 7 hours, and 42 minutes.
By TrueVocalabout a year ago in Fiction
Her Smile Was the Last Clue
The Girl Who Smiled at Rain It all began in the quiet town of Willowbrook, where the rain fell almost every afternoon, and the streets smelled of old books and roses.
By Muhammad Hayatabout a year ago in Fiction
The Revolution Will Not Be Martinized
The revolution... ...will not be available in an hour in a cardboard box or on hangers that you can save for emergencies and those extra coats.
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Fiction
Your Friend Mohammad
Light cast a glow on the Hadith. Then the shadow came and all was dark. Mohammad Abbas collected the ancient text. He walked out of the mosque.
By Skyler Saundersabout a year ago in Fiction
Theriocentricity
“Ahh Rupert, welcome! Welcome! Come in. Set that down.” Rupert did as he was commanded and set down the saucer adorned with a single glass of Port. He should have known–Lord Hood only ordered Port when he wanted to play the game. The study was stuffy, a poor imitation of a bygone era. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, almost certainly never opened, intermixed with mounted heads of wild lions and zebras, almost certainly killed by someone else.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
The Keeper of Forgotten Colors
The world had forgotten color when Elara was a child, the Fade stealing hues like a thief in the night. Skies turned to ash, forests to charcoal, and eyes saw only gray. Paintings crumbled, flowers withered, and the word “blue” became a myth. Elders spoke of a time when rainbows arced and sunsets burned, but to Elara’s generation, it was folklore. Yet Elara, now twenty-three, was different. She remembered. In a crumbling lighthouse on a jagged cliff, she became the Keeper, weaving colors from memories in a world that had none.Each night, Elara climbed the lighthouse’s rusted spiral stairs, her hands stained with impossible shades. In a room of shattered mirrors, her loom—a relic of bone and wire—hummed with power. She wove blue from her mother’s shawl, its sapphire folds swaying as she sang lullabies. Red came from the apple she’d stolen at seven, its juice sharp on her tongue. Gold flared from sunsets she’d chased across cliffs, their warmth lingering in her chest. Every thread cost a memory, erased forever. Her mother’s voice faded, then the apple’s taste, then those sunsets’ glow. Elara gave them willingly. The world needed color more than she needed her past.Below, the town of Graysill scoffed. “Colors?” fishermen muttered, kicking gray pebbles. “Delusions.” But children left offerings at the lighthouse—pebbles smeared with charcoal, chalk, anything resembling hue. Elara collected them, her heart aching for their hope. One stormy night, a girl slipped inside. Kiv, ten years old, with slate-gray eyes, stared at Elara’s glowing threads. “You’re real,” she whispered. “Can you make green?”Elara’s breath caught. Green was her last untouched memory: her father’s laugh, fishing on a lake under emerald pines. “It costs me,” she said, voice like sea fog. Kiv stepped closer, her small hand brushing Elara’s. “Then let me help.”No one had offered before. Elara hesitated, then taught Kiv to weave—not with threads, but stories. Kiv spoke of a kite she’d flown, its tail a ghost of green in her mind. The loom sparked, green shimmering, but Kiv’s eyes stayed gray—she couldn’t see it. “Keep telling,” Elara urged. Kiv’s voice grew bold: meadows where she’d run, limes she’d tasted, a jade pendant her mother once wore. The green thread thickened, vibrant, alive, curling like vines in the air.Rumors spread. Children crept to the lighthouse, then adults, each carrying fragments—memories of crimson roses, violet storms, amber dawns.
By TrueVocalabout a year ago in Fiction
Sunday Night Arena. Content Warning.
“A brilliant maneuver by Mr. James dispatches Mr. Marne, once of Kansas. He’s now all alone at Agromarch Castle’s main arsenal.”
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
Frankenstein 2025
He pressed play on their class recording again. Melanie went first and blabbered on about some of the approved causes of the Civil War. She was nice, much nicer than most of his classmates. Live presentation and pen and paper had been Mr. Sanders answer to education’s problems, simple and effective. To be honest, Zach didn’t mind. There were two types of people who used LLM’s to do their homework: idiots and people like Zach who were too smart to be bothered, at least by his own estimation. There were better uses of his time.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
The First Date. Top Story - June 2025.
“What did you say?” It was then that Paul realised he had no idea what he had said. In fact, he did not know what he’s been saying for the past month. Paul, like many others in the near future, had opted to receive an AI chip brain implant. Thanks to the wonders of modern science and rampant capitalism, tech companies, BrainWave Solutions in Paul’s case, for a small fee of only a couple thousand euros can implant a chip in your brain to do your thinking for you. Usually these chips focus on specific mental faculties. One type can make you fluent in Japanese within seconds. Another can give trainee pilots forty years of flight experience. But Paul, who has struggled with women for the last thirty years of his forty-six years on this Earth, opted for the Casanova 2.1.1; the dating chip.
By Conor Matthewsabout a year ago in Fiction
Echoes Through Time
In the early hours of a quiet Tuesday morning, the sky above Norway lit up in colors science couldn't explain. Satellites across the globe pinged into alert. At first, it was thought to be a cosmic event-a solar flare, perhaps, or a meteor shower. But what followed left scientists and citizens reeling.
By Emma Adeabout a year ago in Fiction