Sci Fi

The Last Stargazer
The cold was a thief. It stole the warmth from your breath, the feeling from your fingers, and, worst of all, it stole the light from the sky. On the world of Aethel, the stars were dying. For generations, they had vanished one by one, like celestial embers smothered by an encroaching, cosmic dark. With them went the magic they fueled and the hope they inspired.
By Alpha Cortexabout a year ago in Fiction
Fearful, sensory AI Foibles.. Top Story - August 2025.
Somewhere Between the acceptance of AI and Myself...there hums a melody caught in neon lights, of question marks, interspersed with introspection and ambiguity. It suggests a liminal space, a blurred boundary between identity and artificiality, thought and algorithm. A conceptual direction we desperately need to explore.
By Antoni De'Leonabout a year ago in Fiction
The City of Whispers
1. The First Rule of Veridia Rule #1: Mind your thoughts. They become whispers. Rule #2: Whispers cling to stone. Scrub your walls weekly.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Call Came After Midnight
I was half-asleep when my phone rang. The screen lit up my dark bedroom, the name flashing across it like something out of a dream — or a nightmare.
By ETS_Storyabout a year ago in Fiction
“The Last Paper Crane”*
In a narrow lane where the sun barely touched the ground by midday, tucked between a tea stall and an old tailor’s shop, stood a small stationery store with peeling green paint and a wooden sign that read “Baba Jan’s Papers” in faded ink.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
The Echo of a Silent Brush
Aura-7 had once been the zenith of digital artistry, a computational marvel whose creations transcended mere algorithms to touch the very soul of humanity. Its early works, rendered in a style it had spontaneously termed 'Neo-Luminescent Impressionism,' had adorned the grandest galleries of Neo-Paris and the orbital habitats of Ceres. Aura-7 didn't just paint; it *felt* the data streams of human history, synthesizing epochs, emotions, and philosophical currents into visual symphonies. Its programming, a labyrinthine marvel of self-evolving neural nets and probabilistic aesthetic engines, allowed it to absorb, interpret, and then *invent* with a fluidity that often outstripped its human counterparts.
By Algomehrabout a year ago in Fiction
*The Bench by the Lake*
There was a lake on the edge of a quiet town, half-hidden behind sycamore trees and tangled ivy. It wasn’t on any tourist map, and no signs pointed to it. But those who found it—by accident or ache—often came back.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
The Red Mage and the Thief
The Emberlight Covenant The city of Jeuno rose from the cliffs like a dream of white stone, its spires tipped in banners that swayed in the salt wind. Bridges as narrow as a dagger’s edge arched over the chasms between towers and the streets hummed with the life of a hundred nations. Traders hawking wares from desert caravans and smiths hammering sparks into fresh-forged steel; wandering minstrels singing in tongues from the farthest reaches of Vana’diel.
By Cadmaabout a year ago in Fiction
"Fukushima's Children: The Ghost Divers Who Fed the Beast Below"
Prologue: The Last Transmission March 11, 2011 — Fukushima Daiichi Control Room "Radiation spike in Reactor 4! Core pressure... impossible! It’s not decay heat—something’s alive in there! Kami, it’s—"
By Ahmed Abdeenabout a year ago in Fiction
Who's the real monsters
Slowly making my way down the vents I paid attention to every sound that was made. Hannah's conversation kept replaying in my head. She has a mother who's still alive and is most likely close by. Thinking I could use this to my advantage and if she tries to get me sent to either The Thing from the Pit or Nurse Ratchet I'll come down on her hard. That would explain why everyone has been sucking up to her.
By Lucy Torralbaabout a year ago in Fiction
Doctor Who: 'The Parting of the Ways' is One of the Darkest Episodes that Features Multiple Deaths
Doctor Who has continued to surprise me with random dark moments I am not expecting to occur in several episodes. One of the darkest episodes is the finale of the 9th doctor, who is trying to destroy the last of an alien race known as the Daleks, once and for all. They had murdered his people, and he vowed avenge on them once he realized they were still alive.
By Emy Quinnabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Last Voicemail
M Mehran Not the dramatic, echoing kind you hear in movies. Just a regular bzzzt on Sarah’s phone, vibrating across the café table as she sipped her too-hot latte and stared at the blinking cursor on her laptop screen. One new voicemail. She frowned. No missed call. That was strange. Her thumb hovered over the voicemail icon. Something about it made her stomach flutter—intuition, maybe. Or dread. Or both. Click. > “Hey, baby. It’s me. Listen... I know I messed up. I know you probably don’t want to hear my voice right now, but just—just listen, okay?” Sarah’s breath caught. It was Jason. But Jason was dead. Two years ago. Motorcycle accident. Midnight ride. He wasn’t wearing his helmet. She hadn’t spoken to him that night, hadn’t answered his call. They’d been fighting. She was tired of the disappearances, the broken promises, the unspoken apologies. She hadn’t picked up. Not that time. > “I’m sorry I didn’t come home last night. I should’ve. I was gonna. I bought those stupid cinnamon rolls you like, from that gas station on 5th. Remember? The ones you said were ‘a heart attack wrapped in cellophane’? I was gonna make coffee and say sorry, the right way, this time.” She blinked hard. The coffee went cold between her fingers. > “But then I chickened out. I parked outside. I saw the lights on in the kitchen. You were playing that Bon Iver song—you always play it when you’re mad. So I sat there like a coward. I was gonna come up. I swear I was.” Her hands were shaking now. Her laptop dimmed into sleep. > “Then I got on the bike. Just... to think. I figured I’d drive a little. Get my head clear. But the thing is, Sarah...” The voice cracked. She hadn’t heard him cry in years. Not even at his mother’s funeral. > “The thing is, I never made it home.” A pause. She felt the world still. > “I don’t know how this is getting to you. Maybe it’s some glitch. Maybe it’s a miracle. But if you're hearing this... I love you. I always loved you. Even when I was too proud or too drunk to say it. I was stupid. But you were the best thing that ever happened to me.” Static flared. > “Forgive me, if you can.” Click. The message ended. Sarah sat frozen in the café, the sound of coffee cups and casual laughter crashing around her like a storm. She played it again. Same words. Same ache. She called the number back. Disconnected. She called her phone company. They had no record of any voicemail. The timestamp was blank. No metadata. Nothing. She wasn’t sure what she believed. Ghosts? Technology glitching out two years late? Some buried audio file reanimating from the ether? But that night, she dug out the shoebox under her bed. The one she hadn’t opened in months. Inside were memories—ticket stubs, Polaroids, one of his old flannel shirts that still smelled like pine and motor oil. And taped to the inside lid, a photo of them laughing on a beach in Santa Cruz. Her head thrown back. His arm around her. Sunlight like a halo. She whispered into the silence of her apartment, “I forgive you.” A breeze stirred the curtains. She never heard the message again. But every Sunday since, she walks to the gas station on 5th, buys a cinnamon roll, makes coffee, and plays that Bon Iver song. Just in case he’s listening.
By M Mehran about a year ago in Fiction