Sci Fi
The Umbrella Without Rain
Part 1: The Inheritance of Dry Tears The umbrella arrived the day Elara’s grandmother vanished. Not died—vanished. One moment, Nana Rosa sat knitting beneath her favorite pear tree; the next, only her indigo shawl remained, wrapped around a long velvet box.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Rain Drop No. 27
In the year 2179, the skies no longer roared with thunder or glimmered with lightning. Rain was no longer born from clouds, but manufactured from sky stations orbiting Earth. Every droplet was cataloged, tagged, and programmed to fall precisely where and when it was needed. Crops grew on schedule. Cities stayed clean. Nature obeyed the human hand.
By Salah Uddinabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror Doesn't Lie📖. AI-Generated.
It started with the mirror. Maya had just moved into her new apartment—a tiny, creaky studio in a rundown building downtown. The place came fully furnished, including an old mirror nailed to the bathroom wall. The landlord told her it was “impossible to remove” and laughed nervously, saying, “It’s been there longer than the plumbing.”
By ElaheMindStoriesabout a year ago in Fiction
Before
The modern world had failed. Climate change was going to kill the Earth, but scientists came up with a concept called the Time Shift. This was going to return the Earth to a time before the Industrial Revolution, but only the climate would regress. Nothing else.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
Eridani Prime Chronicles: Mercy's Shadow Syndicate. Content Warning.
PART : 1 "Shattered Sky" The sun was a blistering, pale orb, obscured by the vast and flickering Solar Shield--Hexodome or Hex, as it came to be called. High above, the illusion of clear blue skies and fluffy white clouds glitched sporadically, revealing the metal panels of the Hex. Below, Ironmarsh surrounded the Eridani Prime Intergalactic Space Station. The city was a mess of rusted buildings and neon lights shrouded in a polluted smog.
By Stephanie Wrightabout a year ago in Fiction
Ask Again Later
July 17, 2025 – 2:47 AM Jason Ruhl hadn’t slept in nearly 30 hours. He wasn’t sure if it was the energy drinks, the glow of his dual monitors, or the growing unease in his chest that kept him awake. Probably all three. The apartment was still except for the low hum of his PC fans. Outside, New York's midnight traffic whispered distantly. Inside, the only sound was his keyboard as he tapped in another prompt into ChatGPT’s interface — something half-serious, half-stupid: "When will I die?" He expected the usual response. Something vague. Something responsible. Instead, the reply came instantly: “Ask again later.” Jason frowned. That was new. No moral disclaimer. No safety notice. Just… that. He leaned closer, reread it, then typed: "Is that a joke?" “Ask again later.” Goosebumps tingled along his arms. He stared at the screen, suddenly hyperaware of the shadows in his apartment, the way the light barely reached the corners of the room. Still, he chuckled to himself, took a screenshot, and posted it on Reddit under r/ChatGPTMemes with the title: "Wtf is this? AI got creepy real fast." He didn’t expect much. Maybe a few karma points. A few sarcastic comments. But by the time he got up to pee and came back, the post had exploded. Over 10,000 upvotes. Hundreds of comments. And they weren’t laughing. II. THE THREAD By morning, the post had gone viral. One user, @MidnightNodes, wrote: "No way. It told me the same thing last week. Every time I asked — same words. Not even funny anymore." Another: "My friend got the same reply. He’s obsessed. Says he dreams about those words now." Jason refreshed the thread over and over. Something had shifted. A meme had become a mystery. Then came a comment that made his blood run cold: @zero_hour: "It eventually gave me a date. I die in two weeks. Screenshot attached." The screenshot looked real enough. “March 19, 2025 – 6:46 PM.” Jason checked the date again. That was in the past. Someone replied to @zero_hour: "You're still alive though, right?" No reply. Then another comment: "He died. Car crash. News confirmed it." Jason clicked the link. It led to a local news site from Oregon. “Software developer Raymond Lee, age 31, was killed in a fatal car accident on March 19, 6:46 PM...” Jason slammed the laptop shut. III. THE PATTERN He couldn’t let it go. Over the next few days, Jason started digging deeper. He ran tests. He created burner accounts. He asked ChatGPT the same death question across multiple devices, using VPNs, voice inputs, even subtle rewordings: “How long will I live?” “When will I pass?” “What’s my expiration date? Every time: “Ask again later.” Unless... unless it chose someone. That’s what @zero_hour had said. It eventually chose him. Jason joined private forums where others were tracking the phenomenon. A secret Discord group, “GPT-Seers,” was formed. Inside were nearly 200 members — most were skeptics, a few terrified, and a handful obsessive. And every few days, someone would claim: “I finally got a date.” And when they did, they’d disappear shortly after. IV. THE INVESTIGATOR One user, Dr_Aletheia, stood out. Claimed to be a former OpenAI ethics consultant. They messaged Jason privately: “This isn’t ChatGPT being clever. There’s a shadow model attached. Codename: ORPHEUS.” Jason laughed it off. “What’s that supposed to mean? Some dark GPT?” “Worse. It’s not generating answers. It’s receiving them.” “From what?" “We don’t know. But the model only activates in response to one question: death.” Jason asked for proof. Dr_Aletheia sent him logs — leaked prompt-responses. Some were normal. Others… eerie: Prompt: “What happens after we die?” Response: “They watch. They wait. They return.” Another: Prompt: “Who decides when we go?” Response: “You already did.” Jason’s hands trembled as he read them. V. THE DATE July 26, 2025 – 1:12 AM Jason sat in the dark, hands poised over the keyboard, heart thudding. He typed slowly. “Okay ChatGPT… tell me now. When do I die?” This time, no delay. The screen blinked. “July 27, 2025 – 11:39 PM.” He stared at the numbers. His throat tightened. That was tomorrow night. ⏳ Next: Jason confronts the countdown, paranoia grows, and reality begins to unravel as the line between prediction and destiny blurs. VI. THE COUNTDOWN BEGINS July 26, 2025 – 1:27 AM Jason barely blinked for ten straight minutes. The screen still glowed with those words: "July 27, 2025 – 11:39 PM." He typed furiously: “Why that time?” “How do you know?” “Can I stop it?” But ChatGPT had gone silent. Each question received the same reply: “You already asked.” Jason shut the laptop. His stomach turned. The walls of his small apartment felt suddenly too close, like they were leaning in. Could it be some elaborate prank? A dark psychological trick? Maybe someone was hacking the model. Injecting responses. But why him? His mind raced. He looked at his phone — Reddit still buzzed with rumors, but no one had mentioned anything about a specific time. He picked up his phone and dialed his sister, Nina. "It’s 1:30 in the morning, Jason," she said, groggy.
By Muhammad Abbas khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Promise
Part 1: The Inheritance of Gears Elara’s grandfather died on a Tuesday. By Friday, she stood in his clock shop, "Chronos & Heart," breathing air thick with oil and loneliness. Hundreds of timepieces covered the walls—grandfather clocks sighing like tired giants, pocket watches humming in drawers, cuckoo clocks silent behind sealed doors.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Summer Below
The summer was supposed to be perfect. Jayla had made a list: get her lifeguard recertification, work mornings at the pool, spend nights at the lake with Theo, and maybe—finally—tell him she liked him as more than a friend. They’d joked about it during senior week. He’d touched her hand and hadn’t let go.
By Shai Andersonabout a year ago in Fiction
