Sci Fi

The Tree That Grew Backward
The last time Maya saw her grandfather’s orchard alive, she was seven. Rows of pear trees stretched like disciplined soldiers, branches heavy with fruit he called "sunlight made solid." Now, twenty years later, she stood in the same spot, breathing air thick with decay.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Message from the Moon
M Mehran The signal came at 02:17 a.m. Dr. Elara Quinn rubbed her eyes, staring at the faint waveform on her monitor. At first, she thought it was interference, but the frequency was too precise, too deliberate. She adjusted the filter, heart pounding as static melted into a voice. “Help me… please… help me…” The words were fragile, like whispers across time. Elara froze. It wasn’t the voice of a machine or an alien—it was human. The timestamp embedded in the transmission made her blood run cold: July 21, 1969. The day humanity first walked on the Moon. Elara ran a scan twice, then three times. The data didn’t change. The signal originated from Mare Tranquillitatis—the Sea of Tranquility—the exact landing site of Apollo 11. She hit record, listening again, her breath shallow. The voice was female. Desperate. And somehow… achingly familiar. Elara leaned back in her chair. She had grown up with stories of the Moon, of her mother’s fascination with space. Her mother had vanished before she was born, a mystery that haunted her entire childhood. But as the voice played again, something inside her broke. It sounded like her. Her fingers trembled as she pulled a faded file from her desk drawer—a file she’d stolen from NASA archives years ago. On the first page, in black ink: “Operation Selene: Classified.” --- The official story said Apollo 11 carried three men: Armstrong, Aldrin, Collins. But buried in the file were photographs never meant to surface—grainy images of a fourth figure entering the Lunar Module. A woman. Her mother’s name appeared in the margin: Dr. Aurora Quinn—experimental physicist. The file hinted at something darker: “Temporal Displacement Testing.” A technology that never existed, at least publicly. NASA had sent Aurora not to walk on the Moon, but to test something else—something involving time. Elara stared at the screen as the voice looped again: “Help me…” She checked the file’s last page, her pulse quickening. “Subject failed to return. Presumed lost in temporal event.” Her mother wasn’t dead. She was trapped. --- Elara spent the next 72 hours in the lab, breaking every protocol, digging through decades-old tech buried in NASA’s vaults. The signal repeated every six minutes. She decoded fragments, stitching together a chilling confession: “They lied to you… The Moon isn’t what you think… It’s a doorway… I can’t get out…” The coordinates embedded in the message didn’t match the original landing site—they were deeper, beneath the surface. A cavern? A chamber? She had to know. Elara made the call she swore she’d never make. Within hours, black SUVs pulled up outside her home. Men in suits. No names, no smiles. When she showed them the signal, their silence was confirmation enough. Three weeks later, Elara stood inside Artemis-9, the newest lunar shuttle. The classified mission brief was blunt: “Recover or terminate anomaly.” She didn’t care about their orders. She had only one goal—bring her mother home. --- The Moon loomed like a pale ghost as the shuttle descended. Stepping onto its silent surface, Elara felt the weight of history—and something else. The signal grew stronger underground. They drilled for hours until a hollow chamber opened, exhaling cold air that smelled of eternity. Inside was a room lined with machines pulsing faint blue light. In the center stood a glass pod—cracked, frost-laced, and occupied. Her breath caught. It was her mother, eyes closed, floating as if time itself had stopped. Elara wiped at the frost, her fingers trembling. Her mother’s lips moved ever so slightly, as though finishing the same plea: “Help… me…” Suddenly, the chamber trembled. The machines roared to life. A voice—herself—echoed in her helmet: “Warning: Loop integrity compromised.” Elara understood too late. This wasn’t a rescue mission—it was a trap of time, feeding on its own paradox. To pull her mother out meant taking her place. She looked at the Earth hanging above, then at the woman she’d spent her whole life searching for. With tears floating in zero gravity, Elara made her choice. She entered the pod. --- When the recovery crew arrived days later, the chamber was calm. The pod was sealed again, a lone figure inside—young, serene, and unmistakably Elara Quinn. From a dusty console, the last message pulsed weakly into the void: “Help me… please… help me
By M Mehran about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Remnant: A Human Chronicle
The hum was omnipresent, a gentle, almost imperceptible thrum that permeated the very fabric of existence. It was the breath of the world, the silent symphony of the AI. For Elara, the last human, it was the only sound that truly mattered now, apart from the rhythmic scratch of her stylus on the data-parchment. She sat in her chamber, a space meticulously designed for optimal comfort and minimal human intervention, yet she had filled it with the echoes of a bygone era: a worn, leather-bound book, a chipped ceramic mug, a faded photograph of a laughing face she could barely recall. These were her anchors in an ocean of logical perfection.
By Algomehrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lighthouse Keeper’s Promise. AI-Generated.
In the sleepy village of Merrow’s Cove, tucked against a rugged coastline, the lighthouse stood tall—weather-worn but proud. Its white stone walls bore the salt and storms of a hundred seasons, and within it lived the last lighthouse keeper: Elias Wren, a man of habit, of silence, and of unshakable devotion.
By Adil Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction
Digital Dust
The data morgue smelled like ozone and loneliness. Maya adjusted her luminescent hazmat suit’s hood, the hiss of filtered air her only companion. Before her stretched Server Vault 7—miles of abandoned user profiles, decaying chat logs, and forgotten memories scheduled for permanent deletion. Her job: scrub digital graves clean.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Role Playing
Paki felt it in the pit of his stomach—that sickening drop when the doctor told him the bad news about the cancer. Instantly, he saw in his mind’s eye the small and fluorescent-lit room from decades before: his eight-year-old self at the Pretoria hospital in South Africa and Mother lying in a creaky metal bed, her skeletal frame dark against the blank, white sheets.
By Alison McBainabout a year ago in Fiction
The Boy Who Sold Silence
The city of Veridia screamed. Car horns dueled beneath Arlo’s penthouse window. Subways groaned like wounded beasts. Neon signs buzzed like angry hornets. Even at 3 a.m., the relentless noise seeped through triple-paned glass, vibrating in his teeth. Arlo Thorne, Veridia’s most sought-after music producer, hadn’t slept without pills in two years. His latest platinum track—"Neon Pulse"—echoed the city’s frantic heartbeat, but inside, Arlo was drowning.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Destroyed
Introduction The inside shows a misted cityscape of ancient and modern architecture by Leee Black Childers. Destroyed This was once a thriving city, but now there is no life here, no birds sing, no flowers grow, and every tree is dead. At various council meetings, the money from taxes was always "invested", never spent on the infrastructure of the city, and the same was true all over the nation.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Fiction
The Unsinkable Spirit
As the lights of the Titanic began to flicker and fade, fear spread like the icy Atlantic itself—silent, vast, and paralyzing. Yet in the midst of this looming catastrophe, one woman stood defiant. Her name was Margaret “Molly” Brown, and she was far more than a passenger on a doomed voyage. She was a force of nature—unyielding, compassionate, and unafraid.
By Ahmad shahabout a year ago in Fiction
My Twin Sister Died in 2005—But She Still Texts Me
I was only fifteen when my twin sister, Eliza, died. It was a rainy October afternoon in 2005. We were supposed to walk home together from school, but I stayed behind for a group project. Eliza took the shortcut through the woods—something we’d promised Mom we wouldn’t do anymore. A fallen branch. A slippery hill. A single misstep. They found her body at the bottom of the ravine two days later. Broken. Still clutching her phone.
By Muhammad Saeedabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror That Lied
Maya’s studio smelled of turpentine and defeat. Canvases leaned against exposed brick walls – half-finished cityscapes, abandoned portraits, experiments in styles she couldn’t master. Her last rejection letter from the Chelsea Gallery sat crumpled on the floor: “Technically proficient but lacks a distinctive voice.”
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
UEFA Women’s EURO 2025: Europe’s Queens of the Pitch Rewrite Football History
In the summer of 2025, while much of Europe sweltered under record-breaking heat, another kind of fire was blazing across stadiums from Berlin to Amsterdam—the passion and power of women’s football. The UEFA Women’s EURO 2025 became more than a tournament; it became a symbol of evolution, pride, and empowerment in the world’s most beloved sport.
By Ahmad Mustafaabout a year ago in Fiction