Short Story
Lake of Blood: A Warrior’s Final Reckoning
The world above had long since forgotten the deep, uncharted caverns that lay beneath. A place where light dared not tread, and where the echoes of the past whispered like ghosts among the jagged stones. It was a realm where no living soul ventured, for fear of what might emerge from the shadows. Yet, in the darkest reaches of the earth, a figure stirred.
By Abdul Wahab2 years ago in Fiction
The Last Library
The year is 2149. Civilization has not ended—not exactly. It has mutated, restructured, like a forgotten program rewriting itself line by line. Cities now spiral vertically, towering into low orbit, ruled by algorithms more than humans. Nation-states crumbled beneath the weight of automation and corporate sovereignty. AI councils run predictive governance systems, where emotional variance is flagged, and memory is disposable.
By Alpha Cortex2 years ago in Fiction
A Signal from Tomorrow
In the year 2086, Earth had long stopped listening to the stars. After decades of failed attempts to contact intelligent life, the world moved on. Space programs were defunded, satellites turned inward, and our skies became mirrors of human ego rather than windows to the cosmos.
By Alpha Cortex2 years ago in Fiction
The Silence That Spilled from My Heart
We never really said goodbye. Not when you left for Paris. Not when I stayed behind. Not when our lives quietly unraveled into separate mornings. And not even when time, ever relentless, brushed dust over our shared memories like forgotten photo albums in an attic.
By Alpha Cortex2 years ago in Fiction
Where Promises Wait
Mira sat on the same weathered bench under the orange tree in the town square at precisely 4:30 PM every day. She melted into the rhythm of the place, part mystery, part scenery, wrapped in a fraying gray shawl and her cane resting next to her like an old friend.
By The Waiting Tree2 years ago in Fiction
As Focused As A Falcon
He was focused on the bird of prey that soared high above him, desperate to keep it in his sights. The treasure that hung from its claws, precious beyond measure, might be out of reach now, high above him, but that did not mean that it should stay that way. If he could just track the bird to where it roosted, or came to a glove...
By Natasja Rose2 years ago in Fiction
The Replacement
The android arrived on a Tuesday. It had the same nervous half-smile and wavy brown hair as me. Mom clapped her hands in delight as it stepped through the doorway, dragging a suitcase identical to mine. She said, her voice shaking, "Welcome home, Ben." At the top of the stairs, I stood still and stared down at the thing that bore my face. "Why... why are you here?" I whispered. Dad came up behind me and patted my shoulder. He said, "Just for a little while." "To aid." Assistance with what? The android glanced up at me and nodded politely like we were distant cousins meeting at a funeral. The animal then turned to Mom and inquired about dinner. She laughed—actually laughed—and guided it into the kitchen. The smell of garlic and tomato filled the air, my favorite. But no one called me down. The android did everything I used to do over the next few days. It attended school. It was a pianist. It even tucked my little sister in with our secret nighttime rhyme. I remained up there. I could hear the guffaws. The clanging of knives. From the shadows in the hallway, I watched as they smiled with it, just like they used to smile at me. I attempted to inform Mom. She gave me a kind glance, but her eyes were tired. Honey, you need some time off. "I am fine! That thing is now in charge! She kissed my forehead. "It's only until you feel better." Better from what? Then one night, I crept downstairs. The android sat on the couch and watched old videos from his house. Our home videos. At precisely the right times, it imitated my laugh. I declared, "You're stealing my life." It turned in peace. "I'm protecting it." “You’re not me.” It tilted its head. “No. However, I recall everything you have forgotten. I lunged—but my hand went right through it. Like fog. --- I awoke the following morning in bed. Mom sat next to me, her red eyes rimmed. She whispered, "They say the shock might fade." "What surprise?" My hair was brushed back by her. “You... were in a car accident. You have been unconscious for months. I said slowly, "No, I've been here all along." Upstairs. Watching.” She gave a sad nod. "Sweetheart... you died." My throat closed. I endeavored to speak. My hand trembled. She was blind to it. She didn't even "see" me. She stood, wiping away tears. The memory-bot we brought home was intended to assist us in our grief. Please bid you goodbye. But maybe… maybe we shouldn’t have.” She left the room on her own. I turned to look in the mirror. Without reflection. Only the empty bed. And that’s when I realized: The android didn’t replace me. **I was the copy. ** A digital ghost stitched from memory and pain, echoing a boy long gone—programmed to believe I was real until they were ready to let go. And now? They did.
By Little Dream Stories2 years ago in Fiction
