Suicide Note

by Seth Rosenman

The suicide note doesn’t mention earlier drafts. It addresses no one by name. It is surprisingly generic but has a cryptic passage about a nuclear holocaust. It has good grammar and usage and a balanced mix of sentence structures. It contains no references to an afterlife, chat bots, or sentience.

Corrupted File

by Emma Burnett

The bathroom door is stuck. The palm scanner blurps sadly. There is a grinding noise behind the wall. I bang on the door. Nothing happens.
The flat screenface of the ankle-high microbot flashes a supportive 🙂
“It should just slide open.”
🙂
I try kicking the door. Nothing.
“Can you fix it?”
👎
“Ok… pull up the repair notes.”
👎
“What? Why?”
🤷🏽‍♀️
“Don’t shrug! Use your words.”
The microbot hesitates. Then CORRUPTED FILE rolls slowly across its screenface.
“What? How am I going to get out?”
🤷🏽‍♀️
“You have any tools?”
👎
“You mean, we’re stuck in here?”
👍 

Spaces Between

by Joyce Jacobo

The child was lost. She took every opportunity to slip between things in vain, such as alleyways, store shelves, library aisles, and even the covers of books—until police officers encountered her.

Then she moved between other things like orphanages and foster homes. Adults would get into arguments over her sickly appearance and oversized eyes. She made people nervous and never stayed anywhere for long.

One night a thin, dark figure slid out of the shadows from underneath her bed.

The child gasped, wiped away her tears, and leapt into outstretched arms.

“Mommy!” she cried out in joy and relief.

Cultivated

by David M Wallace

His shelves were stuffed with books. Bricks around a walled garden. No intruder disturbed the tidy hedgerows. No savage creature could invade and dig burrows among the immaculate flowerbeds. Snakes could not penetrate those clenched volumes.

Sorrowful poetry marked him with exquisite wounds but he bore no real burdens. His was the ideal of suffering and not the substance. No ants crawled up his legs. No nettles stung his fingers. He lived his life without experiencing it.

One day, a wild, compassionate god transformed all that ink into blood and poured it down his throat in a single gulp.

Mine

by David Lanvert

It wasn’t my fault. He shouldn’t have been standing near the edge. I can explain it, perhaps comfort his parents if the authorities let me.

The police say I have a motive – his girlfriend. She wasn’t his girlfriend. She’s my girlfriend. They’re confused. After all, he was my roommate, so she met him through me. I came first, and I’m still here.

It’s like choosing your favorite ice cream. There are vanilla people and chocolate people. Where does the preference come from? Who knows? But if vanilla is your only option because there’s no chocolate, you’ll learn to love vanilla.