A salmon run, they call it.
Fish don’t have legs, do they?
If they did, where would they go?
Would they pedal the Tour de France, run the Boston Marathon, climb Everest, ultimately shattering their femur riding the escalator at LAX?
No. They are far more sensible.
They are fish.
Parker Davis is a sapien, of the genus homo. He speaks in pictographs, often jabbing his keyboard as a primitive form of communication.
I won her heart with love letters generated by a bot and a prompt, delivered in my own handwriting. Cyrano de Bergerac for a modern world.
We were so happy, an endless spew of auto-responses — until I found the folder of prompts she’d used to reply.
How dare she?
Michael McKinnon wrote this story.
Natural calamities, mass shootings, shelling, blackouts, forced relocation, alien invasion, and Mars colonization are easier to bear if they meet a predetermined schedule. With all your devices fully charged, alarms on, bug-out bag packed, cats fed, and all-inclusive timelines printed, there is plenty of time to enjoy yourself. As scheduled.
Olena Zheldak was born on November 13, 1981, in Ukraine. After February 24, 2022, having personally survived Russia’s full-scale invasion, she wrote and self-published an autobiographical wartime narrative, “From Irpin with L̶o̶v̶e̶ Pain,” and collaborated with the British author Paul White by writing a lead story for his new edition of “Life in the War Zone.” In 2025, her essay, “Life Interrupted. Resumed. Ended.” was published in the 195 Essays Project by 2084.
A woman at the park told me it was her husband’s birthday. She was visiting his bench. “You should take these,” she said, giving me the roses she held. “They die anyway,” she said, by way of explanation. They sat on my desk for months. I couldn’t throw them away.
Sarah Rudston is a data engineer and writer based in the UK.
When you lost your heart, I lost a friend. Someone I trusted never to change.
You parade your bitterness in late night bars.
Yet remember the time we visited London? I carry my books now in the souvenir tote bag I bought there, my invisible tribute to a friendship destroyed.
Madeleine McDonald wrote this story.
When I was sired, I knew I’d become a pariah. Figured drinking blood did that.
Over time, they hated my beef habit more. Abhorred my accumulated air miles. They joked I’d die with a steak in my heart.
These days everyone avoids the sun, and no one invites me in.
Joe Pearson is a British fiction writer living in Paris. As far as he knows, he is not immortal. You can find more of his writing at joepearsonwriter.com.
The story of the week for November 3 to 7 is…
Staring Awake at the Bottom of the Top Bunk by Liam MacDonald
and
Faculty Assembly by Wendy K. Mages
Every time I come home I check on the dark stain in my bedroom, just to make sure it’s still there. It grows and shrinks, but thankfully never completely disappears. When guests come over, I cover it with old photographs I took off the wall when I first moved in.
Gary is an earnest man who tries his best.
Under expensive, low amber lighting, and over rare, ocean-dark wine, you told me about your dead Dad.
About your Confirmation. About taking Holy Communion in front of your friends. How surprised everybody was to see you doing that.
How you liked me really, but you wouldn’t do anything about it.
Hannah Flynn explores liminal experiences and the ways our bodies are measured, controlled, and judged. Using restrained yet raw language, she examines power dynamics, bodily autonomy, and the interaction between our bodies and our environment. Through natural and domestic imagery, she reveals the weight of the unspoken and unseen. With a background in journalism and science, Hannah brings a precise, analytical lens to her writing, balancing lyricism with sharp observation. Her work interrogates the forces that shape identity, desire, and resistance. She is currently drafting her first chapbook. See her haiku/senryu-a-day feed at @hannahflynn-poetry.bsky.social.
Somewhere outside of time, beyond a door, through a meadow and against the trails of darkness, my mother found an elixir of youthfulness. However, it left her mind as turbulent as a restless sea and interrupted her sleep. She sits at the table writing. Her inner self communes with her.
Thompson Emate spends his leisure time on creative writing, particularly poetry and prose. He has a deep love for nature and the arts. He is trying his hand at every genre of fiction.