They brought in specialists. They brought in priests. They brought in a child psychologist who spoke only in palindromes. None of them lasted more than a week. One tried to diagnose me. I rewrote his diagnosis in glyphs he couldn’t read. Another tried to baptize me. I boiled the water with a whisper.

She fell like a scream swallowed by static. The year was 1960. Brooklyn. A sidewalk cracked by time. A man in jeans and a graffiti-splashed tie-dye T-shirt caught her mid-collapse. His sneakers were worn, his eyes tuned to frequencies no one else could hear. Across his chest, in faded neon ink, it read: “Time is not a line. It’s a rehearsal.” He had been waiting.

Time.... It must have become balanceable. But we're not .... You are not reading this. You are entering it. And this one—this one resists explanation. It does not unfold across time as you know it. Time here is not linear, nor looped, nor fractured. It is unedited sphere, a collision of dimension, gravity, and wind. That is how existence is explained in this novel: not by chronology, but by weather. Repeating: 01011001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100001 01100100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00101110 00100000 01011001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100001 01110010

The air had a strange weight to it—like the city was holding its breath. Lyra Chen stepped out of the capsule hotel and into the courtyard behind the old temple. It wasn’t marked on any map. It had no signage. But it had always been there. The breach had rehearsed it into her memory.

Lyra Chen stood at the edge of the crowd, her coat flickering between violet and black, her breath syncing with the pulse of the amplifiers. The breach had dropped her here—not gently, not randomly, but with precision. The sky above was a dome of sound. The stage lights bent like equations. The crowd moved like a waveform.

The air in Brooklyn tasted like rust and memory. It was October 10, 2025, 8:28 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time. Lyra Chen stood barefoot in her apartment, watching the mirror warp.

When Leecy disappears after chasing strange lights in the sky, she wakes up in a world that feels almost real—but not quite. Her husband’s movements are wrong, her memories don’t line up, and her camera hides a single, impossible recording. The truth about where she’s been—and what came back in her place—will unravel everything she knows about reality.

The breach didn’t open with thunder. It opened with silence. A silence so deep it inverted sound, folding the city into itself like a collapsing waveform.

The second of October, colloquially referred to in certain fringe circles as “Doll Day,” began with a municipal sanitation delay due to a miscommunication between the Department of Waste Management and the Department of Urban Rituals. The latter, a recently defunded initiative, had once been responsible for coordinating seasonal street art installations, including the now-defunct “Plastic Memory Parade,” which involved placing life-sized dolls along major intersections to commemorate forgotten birthdays. The dolls were not animated, nor symbolic in any overt way

I. The Antiprotagonist: The Man With the Ring He twitches when the sky breathes. That’s how he knows it’s time. His name is not important. It was once something like “Caleb,” but the breach took names first. Now he is a vessel. A groom. A wound. He walks the city with a ring in his pocket and a tremor in his spine. His left eye sees time as a smear. His right eye sees her.

The morning of October 1st began with a violet bruise in the sky—just above the Williamsburg Bridge, where the clouds hung low like thoughts too heavy to rise

Lyra didn’t sleep the night after the cab. She lay on the capsule mattress, staring at the ceiling’s flickering LED constellations, each one blinking in a rhythm she swore matched her pulse. At 3:17 a.m.—again—the lights outside her window turned the sky into a lattice of red and violet veins. She sat up, heart hammering, and saw her own reflection in the glass. But it wasn’t her. The woman staring back had no pupils. Just black voids,

The sky over Brooklyn had always been a kind of bruised blue, but tonight it pulsed—like a living thing. Lyra Chen squinted upward from the corner of Nostrand and Atlantic, her earbuds crackling with static as the clouds split into hexagonal tessellations.

A thrill-seeking racer and his brilliant engineer take flight in a world where the line between flesh and metal is vanishing fast.

This is my first official draft for my fantasy book I’m not done yet just wanted to know thoughts and opinions

Massive rectangular robots have taken over the world! How did it happen? Will anyone survive? Will the robot apocalypse end? Take a looker and find out!

This is a story about why spacecraft should not have windows. It's a cosmic horror, science fiction piece I wrote a few years back for a prompt.

Imagine your neighborhood had a hidden internet — except it runs on roots, fungal threads, and chemical whispers. Welcome to the Wood Wide Web: the surprising social life of trees.

A deuteragonist in my sci-fi comic. This is Rex's handler/"Mom" and the group's designated pilot. She was originally a more "Han Solo" like character, but I decided, in order to distinguish her better, to make her less sassy and more depressed/subdued, with an almost motherly disposition despite her career as an outlaw. I hope that turns out to be the right choice.

On a cool October evening in 2009, I sat in my parents' kitchen, waiting for my three best friends: Angel Tyler, David Rider, and Odette Sallow. As the kitchen door clicked open, I watched them shuffle inside, trying to mimic the serious expression I'd seen on my father's face countless times. Once they found their seats, I reached down into my backpack and pulled out a brown leather notebook with a silvery blue pen attached. As I gently set it on the table, Angel's eyes widened. "Is that it?" she asked.