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.

The doors of the turbolift slide open with a soft hiss, and Piscea, Zoe, and Kujo step into the Battle Simulator Department. The room is sleek and modern, lined with high-tech consoles and screens displaying data streams and energy readouts. Soft light filters through the frosted windows, illuminating the chamber with a calming blue hue. The click of talons on carpet signals the approach of Instructor Corbin, his blue-crested feathers gleaming under the overhead lights.

The grandmaster nestroom, a sanctuary of golden light and soft winds flowing through the towering crystalline windows, shimmered in the early morning sun. The air was calm, a stark contrast to the chaos of battle just two days prior. Piscea Phoenix, his suncrested feathers glowing in hues of blue and gold, stirred from his nest, stretching his magnificent wings. His talons clicked against the smooth stone floor as he ruffled his feathers, shaking off the remnants of sleep.

The throne room of the Dark Phoenix Emissary was cloaked in darkness, save for the eerie glow emanating from the crystalline throne at its center. The air was thick with the scent of decay, the heavy atmosphere laden with the whispers of restless spirits. The mooncrested phoenix, Tintillis, sat slumped on his majestic seat, his once-imposing silver wings marred with the scars of recent defeat. His left wing, damaged from the battle against Piscea, twitched as small bird-shaped drones buzzed around it, carefully repairing the fractured bone and charred feathers. His eyes, glowing with malice, scanned the gathering of his undead army—rotters, skeletons, and undead hulks. They were restless, and a palpable tension filled the room.

The vast expanse of Wildspace swirled around Watatuka 31, its hues of distant stars casting a dim, ethereal glow over the planet’s orbital bay. Piscea Phoenix, his golden and blue feathers shimmering against the dark void of space, stood at the forefront of his team, his wings spread wide in defiance. Behind him, Zoe Phoenix, Greg Phoenix, Kujo Phoenix, and Triffin Phoenix prepared themselves for the inevitable confrontation. They had come as one—united in purpose and bonded by the sacred duty of protecting their world. As their ship disengaged from the planet’s orbit, they could see the shape of their enemy’s forces, like a mass of darkened storm clouds, gathering in the distance. At the center of that storm, the sinister figure of Tintillis Phoenix approached, his silver wings trailing shadows across the starlit void. His dark form stood in stark contrast to the brilliance of the Suncrested and Jadecrested Phoenixes before him.

The golden light of Watatuka's twin suns filters through the grand windows of Phoenix Castle, casting a warm glow on the feathers of Piscea Phoenix. He stirs in his luxurious nest, the soft breeze from the Asphaisa Beach outside ruffling his suncrested plumage. Slowly, he stretches out his powerful wings and talons, the metallic sheen of his blue and gold feathers gleaming in the early morning light. Zoe Phoenix, his beloved wife, rests peacefully beside him, her own feathers as resplendent as his. With a gentle stir, she wakes, mirroring Piscea’s movements as they both preen in unison.