Jane hunched over her desk, staring at myriad pieces of hardlight holocube projector core. Even through her shade visor, the world was headache-bright. That omnipresent gritty burn seared the corners of her eyes.
She balanced half the core in her palm, slotted in another part. Tried to
I slam the folder shut on my desk.
“Nothing useful?” Detective Rowe asks as he hands me a mug of coffee.
I take a sip, hoping it will provide some mental clarity. “It’s like everyone in that bank had a blindfold on.”
“Detective Williams?” I turn to see the patrol officer manning the front desk walking into the bullpen,
Announcing the winners of the “Encore: Bingeworthy” March 2026 flash fiction contest!
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The cry sends a chill through me, as it does every time I hear it. It always arrives at the height of summer, yet I pray this is the cycle it will not come.
But it does. It always does.
I take out the muting silk and put it in my ears and those of my beautiful daughters.
Marjorie woke up strapped to a surgical table in an unfamiliar laboratory. One minute, she had been walking to her car alone, worried her life was going nowhere; the next, she’d fought for it as a pungent cloth covered her nose and mouth.
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Ziff pushed open the squeaky doors to The Crooner’s Saloon and took a cautious step inside. A goblin hunched over the keys on an old piano, pounding out a medley filled with far too many flat notes. Two she-elves stood on stage, both dolled up in an overabundance of petticoats and ruffles,
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If life were a streaming service, Max would’ve hit “Skip Intro” a long time ago.
Every day played out the same: wake up, scroll, eat cereal that claimed to “optimize your morning,” and try not to think about the flashing ad
My detective partner, Monica, was anything but optimistic. Her dark eyebrows were always arched above calculating eyes, and her lips were always set in a frown. She even refused to wear her hair down at work because she thought it made her look
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The sun shone kindly upon me as I sharpened my sword, taking satisfaction in the shink, shink, shink. A butterfly perched nearby on a blade of emerald grass.
My lazy smile widened. “Hello! It feels so good to be free, doesn’t it?”
A low buzz
“Our triumph is close at hand, thanks to Dr. Drago!” General Kohl proclaimed triumphantly as he stood in front of the B-17 Flying Fortress, the sunlight reflecting off his bald head. He pointed to a huge, opaque metal cylinder directly beneath the aircraft.
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Frank the Pig Detective shuffled papers on his desk while his brother Bob studied the bookcase.
Wonder what kind of mood Bob’s in today?
Frank adjusted a paper that didn’t really need adjusting, and sighed. Before the Big Bad Wolf fiasco, he, Bob,
The Agents Against the Abuse of Arcane Accords had originally been pitched as the Break-A-Wish Foundation, but someone thought that might be irreverent, so they went with Quintuple A instead.
Agent Vera Fray, Quintuple A’s best wizard, listened to the morning’s recorded call for clues as
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