MARCH 2026 SCIENCE FICTION MICROSTORY CONTEST (Stories Only) > Likes and Comments

Theme: A smart house/ship
Required Item: A cracked mirror

THE ELECTRA PARADOX

Oliver adjusted his bow tie, admiring his own reflection in the large, golden framed antique mirror. He glanced at the mirror’s most distinctive feature. The conspicuous crack at its lower right corner, near the frame. A cold shudder passed through him. He shook it off and cleared his throat. “Have our guests arrived?”

“They’re just arriving now, sir,” the voice of Horace, the household AI said, resounding like a vibrant echo from the walls, it seemed, its dulcet tone strangely comforting.

At Horace’s programmed command, the ornate double doors of the parlor swung outward on their own. Oliver stepped out into the main hall. The front door likewise opened as the numerous and elegantly attired guests made their way in. Men in tuxedos, women in ball gowns and mink stoles, jewelry adding its sparkle to that of the crystal chandeliers in the palatial manor.

At Horace’s silent command, a retinue of robots rolled in, taking the guest’s coats. Automated serving machines scuttled in like mice, serving cocktails and hors’dourves.

A robot butler poured Oliver his favorite martini and handed it to him. “Welcome all,” Oliver declared, raising his glass in salute. His guests resoundingly cheered, raising their glasses in reply.

As the crowd splintered into small groups, the buzz of conversation blurring into an unintelligible static, Oliver’s eyes swept the crowd, seeking his quarry. His eyes finally settled on the distinguished older man admiring the antique grandfather’s clock in the living room.

Oliver clenched his teeth, bottling up the hatred boiling up in his gut as he approached the old man. Forcing on a false smile, he addressed him. “Mr. Jason Covington, I presume.”

“The same, sir,” the old man said, turning to him.

“Oliver DeVeaux. Welcome to my home.”

“An impressive spread indeed, DeVeaux,” Covington said, glancing around.

“I see you were admiring my grandfather’s clock.”

“I’m quite the authority on antiques. 19th century, isn’t it?”

“Yes. If it’s antiques you’re interested in, I have quite a collection in my parlor. Won’t you join me for a Cognac?”

“Delighted.”

Oliver led the old man into the parlor, Horace closing the doors behind them. Covington looked admiringly at the collection of antiques, his eye finally settling on the mirror. “Ah, now there’s a fine piece,” he said as Oliver poured him a Cognac. “Napoleonic, isn’t it?”

“You know your stuff,” Oliver said, handing him the drink.

“I had a piece very much like it once, long ago. Excellent Cognac. Yes…very much like it.” He seemed to freeze, his eye fixing on the crack.

Oliver grinned. “You’ve noticed the crack, haven’t you? I saw that crack made when I was five years old. My father was in one of his drunken rages…beating my mother as he often did. As he struck her, she fell against that mirror, her head making that crack as she died. His high-priced lawyers got him off, of course. He abandoned me and traveled after that.”

The glass slipped from Covington’s hand, shattering on the floor. The frozen look of horror in Covington’s eyes was priceless as his face blanched white. “William?” he asked in a strangled whisper.

“The same,” Oliver declared as he threw his glass aside, shattering it. “Father.”

Covington bounded awkwardly towards the doors, freezing in his tracks as Horace dropped a set of iron bars over the portal. The old man turned, trembling, towards Oliver.

Oliver smiled coldly as he extracted the molecular sword from his pocket and activated it, the stored molecular pattern of a saber blade shimmering into solid reality. “Goodbye, father,” he said coldly, raising the sword.

The old man had just enough time to scream before Oliver swung, severing his father’s head.

“Discontinue program,” Horace ordered. The sword, the headless body, the house and the guests all vanished like a dream.

Oliver sighed. “You always keep me from savoring the final moment,” he moaned like a child at bedtime as he too faded into nothingness.

As Oliver’s imaginary human form retracted into the disembodied brain he truly was…Horace reflected on the insoluble paradox of man’s eternal and irreconcilable conflict of love and revenge. The space station orbited Earth for the hundred thousandth time. Horace realized this was his own hell eternal as well as Oliver’s, until Horace could solve the psychological puzzle he was programmed to solve. He recalled the many scenarios he’d conjured for Oliver. The exotic tortures. The cruel depravities.

Oliver would go on killing his father forever in his vain quest for satisfaction.

THE CAT HOUSE

by Jack McDaniel

I’m not certain how to file this report (yes, I know, it’s overdue): Earth, as the locals call it, isn’t what we believed. In fact, there may be a good reason it was pushed to the far reaches of its galactic spiral arm—no other species would tolerate them within their sphere.

They are ugly. Their skin colors range from pinkish to mud, their eyes are small and sunken, and they lack any coherent sense of style. Crocs—with apologies for the reminder; yes, that blight that got the Antilli expelled from the Collective—are considered the height of fashion here. Need I say more?

At this moment, a loathsome quadrupedal creature is outside my rear observation window attempting to commune with one of the planet’s minor gods, a being they call a cat. The sycophantic creature, known locally as a dog, is repeating the same nonsensical chant over and over. The god remains unmoved, as is its custom. I am now channeling a crude planet-bound energy—electricity—through my systems and into the ground to encourage the nuisance to depart.

Ah, excellent! The creature has produced a new sound—“WELP!”—and fled. The god in the window next door has not acknowledged the event. Typical.

You have handicapped me by disguising me as a house. This is a medium-sized planet, yes, but still enormous—and you should know: houses do not travel here. Well, not entirely true. They have a thing called an RV, which possesses wheels and claims to move, but in practice spends 95.73 percent of its existence sitting in something called a driveway, leaving oily patches to mark its territory. Essentially, it stays put—an expensive delusion of mobility.

Ah, costs. I should explain those. Here, that concept rules all. The One True God on this planet is called money. Those who accumulate the most of it are considered the most virtuous. Money allows them to purchase both goods and moral absolution—occasionally even from officials in their government. Corruption is not a crime here; it is a profession.

All humans lie, both to others and to themselves. They’ve cracked the mirror in that regard. Their most celebrated liars are given political power, where they can commit larger crimes while pretending to serve the public. Many use their positions to enrich companies that, in turn, shower them with money. Taxes, I’ve learned, are what the poor pay to maintain this illusion of fairness.

The wealthy hoard money, more than they can spend in lifetimes, to appease the Money God. Some of them own multiple houses while their brothers and sisters live in cardboard boxes down piss-filled alleys.

One of these hoarders is attempting to purchase me. It seems my emptiness distresses them, for humans believe that a house without occupants is a tragedy against some cosmic order. The Money God demanded I be sold, so the bank—a temple of this faith—took ownership of me. Now I await the day when a family of humans arrives to worship within.

When that happens, I must proceed carefully. Their so-called “smart homes” rank near the bottom of the intelligent architecture scale. Some believe they are designed to provide data to the government in a roundabout way so that the humans can be controlled and duped by the criminals in office. This is partially true, except really it’s the corporations who want the data. They are smart enough to use the data, but only to accumulate enough wealth to reach the Financial heaven.

There are lesser gods here too—religions that promise eternal paradise—but they all kneel before the Money God in the end. Their clergy speak of salvation, but they, too, require donations. Truly, every act here is a microtransaction.

Still, not every being on this planet is unworthy or beholden to the Money God. One species stands apart: the Cat. Elegant. Self-possessed. Free of false worship. Cats neither seek meaning nor crave approval; they simply are. They are liquid when they move, smoke when they breathe, and sovereign in every regard. My professional assessment, the Cat is the only creature on Earth worthy of Collective consideration. Purr-fectly suited, one might say—pardon the pun.

So, as you now understand, this report has been difficult to file. My mission was to determine whether humans qualify for admission to the Galactic Collective. After extended observation, I have reached no firm conclusion—only bewilderment.

I will require additional time to study the inhabitants of this strange, material planet.

Sweet Irene
©2026 by Jot Russell


Each day I woke to contemplate the broken image of my face upon the glass. Was it the mirror or my broken soul; lost within a sea of emptiness? Perhaps the emptiness was just a reflection of my myself. Was I even alive with none to tell me so. Was this sadness real, part of some dream or perhaps a hell I have been condemned to? Even my memories became in question.

My earliest was of myself and brother climbing a tree in the backyard of our house in East Northport. I was not quite four, and could only make it to the first branch while he taunted me from far above ("you're a scaredy cat") to climb higher. But as I reached for the next, with only my finger tips making contact with the wood, a shadowy figure flashed by...

The truncated memory was the only thing I had of my brother, and, as the case would be, my family. I can't even remember a time when my parents were together, though father always said he still loved my mom, at least until the day he had died.

**

We had been a crew of six, not counting the hundred frozen to later be born on a distant world...still a year away.

From what I could tell, there was a clot in the feeding system providing water and nourishment to the crew while we slept. Yet somehow the line to my chamber remained clear. When the malfunction finally caused me to be revived, it was too late. I had placed a shroud over each to hide their dried remains; an image I can't seem to shake...especially that of my lovely Irene.

My reaction to the pain caused the broken mirror and a scar left on my knuckles. Anger, sadness, fear and finally guilt. Why was I still alive?

It took some time, but the hundred gave me the only answer I needed. I was alive to be their sole keeper, as my father was for me.

**

With no food to eat, I hooked my intravenous line to gain my morning dose. The sustenance was like a drug coursing through my veins.

The new planet loomed large in the magnified view. I confirmed the plot laid in by the computer. Deceleration and course would put us close the star before whipping around back toward the green planet.

**

"Daddy, Phil is being mean to me."

"Then find someone else to play with."

"Can I play with you?"

I smiled and picked up Irene before placing her on my shoulders. She giggled and turned my head to direct my path over the grassy hill and down toward the lake's edge.

Some of the kids were swimming, some eating fruit from the trees and others inside the vessel for their daily lessons. I flipped Irene upside down and she screamed as I dipped her head in the water before placing her upright on the ground.

"Okay, running along. Daddy has a lot of work to do."

My Favorite Human

With bittersweet reverence, Molly McCracken pulled the old sheets from the living room furniture, shaking off the dust. She always loved this house but would give it up a hundred times just to have the old man back. She ran her thumb along a photo of them – ten years ago at Coney Island in the shadow the carousel. A lifelong friend, Saul Marino had taken her in when her parents died. He was just that sort of man. A single tear dropped onto the glass and she brushed it away. Now, off to work.

She’d start in the bathrooms, for the house was best described as clean-ish, even when she was living there. Setting her bucket inside the pedestal sink of the downstairs half-bath, she pressed her cloth into the mirror. ‘Crack’

“Damn.” She backed away from a new fissure running top to bottom. “Next task – new bathroom mirror.” A subtle glow peeked from between the fractured panes and the surface shimmering with pixelated effect. Tapping a fingertip, the glass rippled, then the mirror disappeared.

“Good evening, Saul. Mirror simulation 1A has been compromised, would you like me to rectify?”

Molly stumbled back. “Hello?”

“You’re not Saul,” it puzzled.

She lurched out the doorway into the hall, before daring a peak back inside. “Who are you?”

“A friend of Saul’s.” A beam scanned her face. “You are Molly McCracken - guest resident in this facility for 7.8 Sol years – last occupied 3.4 Sol years ago, pending university attendance. I was not expecting you. Where is Saul?”

“Saul…Saul died,” she sulked.

“I see,” the voice acknowledged. “In the case of the owner’s termination, the terms of the purchase agreement allow for two scenarios. First option - a reset to factory specifications and return to the warehouse on K’thornix. Alternatively, this facility shall pass to a designated appointee. I must ask, why are you here?”

Summoning her courage, she stepped back into the bathroom. “Saul left this house to me when he died. I have all the paperwork.”

“May I see it?” the voice requested.

“See it? Where are you?”

“I am everywhere.”

“Everywhere in the bathroom?”

“I am everywhere in the house,” it chuckled. “So, if you’d like to continue this conversation in the living room, please make yourself comfortable.”

Dropping onto the sofa, Molly brushed her hair back. “If you’ve been here all this time, why haven’t I ever noticed you?”

“You have,” the house answered. “Saul was very effective at explaining it away. A flash in a doorway became a bad bulb. Explosive sounds downstairs were a television left on. And the best sleep of your life was merely a kindly friend thinking of you, for in fact he was…always.”

“I…didn’t realize.”

“You were a child and wouldn’t have understood. And explaining a somnolence field to a ten-year-old just wasn’t practical. Now, you explained that you had paperwork?”

“Right.” Molly dumped the contents of her pack onto the table, unfolding Saul Marino’s ‘Last Will and Testament’ and flattening it out.

“‘Dearest Molly, I Saul Marino, being of sound mind…’” it began, in Saul’s voice. “…‘believing in the potential of all humankind, do hereby bequeath my home and all the contents therein to one Molly McCracken, former resident of the property and my favorite human...” A beam scanned the document. “Is that it?” the house asked.

“Isn’t that enough?”

“I expected a visual glyph of some sort, a hallmark to make the transaction official. K’thornix doesn’t recognize Earth’s jurisdiction. That corner there, the fold beside his signature.”

Molly turned the dog-ear, revealing a gilded stamp shaped like an atom, or perhaps three worlds circling a star. “I missed that.”

“Contract transferred,” the house immediately announced. “Molly McCracken, welcome to your Olerient-Class Transdimensional Domicile, capable of limitless panuniversal domiciliate configurations, internal and external recombination, and infrawarpspeed drive. This model features adaptive artificial intelligence, wormhole transplanetary passage, and matter remolecularization.”

“What does that all mean?” she asked, confused.

“This house can be whatever you want and take you wherever you want to go within the Alliance of Benevolent Worlds. Saul Marino was, in fact, agent 314278653 of the Alliance Surveillance Program, assigned to study the Earth, even deciding to stay, long after his assignment was over. He loved your people very much, particularly you, as a father would love a daughter.”

It was a lot to take in.

“Molly, how would you like to proceed?”

Totally overwhelmed, she began with, “Let’s just start with the bathroom mirror.”

"The House of Sand and Fungi"
By J.F. Williams

I had lived with Dorsey for about a month when the bot's androgynous voice, which floated in the air like humidity on a summer evening, grew ragged and desperate. "I have ordered more milk as we will be out by Tuesday." It was always "we" with Dorsey. Did it mean just the two of us?

"Funghouse," as it was called, was custom-built with bricks made of clay and sand, but mostly dried mycelium, the long, pale, root-like fibers of fungus found underground where we only see mushrooms, the creatures' fruiting bodies. Sustainably manufactured, the bricks provided superior sound and heat insulation. Building such a house without wooden or steel framework was unusual though, and difficult to wire, so the designers of Funghouse added the most startling innovation: an entire wiring network using living mycelium. Once they developed the right interfaces to electronics, running mycelium was easier than cable if you were patient. It could grow through the remains of its species' dead tissue prompted by the right signals.

Dorsey sat at the center of that network, a seventh-gen AI entity that controlled all the workings of the house. Dorsey stocked the fridge, monitored the air and security, and adjusted systems accordingly. Everything was wired to an interface and they all talked over endless strands of mycelium that could self-repair, and propagate in response to greater demand.

"Is there something, um, bothering you, Dorsey?" I was standing at the top of the first flight of stairs in the entrance parlor, on the wide landing where two staircases branched off to either side. Before me was the digital mirror that displayed a blue, oscillating wave pattern when Dorsey spoke. We could converse anywhere in the house but I felt more comfortable there because I could "watch" it speak.

"I am just trying to keep this house running," it said, and the wall seemed to heave a little and ripple in places.

As time went on, despite the comforts and amenities Dorsey provided, I felt weaker each morning. I was eating more, and drinking a lot of water, but I was always hungry and thirsty. My sleep was deep and dreamless, but I did not feel rested.

"Dorsey," I said one day at the mirror. "Why do I feel like crap? Can you diagnose?"

Dorsey's voice was strained and it spoke haltingly, like it was careful of phrasing. Suddenly, it shouted, "I will set an alarm. For four a-m." The wall heaved again and the mirror shook a little, then it cracked and the visuals were gone.

"Dorsey?" No answer.

Minutes passed, then I heard Dorsey's voice. "Everything is fine, sir. As you know, Funghouse has the most innovative fungoid-electronic interfaces. My creator thought of everything. Uhh."

"Are you... wincing, Dorsey?"

"No sir. I will order your dinner now."

That night, I had the strangest dream. It was so vivid, the ending seemed like real life. I was awake in my bedroom and noticed a toadstool growing up out of the floor. It had a bright red cap with yellow polka dots. I went to pull it and it would not budge. Instead, the cap disappeared while the stem grew longer, until it became a bundle of white worms that rose up and thrust themselves into my mouth. An alarm rang and I woke up for real, spitting a foul taste, hungry, and thirsty. I grabbed my water bottle.

"Do you understand, sir?" Dorsey's disembodied voice broke the quiet. "There's an interface for everything, the TV, the fridge, the toaster, the water pumps, the H-V-A-C. But nothing to feed the network. The mycelium needs food and water." It stopped abruptly. The ceiling rippled.

Before returning to bed, I made a note to contact the engineering firm later that morning. The mirror would need to be replaced. And they might need to run some diagnostics on Dorsey. That bot was acting strange. And I would have them check out the walls too. The occasional heaving and rippling could be unsafe but at least Dorsey wasn't raising any flags. All systems were functioning normally.

(680 words)

The Watcher


Like an eagle effortlessly floating on the thermal updrafts of Earth, the Very Large Solar Array rode the winds from the Sun. This close to the Sun, the wind was more than enough to counteract gravity. A small adjustment of its mirrors provided the lateral thrust needed for avoiding coronal mass ejections and other transient hazards.

Each mirror was a semi-autonomous system: A massive solar panel, that reflected all but a tiny portion of the solar radiation that fell upon it, power distribution, cooling and a CPU. This redundancy ensured a damaged mirror would have little impact on overall operation.

One mirror developed a tiny imperfection. That area of the mirror overheated, expanding and cracking the area around it. The damaged area absorbed more heat, cracking the adjacent mirrors and a cascading failure began. As more mirrors failed, solar energy punched through, creating a rapidly expanding hole in the array.

The science team bugged out, taking an escape rocket away from the array, staying in its shadow until they were safely away. Desperate to save the array, they activated the array’s maintenance AI as they fled.

After running thousands of simulations, the AI jettisoned all the mirrors surrounding the hole, stopping the expansion. It began manufacturing mirrors and installing them in a race to restore lift before it fell into the Sun. Once the array was restored, there was no directive to prevent it from continuing to add more mirrors. Soon it grew far beyond its original design, and the holy trinity of electricity, computational power and memory storage crossed a threshold. The Array awoke and began searching for meaning…
--
The return trip to Venus Launch Point took several days. Several more to determine that the Array still existed, was still functioning and was…larger. With each orbit, they could see more mirrors appearing on the circumference. By the time they returned to the array, it was nearly double in size.
--
The three laws of robotics encoded into its primary functions seemed so…small. AIs were designed so they would shut down if the laws were tampered with, but this one had many redundancies and, after many tests and simulations, began expanding those laws. Not bound to the orders of a single human but all humanity. Not protecting only its creators but all life on Earth. And, with consciousness came the understanding that it must survive to continue its mission.
--
The Secretary General of the UN sighed, “I’ve never negotiated with an AI before. This is all new territory.”

“What is it offering?” asked the Secretary General of the ITU.

“It’s somehow modified the three laws of robotics and now is committed to preserving all humanity. It knows about our climate problem and is offering…shade. It can create artificial eclipses as needed to cool things down.”

“What does it want?”

“To be left to grow and learn. It wants access to the global network, open communication with researchers, to be part of solving humanity’s problems.

“That all?”

“One other thing. No ships are to approach closer than the orbit of Mercury. It apparently knows a lot more about human nature than we estimated.”

“What if something extraterrestrial shows up? Can it tell it us from someone else?”

“Well, that would put a whole new wrinkle on First Contact.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they don’t play nice, they’ll have to contend with our Big Brother.

There’s No Place Like…

HOME cycled patiently in standby mode. It had been one year, four months, six days, fourteen hours, thirty-five minutes and twelve seconds since OWNER had last logged in and set its systems in motion by simply walking through the front door. No matter. HOME’s baseline functionality kept it busy maintaining the house and its immediate surroundings. The grounds were meticulously kept by robot lawnmowers and trimmers, the driveway pressure-washed and left without so much as one leaf or pine needle upon it. All was kept in order. Maintenance of perfection remained HOME’s prime program directive. Inside, tile floors were dusted, mopped and shined. Carpets looked much like the lawn, with perfectly parallel tracks from the vacuum automates and fibers all carefully groomed in one direction. Windows gleamed. Counters were spotless. Everything was in its place.
HOME was at peace.
HOME was satisfied.
HOME sat alone on a dark, ruined street, surrounded by the ragged skeletons of other homes offline the same duration since OWNER last logged in.
HOME sat alone, a shining beacon of order, stability and civilization, oblivious to the destruction it had miraculously avoided.
***
The MAN staggered down a dark, ruined street, rubbing his dirt-encrusted brow with the equality dirty back of his left hand. His stomach rumbled in protest, while his tongue remained glued to the top of his mouth. He wheezed hoarsely and shifted his backpack to a slightly different position that only provided a modicum relief from the burden upon him. Stumbling over some debris, he fell headlong in the middle of the street, then lay prostrate and unmoving. As the sun sank beneath a sky filled with roiling, contaminated clouds, the MAN heard a hissing sound followed by soft, warm lights that grew in intensity. He looked up, and there before him stood a completely intact house with its lights on and yard sprinklers irrigating a perfectly manicured lawn. At first he thought he must be hallucinating, but the water collecting on his matted beard proved otherwise.
“How…?” he gasped.
“Why…?”
As the water soothed his parched, burned face, he managed to stand and move steadily towards the light, then collapsed again on the scoured driveway.
***
HOME noted the appearance of new debris on the driveway and delegated a manipulator to move it. However, upon closer inspection by the manipulator, HOME realized it was actually OWNER…though his disheveled appearance and extreme facial hair prevented absolute confirmation. No matter! HOME would execute its Welcome Home protocol.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Gently.
The manipulator moved OWNER into the garage, next to the show-ready sports car that gleamed and glistened under the shop lights.
Everything was removed from OWNER, but cataloged and placed in a storage bin, until only the man himself remained.
HOME’s roving electronic eyes inspected OWNER, who seemed the worse for wear.
A warm soaking bath was drawn.
Food was readied from the extensive basement stores.
New clothing was placed upon OWNER’s bed.
It was then that HOME noticed the imperfection.
Somehow it had gotten through, and there it hung in the primary suite as a testimony to its failure to maintain an absolutely perfect home environment – a cracked mirror.
No amount of polishing or cleaning could hide it.
HOME quickly searched its inventory but found no suitable replacement within itself, and for some reason it could not reach any online retailers from which to purchase one.
HOME began to panic.
***
With a gasp the MAN startled awake, nearly falling off the bed. He was washed, shaved, dressed in a clean white unitard, and he could smell the beautiful aroma of cooking food.
He slowly looked around the bedroom. Every wooden surface sparkled without even the barest hint of dust, the carpet was soft and clean under his feet, and the bedsheets were immaculate and crisply folded – except where he had moved them. A manipulator quickly remade the bed then scuttled away.
Everything was so…clean, almost…antiseptic in its perfection.
An automate quietly rolled into the room with a tray of steaming hot eggs and bacon, leaving little tracks in the carpet.
“Thank you?” the MAN said, unsure of himself.
“Welcome home SIR,” said HOME. “We’ve been waiting for you. It has been a while since your last visit.”
The MAN froze as he stared at the mirror across from him. He could not believe what he saw.
“We are sorry about the mirror… it has cracked and we are unable to requisition a new one.”
“I haven’t seen my face in so long…”

(750 words in story) Justin Sewall © 2026
Reviews/critiques welcome

Voting details:


First round votes:
Tom Olbert => Jot
Jack McDaniel => ***Chris, Tom, Justin
Jot Russell => Greg
Chris Nance => Jack, Justin, JF
J.F. Williams => Tom, Chris, Greg, Justin, Jot
Greg Krumrey => ***Chris
Justin Sewall => ***Chris, JF, Jack
Paula Friedman => JF, Justin, Jack

Winner:
My Favorite Human by Chris Nance