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.”