Sci Fi
Not With A Bang
The earth has died. Not for us. If we were on the dark side. that wouldn't make a lick of difference. we would simply be alone and scared. and in this case scared wasn't even a bit of a stretch. I know what I’m missing. My compass. My reason. The tides in my life no longer pointed north. I am wandering. We are all wandering. because when your whole life is falling apart a little change of scene isn't enough to wake you from a bad dream. and when you're already in bed there is no walking away.
By Nikita Dia5 years ago in Fiction
Hail Britannia!
Part 1 Arriving home after several post-protest drinks, Michael opened his window, stretched a condom over the Fire Alert Unit and lit a cigarette. He opened his laptop, put on, for what must have been the hundredth time in life, the Dubliners classic 50th anniversary concert. He reached for a small black box hidden at the back of his top drawer. Opening it carefully, he took out the heart-shaped locket held within. He looked at the picture inside and examined the Gaelic inscription, 'Fillean an feall ar an bhfeallaire'; 'What goes around comes around'. It had belonged to his great-grandmother Orla, who had served with distinction in the Cumann na mBan. He'd only known her through stories, as she died long before he was born, but he always felt connected to the idea of her resistance.
By Pete Balloch5 years ago in Fiction
The Void
Eternal life is complete bull. The sort that both melts the cow on its way out and still has energy afterwards to reduce the fabric of society to gurgling mulch. It renders civilisation useless, unpicks the strings puppeteering it and lets it jolt closer to the ground with each loosened knot. All whilst dancing and taunting and smacking you in the face with this is what you wanted.
By Caitlin Britton5 years ago in Fiction
Rewind
So this is the end. Trapped in a mechanical fortress in the middle of downtown New York lying down on the cold, hard, steel floor as blood pours out from the opening in my chest. So much blood, but that’s not the worst of it. I look up at the screen in front of me, the only thing displayed on it is numbers. 00:27, 00:26, 00:25. It’s a countdown to destruction. Once that timer hits zero, everything will end. That machine is set to destroy all life on the planet. A nanoscopic nuke if you will. 00:21, 00:20, 0:19. It was my job to stop them. I was supposed to be the hero. 00:15, 0:14, 0:13. In the end, I couldn’t win. Every story I read, the hero always wins. 0:10, 0:09, 0:08. I guess I’m the exception. 0:05, 0;04, 0:03. I’m a failure. 0:01, 0:00. I’m sorry everyone. There’s the sphere that will engulf everything and end all life. Why do supervillains want to kill everyone? Wouldn’t that include themselves? Everything is going white. I’m dead.
By Jeremiah Ellison5 years ago in Fiction
Midnight discovery
It was a little past nine in the evening. The night air carried a sting of cold in the dehydrated atmosphere. The usual mix of smog and dust defined the atmosphere. T-14 thought that surely all this night was lacking was a generous spray of moisture and his scene would disappear under a tiny white blanket.
By Scott Trudeau5 years ago in Fiction
Oil & Water
1 Falling – like the bass drops in a good slow-banger, or a spirit broken – falling like tension in a dim club when the rhythm picks up – the sensation was unmistakably like falling. A few of us were dancing, thick kids and punks with dreadlocks, long fingers lit up at their tips with neon extensions. Looking alien wasn’t hardly a thing in downtown that year, like the sky was black and red, peaking in by the warehouse slats up above us. Just another night in a dive, I remember thinking, not the wild scene, but these dancers’d fit that role. I sat apart, slouched a bit, hiding behind my hair.
By River Alison5 years ago in Fiction
C.A.R.I
There was one body the sight of which had not left the mind of Cleo Myrth in the eighteen months after she found it. The young woman witnessed a great deal of brutality in her twenty years, so seeing a body wasn’t much to write about. Although Cleo admitted to herself every lifeless figure carried a cosmic weight in her subconscious. Maybe not now, not in the middle of The Scatter, but eventually those bodies would morph into nightmares. Still, the body that stayed with her was that of Dr. Joy Garcia; sprawled out with her white coat dirtied, her hand clutching a book, glasses tossed from her face, eyes closed, and lips held in a soft smile. No one smiled in death, and that was what bugged Cleo. Cleo knew of Dr. Joy Garcia as she had read every one of the mechanical engineer’s papers she could get her hands on. Between leaving Detroit, Michigan and traveling south to Tortuga, Peru by foot with the rest of her battalion, Cleo never passed on a library. Leveled to the ground, brick by brick pouring out as if buildings bled concrete and rebar alone, books scattered for streets before and after, and Cleo would find Dr. Joy Garcia’s collections in the rubble.
By M. J. Luke5 years ago in Fiction
