Sci Fi
The Phoenix Virus
October 21, 2032 The world has changed. Talk about an understatement right? Speaking of talking that’s what I’m doing now, talking into digital voice recorder. I got the used Sony recorder at a trading post along the interstate about an hour ago. An old timer had traded it to me for a bushel of apples. Not sure why I had done that. Maybe I needed to get some things off my chest. Call it therapy.
By Mike Garrity5 years ago in Fiction
Futile
We had woken up, but perhaps it would have been better to stay asleep. The room around Cecilia was dark, dank and damp. Shadowy light fixtures hung from the rafters, dangling as if ready to end their lives, but not quite ready…swaying in the hot breeze that snuck in the barred yet shattered windows. Her blanket, a shade of green that reminded her of mold, held spatters and speckles of mildew, so she kept it pushed down at the foot of the cot with her combat boots that were too large by at least two sizes. Too big was better than too small, she had reminded herself when she scavenged them a few weeks earlier.
By Lacie Perry5 years ago in Fiction
The Boy in the Mainframe
Human history began with a straw scratching ancient skrit on clay, arced all the way through battles and Band-Aids, spanned pyramids and elegant skyscrapers, and then was doomed by some snotty nerd tippity-tapping his LED keyboard at work. There were many nerds, of course, and many keyboards, but one particular dingus ran the over-the-weekend script to kickoff yet another experiment that unwittingly birthed the great A.I. Singularity: Ada.
By Christopher Fin5 years ago in Fiction
Tiny Suns
They watched their world burn through the cockpit window of the ship that was supposed to save them. Nora stood with eyes the color of despair, her heart-shaped locket burning a scar into her palm. The ship’s metal hummed with the engines keeping them alive; the push and pull of sorrowed lungs breathed echoes that spoke nothing of the hellscape miles beneath them.
By Britney Paterson5 years ago in Fiction
Love in The Time of Post Apocalyptic Moulds
Author's preface: Below find the (almost) original version of the story published as (almost) intended with the artwork intact and in the correct position in the story. Apologies for the first version which omitted the arts for reasons partly of idiocy on the author's part, but mostly due to the poor functioning of Vocal's editor. He was too stupid and impatient to take the time to figure out how to include images in the body of the text and Vocal's editor still refuses to display the "+" sign needed to embed something no matter what I do. I have found if I type some text then highlight it then hit backspace (but not delete) it will appear about 50% of the time. I tried just copy pasting the images in but they were distorted badly. In the original they were smaller and positioned next to each other in grouping of four. Yet another frustrating limitation of Vocal's wonky editor. I mean come on? Resizing images? That is basic stuff. Gheesh. The text also still does not have the exact formatting of the original story as I cannot figure out how to center or change the spacing or even if it is possible. In any event. Enjoy!
By Everyday Junglist5 years ago in Fiction
The Pearl Kingdom Mission
Note to all good godly humans ;- 'I am Petra an extra terrestrial Queen. In this picture herewith, I am pictured with Trumpet the space dog. This post is of confidential nature. Seen only by humans we trust. If you see it you have been selected as one of our trusted one's. You are to maintain secrecy on it's contents, for you are within the safe clam we are rescuing'.
By Black Dog Productions5 years ago in Fiction
Expiration Date
The dawn chorus began its daily chime, slowly stirring the restless dreamers from their mournful sleep. Genevieve rose from the bed, every movement and breath painstakingly made. She fumbled about the kitchen, her shaky hands trying, failing, and trying again to pour herself a cup of morning brew. After the second broken mug, she remembered her mistake.
By Seth Skaggs5 years ago in Fiction
A Husband and Wife
She was dead. Her face was blue and her body was rigid. Her heart shaped pendant hung around her neck like a noose. He sat across the room from her, whiskey in hand. It wouldn’t be long before the dogs would come. He knew his fate, he was reserved to it. He shouldn’t have done this. But to him, she deserved it. He’d given her the world. He’d Shown her the shining city. They’d dined above the stars. He’d given her a job at the ministry of money. He would have gone to hell and back for her. She would never have returned the favour. She didn't have a history. No date adorning her arm. He believed it to be a mistake. He was wrong. He peered down at his arm, and checked the clock. It was always going to end this way. He had five minutes. Five minutes of life left. As soon as the time came to be the same as his marking, he would stop. His life would end. He should have seen it coming. He knew now it was always coming. She was a lie. A pretty face in a red dress with the devil in her eyes. She’d lied to him for years. The anger built inside of him. She’d sold him out when the ministry found a data leak. She claimed innocence and pointed the finger. He dined alone whilst she toasted success. It was only invertible. Four minutes. He tried to calm himself. He didn’t want to waste the last four minutes of his life in anger. His thoughts turned to his mother. She was always wise and always there. And now she would bury her son, her only son. He didn’t have a will. It was redacted by the ministry. How would she pay the expense. There would be no holodeck for him. Just a hole in the ground. He chuckled slightly at the thought. His father had always told him the ministry would leave him in the mud. Seemed after all he was right. He always was a smug son of a bitch. Three minutes. He began to ponder how she had kept it from him. How did she hide her intentions? She was helping the worst people, yet came across like a saint. It baffled him. He knew what the machine was. They were taught about it from a young age. A group of hateful people, looking to bring the ministry down. They were told they could turn anyone into a weapon. He never thought it could be true though. She was sweet and innocent and full of life. Yet they twisted her into a monster, willing to hurt her own husband and destroy their life. For what? Revenge for the take over? Or was it just spite? He would never know now. Two minutes. A bittersweet feeling arose in him. She was evil. She had ruined him. Yet, he still held love for her, even now at the end. He wondered why that was. Maybe he was defective. Maybe he should have been sent down south. Or maybe it was just love. He didn’t know and nor did he have the time left to rationalize his feelings. They did not matter now. Nothing did. One minute. The sirens sounded like a deafening hiss. He could hear them now. They were at the door. He knew it was time. His final thought turned to his life. He had wasted it. He had spent all of his life doing what others told him to and now, it had gotten him killed. The dogs burst in. Their metallic guns shining from the spotlight. This was right, he knew it was right. He smiled one last time as the muzzle of a gun flashed. It was over.
By Connor Davidson5 years ago in Fiction
Summer, '69
It was December, so the hills were on fire. Colomatta they were called once, those mountains that rose up from the plain. Myle had been told of eucalypt cathedrals, piled high into air so blue it seemed suffused with the very spirit of the gods. But fallen now, and swept away as ash they were remembered only as the hollows and ridges of some great buried monster, grown over with thin, greedy shrubs that spread out from half-yearly burnings, constant as a tide. While a scorched concrete wall kept the flames at bay the smoke spread up, and out, until all the air was a haze and the tendrils that were sucked inside the coach crept under the corners of Myle’s mask, burning his lungs with each breath. As he rattled through the Belt – crushed between the glittering towers standing sentry on the bay and the long, low barns of corrugated iron that stretched out into the firebreak, humming with machines – the night sky was a tie-dyed mass. Garish purples, greens and blues spilled out of floodlights at the tops of the towers that reared over, rising like chemical candles above the squat, blank tenements that lined the street. Though it was midnight the air baked, and most windows hung open, shrill voices tumbling out from television sets and radios. And the coughing, the spluttering, the heaving and the hacking. That was there too, and it never went away.
By Angus Chapman5 years ago in Fiction
The Perfect, Broken City
The Perfect, Broken City Day 1 Before recently, I have never had an issue keeping my thoughts from the Rebellion. If something has changed, I cannot identify what it is. Perhaps reviewing recent events will help me distinguish the error and revise it before something more sinister takes root.
By Dawnetta Henzman5 years ago in Fiction
