literature
Science fiction's most popular literary writers from Isaac Asimov to Stephen King and Frank Herbert, and the rising stars of today.
Rhymes with Orange
Myrtle Green was scavenging on the beach when she saw the bones. The biggest bone was the tail: easily twice the length of Myrtle. The creature’s spinal column was stretched out crookedly along the sand and its jaws gaped open. Myrtle had heard of whales, but she had never seen one before. Nobody in her settlement had, not since the End Days, when the last of the whales were hauled in, their blubber used to light their lamps, their meat to stave off hunger until the crops could be resown. She ran her hand along the vertebrae and tried to imagine how such a large animal ever managed to float.
By Stacey Malacari5 years ago in Futurism
No Place Like Home
No Place Like Home [Chapter 1] by Rob Nelson Nurse Jean walked with confidence and poise, the soles of her shoes quietly touching the surface of the floor. Her duties are virtually stress-free due to the latest technology available to modern science.
By Rob Nelson5 years ago in Futurism
Focused Crazy
What’s he even doing? Bettie Jo sneered inwardly. She stared over at the boy kicking his feet against the traffic barrier in a slow rhythm. Then he’d stop suddenly and look up, kick a little faster picking up the tempo while waving his arms. Catching bugs in the air. Bugs only he could see Bettie Jo thought.
By Scott Smith5 years ago in Futurism
The Man Who Dreamt of Abundance
"Charles . . ." An unknown voice whispers to him as the darkness of closed eyes gives way to openness and light. 'What is that voice,' he thought, 'I've never heard anything like that.' The tone was smooth, low, compassionate, wise, and unavoidably irresistible to heed. "Hello?" uttered Charles. "Who are you? What is this place?"
By Luke Crawley5 years ago in Futurism
Little Black Book
As he pulled his cruiser over, he thought, “This is gonna be bad.” He took a deep breath, exhaled, and got out. The front of the car was accordioned against the tree. A head, half crushed, stuck through the windshield. The blood was a slow drip onto the shattered safety glass. No spurting, the man was dead. It seeped through the craquelured shards and glinted ruby in the headlights, strangely beautiful.
By Tracy Mayne5 years ago in Futurism
