science fiction

The bridge between imagination and technological advancement, where the dreamer’s vision predicts change, and foreshadows a futuristic reality. Science fiction has the ability to become “science reality”.

Going Nowhere
I’m standing outside of a bar called the Bridge to Nowhere, watching my kid blast off into the upper atmosphere; outbound for a better life.
By Hank Ryder5 years ago in Futurism
Green Heart
“How dare you defy me again!” His words are filled with a terrifying anger, and I am suddenly snapped to supreme awareness. I whirl around to see my husband filling the doorway with his presence.
By Deb Kyle5 years ago in Futurism
The Portal
The Portal 3:33 in the morning, on a dark and rainy night in southern Spain. Another Magnificent echo of a city, buried in absolute plasma and mud. Another scene of horror. Was it 1893 or 3033? The thought didn’t resonate anymore. None remembered the ‘when’, or the ‘how’. All left were remnants of a muddied social control, or seekers of vengeance through flood. This night was a darker shade than usual, and more so than any other formerly. Imagine the cursed-red stained blood from the glorious petrified Cathedral’s crime scene floor was the reason for the tone. It was electric. It spoke to any who viewed it. The blood covered nearly half the main sanctuary. It had a certain eminence flowing up to the altar, to the large dome above. To be alive, even after removal. “Have you ever seen anything like this before, Inspector Venustas?” began the forensic officer. “I guess you haven’t been with us on the previous crime scenes?” she said with a sense of being aced to the whole situation. “This marks the fourth different crime scene, in all four different countries, by using the same M.O. on the victims and the buildings. “And you’ve followed it this far? What drives this kind of reckless anger? If you don’t mind me asking, Inspector”, the forensic officer said, blushingly. “Maybe sheer curiosity of where anger can go? Or maybe something else entirely?” She continued, “Each of these crime scenes have a certain quality to them, all of which are portraying uniqueness to the buildings we’ve seen so far”. While speaking, a heart-shaped locket fell from the top of her closed buttoned shirt as she was examining one of the numerous decapitated bodies, lying near the altar floor. “He is so reckless,” she stalled slightly, “but very methodically chaotic, if you can follow that thinking.” What was so reckless about that scene was that all the heads were removed, but yet the bodies were left strewn about, overlooked. “Why would he need the heads?” she thought aloud. “How do you know it is a ‘he’?” the forensic officer said, with a quite puzzled look. “I for one don’t think a woman could be so reckless and brutal…no offense,” she said proudly. While the forensic officer was thinking of something to respond to that remark, Inspector Venustas seemed to have dashed off, in search of more answers to this puzzling crime scene. She was standing quietly, near the decapitated bodies, gazing at her reflection in the pool of blood nearest to the front door. “There is something odd here,” she thought to herself. The Inspector would have thought this a form of clairvoyance had it not been for the slight buzz on her right pant leg. It was her phone buzzing. “Yeah,” she said almost as if rudely interrupted by the call. “Yeah, this is Specialized Crimes Director Noble, and I was wondering what Intel you have?” he said. She responded, “Right, hello sir,” and she continued, “As of right now, we seem to be stumped on the same situation as the previous 3.” “It seems that the heads are…I know sir…thank you sir…Goodbye sir,” she said rather quickly. “What would a SCD want that we could have just told him in the morning?” she thought. “Maybe the HEADS are taking extra precautions on this one?” said the forensic officer laughingly. “Maybe” she said, “or maybe…? Another Inspector calling to her from down what seemed to be the basement of the Cathedral suddenly stopped her. “Venustas!!” said he. “We’ve found the victims' heads, but there is more,” he continued. The Forensics’ officer looked at Inspector Venustas with amazement. “I’ll be there in a second,” she said, “Maybe I should call Director Noble back?
By Sam Vela5 years ago in Futurism
Silence and the End of All Things
We all expected the end of the world to be some loud, dramatic, catastrophic event. Maybe a meteor, or the Earth’s crust destabilizing. An ice age, or a great flood. For those more violent, perhaps thoughts of war and MAD, and even the wildest thoughts of an invasion of either extraterrestrial or domestic sort.
By Liz Waite5 years ago in Futurism
Recursion
The earthen smell of cellar sat heavy in the still air. A light flickered and buzzed in and out at the other end of a corridor. Three men in loosely fitting riot gear pointed their shaking rifles toward a cloud of dust twisting and coiling into the air below the light. Meter long cobwebs anchored in cracks along the concrete wall began to sway.
By Paul Levitsky5 years ago in Futurism
ALWAYS IN MY HEART
The sky above was ablaze. The ground shook violently. Karis had a death grip on her boy. She was grace, kindness, and life to him, then at this moment , she was fury, invincible, resolute.
By Nancie Brown5 years ago in Futurism
The Path
Two men fell out of the swirling green mist, hitting the coffee table, and knocking a vase of flowers from the fireplace. A revolver skittered across the carpet, and one of them scrambled to retrieve it. The man propped his shoulder against the closest wall, grimacing at the painting of an angel protecting a flock of sheep above his head.
By Connie Weeks5 years ago in Futurism
Soul Talk
“This is a great day for Sol Industries. This is a great day for our nation. This is a great day for our democracy!” Peter DeTayn’s voice warbled out of tinny speakers from the television above the bar.
By Michael Darvall5 years ago in Futurism
A Life Worth Fighting For
“The stuff’s called Juice,” Lazlo says, rolling across the sticky table to me a small vial of liquid that’s an unsettling yellow-green. Like bile.
By Elle Richards5 years ago in Futurism
The Ancient Heart of Our Future
I held on to the disintegrating once-white fabric with my left hand, the right clutching the rusted heart-shaped locket. If my right hand was still made of skin I suppose the locket would slip out from sweat. It’s my 30th birthday, and even though I’m scared, I promised you I would do this. I can still remember you, covered in grime and grease, tinkering with this damn machine. If only you had lived a little longer. They laughed when you said it was a time machine. I wish you could see the world now Dad. You lived to 60. Now everyone will live for hundreds of years, thanks to artificial limbs, hearts, neural stem cells, and deceleration of DNA telomere degradation. But the world still sucks. Especially without you.
By J.D. Leaver5 years ago in Futurism
Lightsheild: Volume 83
The hum of the generator permeated every space with its weighty droll. Another twenty minutes and it will all come to an end. “Where’s the damn manual!” The words spewed out of her tight-lipped mouth like acid. Only the machine was there to reply with its low and unceasing hum. The greasy oil-stained spine of volume eighty-three quietly perched itself at the top of the bookshelf, peering down almost out of spite. “Did he steal it?” she thought, “Was his goal to sabotage us because he wasn’t elected to lead the new colony?” This wasn’t the first time that the old man’s sanity was questioned. His reasoning surely would have been she thought, without him to lead, they would only be prolonging the inevitable. Twenty days perhaps, instead of the now nineteen minutes left before the generator overheated and the shield it powered dissolved along with what remained of humanity. She needed the protocols of volume eighty-three.
By Mia Sharp5 years ago in Futurism
After The Flood
“As fall came to the ‘midwest’ that year, a region in the middle of what was once known as the United States on the ‘continent’ of North America, so had rain and lots of it. This was not entirely uncommon, as weather patterns shifted in cycles that the landfarers called seasons”. Ms. Price paused, pointing to somewhere in the middle of the oddly shaped land mass on the left side of the paper map.
By Kelsey Sunderland5 years ago in Futurism