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”.
Apocalyptic's Waste & Collection Center
Joe brought another pile of junk today. This one is pure junk--moldy food cans, scraps of paper, plastic up to your eyeballs. Disgusting heaps of rotting garbage. I have to sort it all into mountains. Sometimes, if I’m drunk enough and I squint a little, it almost looks pretty. I never got out to see any real mountains, but I imagine they’re kind of like this. I always start with the metals. Cans, tire rims, rusty ladders--you name it, it ends up here. Then I go for the plastics. Baby doll heads. Cheap lawn chairs. Water bottles with fancy names and promises of health benefits. I mean, it’s water for Christ’s sake. All bullshit. Might as well throw away the electrolytes, the vitamins. Nobody’s getting healthier now. Joe says kids are being born with extra pieces or parts missing. Brains like mush. I try not to think about it.
By Alexandra Hubbell5 years ago in Futurism
The Mountain
It felt like I had been walking for months, although it had really only been a couple of days. I could feel my lungs burning with the ash that constantly cycled through the air, getting worse as I climbed into the higher altitude. For the first time during the journey, I regretted every part of me that had agreed to go, although I knew that deep down I would never turn back until the job was done. I could still remember my grandmother’s last words before she died, the women who had taught me so much in my life, giving me one last piece of information.
By Ella Marie5 years ago in Futurism
The Competition
Here’s the tourmaline water shimmering with an oily iridescence. Here are gelatinous tufts at the embankment edge littered by Styrofoam cups, green nylon netting, rusting trollies, plastic bottles and shopping bags, broken glass and disintegrating debris. This right here is the river. This right here is the time I can never get back. It’s easy, my sister said, to make some money when you’re clever. Just enter a writing competition. Just imagine pawning the heart-shaped locket your ex-girlfriend gave you. But the truth is, I don’t have a heart-shaped locket. I don’t have an ex-girlfriend. I’m not even a fully fleshed out human being at all. I’m just a quickly made-up character created to try and fulfil the needs of an imaginary audience. The strange thing is, there isn't any audience here, only a big market shaped hole where you put the words in and wait for the money to come out. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no need to create anything imaginary. I just need to walk right out of the compound and onto the street. There’s a pigeon whose crunched beak is baking in the November heat. That pigeon was alive yesterday and now it’s dead. Maybe it couldn’t find food. Maybe it couldn’t afford to live. Maybe it got hit by a car and wasn’t able to afford a trip to the vet. No biggie though. It’s just a pigeon, right? It’s just a pigeon whose crumpled face is squished in, whose intestines are sizzling on tarmac.
By Cate Carlow5 years ago in Futurism
Longing for Death
The ashes rise from the plume of smoke that fills the air. The ozone is filled with debris that block out most of the sun’s warmth. I can’t remember the last time I was truly warm… Dying in a nuclear explosion was the easiest pathway through the wake of humanities destruction. The world went from bad to worse before the bombs fell. We all knew it was a matter of time but shock still took me when I realized what had happened. For those who remain in the wasteland we envy those who perished within the flash of burning light. A bright light and then nothing more. No worries of finding your loved ones, no worries of finding clean water, no worries of being torn apart at your very soul from the lost you have endured.
By Chris Browder 5 years ago in Futurism
Doomsday Tuesdays
TUESDAY, 8TH OF SEPTEMBER 2020 We were meant to go to Mount Rushmore in like two weeks. We had suffered enough, no? Surely some small recompense was deserved, for all the shit that God threw at us this past year, y’know, light at the end of the tunnel, silver linings and all that. I think I’d have preferred the plagues from the Bible to the ones that infest us just lately. Yep, actually, on extended pondering I’ve determined that I would definitely prefer frogs and darkness to global pandemics and civil unrest.
By Matthew Blundred5 years ago in Futurism
The One Percent
The light was blinding as the door swung open. Pain shot from his skull down the spine as they jerked him to his feet by a handful of hair. As they dragged him down the hallway he knew today had to be the day. How long had He been there, how many years they been torturing him daily, has it only been months? If she was going to come for him, he would be free already. They must have her too. He had to tell them it was more than just a medallion. He had to convince them to pry it open and as it melted in front of them he could laugh and say that was it and then maybe just maybe they would end his suffering and question him no more.
By Marcus Williams5 years ago in Futurism
The Collector
I really don’t like writing, but it’s my only option left. Have you ever found yourself thinking you were in one place only to discover too late you’re somewhere else completely? That’s where I found myself last week, and now that I realize how dire the situation is I must put it down in words, if not for future generations, to maintain my own sanity.
By Ryan Stella5 years ago in Futurism
