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”.
The First Day of My Life
I opened my eyes and all I could see was limitless blue. The swell of the ocean filled my ears and enveloped me in a blanket of sound. Through the swirling waves, I heard the faint murmur of people and the tones of a familiar voice. It was honey-sweet with soft edges. A summery voice that put me at ease although I couldn’t make out the words. I turned my head to meet the voice and at once I knew her. But something was wrong. The shape of her body was the same as I remembered. Her skin was browned and freckled from the sun and the curls of her hair tumbled softly onto her delicate shoulders.
By Joshua Van Gorden5 years ago in Futurism
Singularity Disorder
On a crisp foggy morning with light rain, nothing could be heard on the early streets of New Haven. Nothing but the rhythmic stomps of a pair of boots. “ Raye, Raye! Slow down! What's the hurry?” Mikey called out. “What’s the hurry? We have a true blue homicide on our hands! A double one at that.” Raye's eyes were only set forward, he was determined, he felt alive. “Homicides happen all the time, what makes this one so special.” Raye stopped and looked back over his shoulder at Mikey as the rain bounced off his transparent umbrella. “It wasn’t scheduled. The Bureaucracy had nothing to do with it.” Mikey stopped in his tracks and had to gather himself. This time he matched Raye’s pace.
By Akoni Alala5 years ago in Futurism
Irritation of Purity
The crumbling edge of the rooftop was as enticing as ever. I stood on the edge, peering down into the streets; the pitch darkness seemed more reminiscent of an ingurgitating void. The sun peeked over the ocean horizon as dawn came, leaving the hundreds of decaying buildings awash in an orange hue. The city was a hollow crypt, as it had always been.
By Margaret Jimenez5 years ago in Futurism
A Heart for a Heart
They used to call it Park City; known for its great public park system, but everyone knows it as Bridgeport fucking Connecticut. Once a city of industry, now it’s a cesspool. Hell, a pool ain’t big enough to contain all the filth in the goddamned city. It’s an ocean of grime and corruption, and the biggest criminals are the ones with the money.
By Joseph DelFranco5 years ago in Futurism
Irreplaceable
PART 1 As the metronome on his father’s grand piano switched back and forth from one extreme to the next Marcus stared at the silver crafted bowl. How could he not? The bowl was filled with a plethora of fruits from the era of Adam and Eve. The only ones that satisfy Eve apparently as the marketing suggested. Still, they were seen as precious and rare commodities. They came from apple trees of what used to be known as China. He couldn’t resist taking one, smirking at the irony of the situation. He was subsequently startled by a loud screeching sound as the door to his father’s study was opened by a sharply dressed man with the sad and restless eyes of youth.
By Theocharis Telfer5 years ago in Futurism
Journal Entry
As each day passes, I find myself wondering more and more if I am the last one left. Today was the first time in three months I’ve seen another living person and even that was from over a kilometer away. I spotted her with my glass as she made her way across the dry riverbed with a purpose, making a determined beeline to the opposite shore. The blighted sky cast her in shades of purple and whisps of smoke spiraled from the fabric on her shoulders as it smoldered from the bloated, midday sun. This was a death march, I thought. I could think of no other reason than surrender to make a journey before nightfall, but victory is the only word that comes to mind as I remember how tall and proud she carried herself, taking long strides through the oven our world has become.
By Michael Marshall5 years ago in Futurism
3:30
Sixteen going into seventeen on rails. That’s the number of years you’ve found yourself trapped here. And it would be the seventeenth year being here in three days. You would call it home, but it feels almost like a constantly changing prison with a new backyard to clean and replant the food every year. You’ve drawn the passage of time akin to rails since then. It almost feels ritualistic, at this point. As you head downstairs though, the feeling of having done something for a collective whole dissipates as quickly as the people did. You recall memories of the past as you go down to feed your wife.
By Blake Krist5 years ago in Futurism
Garlic
Delivered to recipient “Arnold M.” at IX: 8.32.6.1030 Do not be afraid. These messages cannot be traced, for that is why we have foregone the network, and subsequent trail of metadata, and contrived them instead in this archaic manner of those once-poets. First and foremost, take care to commit them to memory alone, else our efforts will surely be spoiled. Do not be afraid also, that I, at the behest of my employer, have placed this note atop the center of your undistinguished, yet impressively secure 282nd floor auto-scullery porcelain countertop. I shall pursue an equally suitable location in your unit for each preceding message, next perhaps, upon the teal surface of your aged 6.5 year daughter Darlana’s credenza, who is of the moment, lodging with her divorced mother, 4 times weekly, in her 423rd floor unit across the city.
By Steve French5 years ago in Futurism
