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 Renegade Dream
I have always sought understanding of the magical nature of the universe. I recall as a child, looking up into the night sky wondering if this vast sparkling universe could in some way reflect the brain inside my head, the electric mind, the soul I sought to connect with behind my eyes.
By Violette Starline5 years ago in Futurism
The Locket of Cronus
In the midst of time and within the smoky, fogged out atmosphere, Macy could not see, could not feel and also could not hear. The blast she heard was similar to one of the big bang, which initiated the creation of life. Although this time, there existed no more life on earth, and the shock of this event rendered Macy numb to all her senses.
By Vanessa Poolian5 years ago in Futurism
THE AFTERMATH
It was the year 2050, the city of New York was in chaos as over a third of the population of New York had disappeared, their bodies vanished without a trace, leaving behind the things they wore. Some called it an alien invasion, others called it Doomsday; but for Professor Adam McShane, a Professor at NYU; it was the day he lost his beloved wife Alice, and 5-year-old daughter, Beverly. What happened? A question the great minds of the world were unable to answer.
By Ninioritse E. Tuedon5 years ago in Futurism
My Fault
Dammit, not again. Get away from me! My pants become treadmills to my collapsing lungs, a restless sensation grips at the chambers of my over functioning blood pumper, how are these god-forsaken monstrosities Hermes fast? The throbbing of my arm increases as the bound and leathered tree becomes a weight against my vivacious cheetah sprint, my arms constrained against their will to violently swing in gorilla like style. Most annoyingly is my promise that has come lose from its dead treed prison, mimicking my crazed thrashing motion. I take my eyes off smoke city, in the length of time, matching an ants figure, to reseal the escaped convict, when a rock bests my foot in a match of rock, foot, pavement. The worst part of that battle was I suffered twice; the foot out duelled by rock and my head out hardened by pavement. Crap! Their shadows shift to looming figures, with Perseus’s will I turn away, compassing my eyes to point towards my journal. Slithering along, my hand chokes the chain once again, my legs tightly wound as an eager Jack that waits to burst from his entrapment. Crrrcckk… My man-made feet pulverise the gravel, leaving whatever the hell one decides to name those beasts, behind my person, and my locket that broke free from its former cell. Double crap, I knew I should not have taken those laxatives! Are the mechanisms of my mind in need of a mechanic, for a mind made wall prevents me from advancing. I cannot leave her. Dammit to hell! A gear change has the gravel repented in its place, my tiger stools pounce upon their eyed-up prey. Where my legs land, my eyes wander elsewhere, they are now way too close for human comfort, like a lion behind a rusted wired cage; I dread their daggered bite. If only I were Pinocchio, then someone could Meister my wooden arms; I am ensnared by peering into their spidered revealing windows, their inner house a crimson décor.
By Samuel Fletcher5 years ago in Futurism
Humanity At Peace
I sat alone in my room for the first time in several months. I had been given a pass to avoid working at my computer station after becoming a live-alone again, the room feels darker somehow despite the digital walls giving me a photogenic sunny day, even the air vents had been wafting a soft scent of what I assume are the outdoors. Not like anyone remembers what those really are any more I suppose, I certainly never did since as a thinker I was never allowed outside the walls of the city. Well to be fair, I've never really been outside of my room as a thinker. Everything I need is here.
By Michael Dee Talley5 years ago in Futurism
Monger of 11.78
Monger of 11.78 The room tinkled in the light pouring down the center of the hexagonal tunnel. The proprietress did look up slantwise from behind her curtain of black and silver hair from her perch down in the chains to see the man enter. Her tunnel of wares hung three levels down the center of the mercantile block. Her neighbor to the left hunkered in his cage and sold lamps made apparently of twine glued to twisted plastic and lit with a variety of yellowed-light low-wattage emission bulbs. To the right was silk handkerchiefs and scarves and bolts of color. Just above her was the sound of liquid and oxygen bubbles, but you’d have to enter into the space further to know what Pax Lumini was selling. All around the hexagon was the possibility of experiencing or purchasing something. It was possible to enter on a wheelchair or on foot, and descend through the shop receiving information available on items directly to the screen you carried, or wore, or on the edge of the lift device. Hen wanted only one thing. He felt he would know it when he saw it. The way to ask her was unclear to him. He could only surmise her. Her role in the matter of exchange was possibly to purchase items from afar, or hang them in her choice of visual display. Hen unfolded and folded his arms, then took a deep breath as he mounted the lift pad and moved through her tunnel of metallic and crystal ornamentation. His calves were solidly rooted but his eyes darted out in furtive expectation. Her arms seemed to pause with purpled iridescent tips in the frames she kept around her skin. He tried to memorize the artifacts devoid of broadcast details revealing on his screen. Her blue antique typewriter did not connect, but the orchids lit with a grow-light did, and the tiny drawers with neat hardware labels that lined her walls were behind heavy encryption. Her eyes however seemed to recognize him completely, and simply avoided forming a memory. He felt that she must know that this was day 413 of his moments knowing she existed without crossing over that divide and inviting any deeper retrospective. Outside the glass walls he plummeted past, the rivulets and rings of green blurred. He descended expertly to the bottom of the vertical mall, and exited as if coming to a stop at the bottom of a ski slope. He felt the rush of chemistry that tugged his heart and then his hands; sometimes one and sometimes the other. This sensation he had come to know only when moving through past her was more powerful than anything he’d ever known. It was section 3.28. The whole area was commercial, surrounded by pits of fire and trash in steel crucibles and ceramic chute-manifolds that de-natured any toxins as the smoke rose, so that inside the city wall there was actually a verdant labyrinthine landscaping obscuring the pits and smoke, leading to a triple ring of water that was filled with lilies and quietly leaping fish. There were mostly employees that took up the apartments handily that hung from the great arches of the sector with long gravity elevators that endless moved on silent tracks. He imagined she lived there. Exiting the mall ground-level, he bought some vanilla ice cream from the sweets cart that was always parked outside. This was his favorite five minutes of every day. He’d recorded the sounds, and recreated the entire descent to play at home in sector 11.78, using the old bone-grid names for what was once two hundred miles of desolation. Pretty soon the foot traffic thinned. Almost done with the work day.
By Emily Peterson Crespo5 years ago in Futurism
Raccoon Road
Raccoon Road by: Jonathan Charles Stewart Copyright © 2021 Jonathan Charles Stewart. All rights reserved. It all started when the raccoons began showing up. I was four or five. It rained a lot back then. Now it never rains. We’ve ruined the atmosphere and there’s no one around anymore that cares anyway. Except for me and June, at least that’s what it feels like. June came over yesterday. We talked about her father and his pride and joy: Craneway Enterprises, the life-blood of all. Her dad is quite a character. June is a lot like him, just prettier. And soft. June and I go way back. We went to trainee space camp together; Craneway got us in. I really like June. I think if “marriage” was still a thing people did we might just do it. I’ve tried to convince her before but she says “it’s old fashioned” and that she’s “undecided.” She likes old-fashioned things, that’s what gets me. That’s why she likes me. I decided to give her the locket today. I’d been saving it up for the right moment and today the view out at the ridge proved to have it.
By Jonathan Charles Stewart5 years ago in Futurism
