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”.
Created at Your Whim
“Here you go!” A white porcelain mug was gently placed on the polyurethane-coated walnut surface. They must’ve stared at the blank digital page since the time of order, absentmindedly listening to a playlist dubbed ‘Study Music’, in hopes that inspiration would guide their hand. Alas, they managed to divert their gaze to meet the waitress’s eyes. Their face turned an entire thirty degrees, in two dimensions, to settle their social obligation. Ostensibly satisfied, the waitress returned a light smile and continued making rounds across the room. Their fish-eyed gaze hovered momentarily before converging on the saturated steam emanating off the mug.
By Joan Manuel Madera Baez5 years ago in Futurism
The Time Capsule
There is nothing in everyday life to suggest that coming into a large sum of money could bring such an all consuming madness. He had been the one working that late night demolition job. Everyone else was suffering the realities of the pandemic. It very well could have been the teeth of an excavator pulverizing that forgotten time capsule into scrap.
By Aaron Allen5 years ago in Futurism
The Journal Noir
Pheona was always broke. But every day she woke up early in the morning and trudged the bus ride to work in order to survive. They never treated her well, even after a decade of hard work. Even now she didn’t work full time, and she had never received much of a pay raise either.
By Mercedez Belanger5 years ago in Futurism
One Drop
Gina stopped walking and stared down at her hand that was deep in her black PVC knee length jacket pocket. The rain streamed down her arm and tried to enter via her wrist but the tight fit stopped the droplets from doing so. Her phone had a crack down the side which would facilitate the demise of its function if any sniff of water was to enter. Now was not the time for such things. She dismissed the voice questioning her lack of focus to have already got it fixed as it had already been three months since it bounced down the stairs of her apartment building and into the wall. It was now ringing and she had to answer. Looking around Gina could see a doorway underneath a destroyed canopy which gave her just enough protection to answer the phone without it being drenched in the downpour. She ran over only just missing a car as it glided by on the road, the rain hitting the ground almost drowning out the whining of its electric motors. The front bumper banged the heel of her shoe as she landed on the pavement. She turned round to shout some obscenity but was too late to be heard and slammed into the wall with an explosion of air from her lungs. She looked in panic at her hand hoping she hadn’t damaged the phone in the collision. It was still vibrating. At least that was still working. Now in the doorway and huddled over in some vain attempt to provide a little more protection from the rain, Gina removed the phone from her pocket and slammed it into her head.
By Mathew Hamilton Green5 years ago in Futurism
Per Ardua Ad Astra
The dying, silent embers of the brazier warded away the numbing chill of the rain’s malice, each drop rendered by the gentle glow of the flames parting the night. That rain was a serenade shared by despairing lost souls as it marred the decaying cobble walls and concrete towers of the city damp, echoing therapeutic sounds through every road and alley. Blurred streetlights caught rivers in the gutters of the cracked tar streets. This winter promised snow, it wouldn’t be long before the other vagabonds would drop like flies in the street succumbing to the unforgiving chill. Astra rubbed his gloved hands together as misty clouds rose from his mouth to meet the cold. His ragged, dust streaked coat barely kept him warm. The only real warmth came from the damp brown beanie, but even that was trivial. Tracks of rain divided his aged, hopeless face. Purple neon lights from the city barely pierced the night. But even in the dark, the Pillar of Ardua’s amber shone like a beacon, drawing the hopeful like moths to a flame. The tower was taller than the rest. It stared back with a knowing sympathetic glare. Launch was just three days away.
By James Phillips5 years ago in Futurism
The Pod
Dale does not know what the next 17 years will hold for him, but in some cases, he knows exactly what will happen. He sits at his elegant dining room table, with a newly opened bottle of Beaujolais in front of him. Gleaming in the light of the chandelier is a shiny-black object, roughly the size, and shape of a rugby ball. He stares at it as he pours himself a glass of wine. He takes a drink and thinks back to an earlier time.
By John Atkinson5 years ago in Futurism
alinta
The Tall man from the large white building told them once, that shooting stars were not actually stars at all. He said they were just bits of rock on fire that lived briefly in the night sky. Sometimes, if the sessions went a little longer, he took them out to the tiny patch of grass, growing bravely behind the large white building, and they lay there looking up at the desert sky. You could see shooting stars all the time out here, away from the cities with all the noise and smoke. She asked the Tall man if they were the same as the Other Lights (the ones they saw in the sky from the south). He said ‘No – those lights are different. Those lights are why we have you children here.’
By Saxon Griese5 years ago in Futurism
A Parable of the Red Caves
An orange hue darkened his empty living room. Pull chains ticked on a wobbling ceiling fan above his head as it swirled a light smokey scent in the air. Summers used to be fun, Trent thought to himself. Contemplative, he stared through the large window past the pressed squares and circles on the carpet where his furniture once sat. The dark air outside colored the apartment complex across the deserted street, and the haze brought a sad silence to the city during the fire season. Trent remembered a time as a kid when he used to play outside in the summer. People would go out with their dogs and walk around town or go for hikes. Over the years, the fire season kept getting longer until people found themselves waiting for fall and winter to bring an end to the suffocating smoke. Waiting for the weather to smother the firestorm and smoldering trees in the forests surrounding the city.
By Jacob Pixler5 years ago in Futurism
Ice in a Glass
Z sat in a wire chair under an awning at a café table looking up at a second floor window across the small square. She was watching from behind sunglasses to see if anyone came to or from the door below, and if she could see shadows or light, in the apartment behind the window. It had been dark all day and stayed that way into the evening. Lights began to turn on in the streets, glowing warmly on the cobblestones and music slowly wandered out of café doors, as the evening hinted at night. A small group of girls returned, uniformed and in single file, from the movie house around the corner. The young women escorting the children, gently hushing and guiding their pigtailed wards up the stone stairs, and through the large rounded oak door to their dormitories. Z knew well what lay through the door. Sparse, clean, safe rooms. Cheerful in their obeyance of light, as it bent through the day, but without the sentiment of individual love. Z, absent of any parents she could remember, had grown up here under the purposeful care of the Sisters of Infinity.
By Anthony Merritt5 years ago in Futurism
