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”.
Control (Pt. 2)
Liam just keeps standing there with the silver-plated knife, gripping it and shaking. I have no idea if he is going to attempt to swing it at me or what. Part of my senses is telling me to do a preemptive strike, but another part of me is stopping me because I care. I know that me being supercharged and all, I could easily hurt him.
By Elijah Taylor7 years ago in Futurism
Destination: Earth
It is year 2019 on Earth. I haven't seen my real mother or father in what seems like millennia. Has it been millennia?! It isn't as if I could visit them, even if the humans could space travel... they are in a whole other dimension. They never incarnated on Earth, and they were questionable of my decision to come here, but they supported me, nonetheless. They always did... in all my crazy ventures, but we seemed to all gather the feeling that this would be my craziest yet.
By Kristin Wilson7 years ago in Futurism
Projection (Ch. 1)
I find myself anxiously looking at the clock, like it’s 10 a.m. on a Sunday service. I can almost hear Mage Thompson: “The rhythm of the world beats to just one drum.” His sermons used to stretch endlessly, offering me a chance to escape. If only he knew how right he truly was.
By Dan-O Vizzini7 years ago in Futurism
It Is Well
Great plumes of smoke escaped from one of the tanks at chemical company Hylan, Inc. in Wilmington, Delaware. Dark figures scurried off into the night. This October evening brought with it it’s own tone of terror even though Mischief Night and Halloween remained weeks away.
By Skyler Saunders7 years ago in Futurism
Choker Chain
Niso Quan, 20 and buoyant, walked down the street. It was the middle of the night in May. His chain wrapped around his neck like slave apparel. He listened to his music via his smartphones and earbuds. He ambled with a theatricality that spoke of rhythm and precise paces. He didn’t dance to the music. He was the music. He got all the way to the West Side in Wilmington, Delaware on Fifth Street. He approached his door when he stopped in mid-march. A few coughs and a gasp expelled from his mouth as he tugged at his chain. The thing would not come off of his neck. He gasped and gasped as he tried to use the butterfly knife that he carried around to slice through the links to no avail. More coughs came. Deep breaths came afterward. The chain only squeezed tighter like an anaconda wrapping around its prey. At last, he gave out his final breath. Quan perished right in front of his house with not a witness around.
By Skyler Saunders7 years ago in Futurism
A Near High-Tech Lynching
On a dusty road lined with trees, in Lewes, Delaware the moon’s glow permitted thirty-three-year-old Phillips Colby an added amount of light that his smartphone provided. His skin looked like coffee grounds. He looked for a ride sharing service vehicle that had been running late. He walked with his head in the screen. Just as he picked up his face there stood before him four white men, one with a noose. The three others held a camera with a light affixed to it, a laptop and a microphone, respectively.
By Skyler Saunders7 years ago in Futurism
Them
During the slow crawl over the vast, hard packed snow, Isse had to stay in her cabin, out of the way of the men working. Her father would absolutely beat her if she ventured out. She had her flingdisc, though, and spent the time teaching it to rove in circles around her small cabin or drop suddenly from the height of the ceiling, stopping dead just before it hit the floor. Or she would organize and reorganize her furs, making sure for the tenth time that they were all there, ready for when she would set foot outside.
By Roan Lee-Plunket7 years ago in Futurism
They're All Here
Stainless steel surrounded most of the room. In fact, the table and two chairs shared the same substance. The only things that weren't steel were the missing ceiling and the floor which shined with wood polish. A desk lamp and tablet resided on the table. Save for the lamp, darkness shrouded the place. A door opened and a woman named Donna Beck aged thirty-five-years-old sat down at the table. She engaged with the tablet. A few minutes passed and the door opened again. This time, it was a one hundred and two-year-old man named Horace Maddox who used a cane as he walked, slightly hunched over and with slow and steady paces. He sat down at the other chair.
By Skyler Saunders7 years ago in Futurism
Home? (Chapter 13)
When I wake up, I find myself in the same room, dark and cold. Lonely. Nausea hits me almost instantly, so I remain tucked in bed for a longer while, wondering, thinking. My head cannot think too clearly but I know what I saw and, thankfully, I remember all of it. Max is not Max and my dad isn't who he was before The End. Images of past events over the last 24 hours run through my mind as if they were a marathon, trying to see which one would ingrain itself better inside my confused and disturbed head. I hear a soft knock and I don't answer. I'd rather stay sound asleep. It doesn't work. A guard comes in my room probably to check that I am still there. He sounds astounded that the rebellious teenager hasn't escaped or attempted to and that she's peacefully sleeping, unaware of her surroundings. He doesn't try to do much else other than check the cubicle, to ensure himself that it's not a trap. They are scared. The guards are beginning to fear me. I feel mighty all of a sudden. I have become a bigger threat than they or even I expected. I could use a bit of that power to my advantage. He leaves and closes the door. That's how I know he's a man. The way he locks my room, banging the door, without caring whether the patient is in need of rest. His walking manner is rather violent, his feet stepping on the ground noisily. I get out of bed and search for my bag. I can't find it. They must have taken it. I need to figure out a way to escape but the switch won't turn on, leaving me in darkness. I sit down on the cold tiled floor, waiting for an idea to hit my brain, but I'm so weak at the moment I can barely think straight. Silence is all that accompanies me. And suddenly, a dim light bulb appears over my head. I hear wind, a gentle passing of air from someplace above me. I look up and I see an air duct, almost indistinguishable in this pitch black room yet still standing out thanks to its metallic tones. Determined, I push my bed above it and try to figure out how to open it. Is it toxic to go through it? I don't know. I'm not one to try to sneak through air ducts during my free time, but there is always a first time for everything. It's too tight for me to break it, and so a rather strange idea comes to mind. I barely have any strength but I'm lucky exercise was something that was pushed for in this ship. Even though my body is exhausted, it somehow finds the strength to lift up the metal bed and push one of its legs into the entrance to the duct. The lid falls off, a metallic "bang" is heard, and I start worrying that a noise like that can alert unwanted visitors. I speed up the process, carefully dropping the bed back on the floor and bouncing lightly on the mattress, willing to escape this cell of a room once and for all. My feeble arms are able to push one last time and get me inside, my thin frame able to fit into the small hole that I hope won't allow for guards to pass given that they are much more muscular than me.
By Eugenia Moreno7 years ago in Futurism
The Power of Their Minds
Night fell on the Balm Hospital in Wilmington, Delaware. Three black men in their mid-30s, Dr. Matt Kingsbury, Dr. Derrick Tining, and Dr. Wendell Saxby, all confronted a gang once they walked outside of the hospital. The gang, called the Hot Lead, consisted of three black boys Kriss, Bundy, and Tops. They never brandished a weapon, but did indicate that they possessed firearms.
By Skyler Saunders7 years ago in Futurism
