Short sci-fi stories in 500 words or less deriving from the stark style of the functionalist architecture, that is characterised by the use of concrete.
Brutalist Stories #60
We stole the stars from their sky, we stole the seas from their planet, we stole the souls from their young, and when there was nothing else left to take, we burnt them up like any other planet. There were some that escaped, as they always do, but the legions took care of them until there was no trace that they had ever existed. Complete and utter annihilation.
Brutalist Stories #59
“I would suggest you relinquish your weapons immediately, I am tracking you with anti-phazic daisy-cutters.” She pauses and looks at me, furrowing her brow before starting again. “You know, I’d love you to test me, I really would, but it would properly fuck up my day if I had to clean your blood and guts off these walls, I only just got the place looking the way I wanted it to.”
Brutalist Stories #58
“You wanna be scared?” the major asked, walking along the wall of concrete, pock marked and bitten with time and war. Bullet holes the size of fists, the crumbling grey matter lay strewn all around with a line of his troops knelt in front, their eyes closed, deep in the middle of their litany before the storm of battle was about to start.
Brutalist Stories #56
She came outside, leant on the tilled wall outside the huge overhang of the Ministry of Cyber Affairs, and lit a cigarette. Holding it down, the smoke in her lungs releasing that kick of nicotine, three, two, one, and a long breath out. Her heart rate quickened with the nicotine and the feeling of relaxation swept through her, shoulders dropping their tension as she cradled one hand on her bicep and held the cigarette to her mouth with the other.
Brutalist Stories #54
The hole appeared one day. 24 hours later, people began to disappear; it’s been going on for decades. For what reason or for what end none of us know, despite our best efforts. There’s plenty of us still free, there’s plenty of us left to try and fight and figure out where they’re taking us… all in vain.
Brutalist Stories #53
I’m stood and trying to remember the days of the South West Four. That group of men and women that tried so hard for so long to bring about change. What did they do in the end? For all their hardship and fight and grit, there really wasn’t much they could do. Two men and two women against the Party that had the entire resources of the interplanetary system behind them? No, not much good, not much hope there, but they tried.
Brutalist Stories #52
Another day in the dark. Another day stranded in the night. Here for who knows how long now, supplies running low, our power almost completely gone, there’s nothing or no one left, at least it would seem, until the moans and screams come.
Brutalist Stories #51
She rolled over to me and said, ‘Where does trust come from?” I just stared back at her, looking into those deep blue eyes, the weak morning sun coming through the blinds, highlighting the dust in the air and the wisps of blonde hair that fell around her face.
Brutalist Stories #50
He comes walking out of the mist. That man, the suit, the tie, the indiscriminate face that I’ve see a thousand times before across a thousand worlds. He’s one with the Gods, he’s one with something beyond and outside of that which I can or ever will know. He slides through time, slips between the exposed lines of the universe. He is all present and never ending and yet, I can never know when he will appear to me, or what he will say. All I know is that I must do his bidding.
Brutalist Stories #49
I’m stood by the gigantic door, looking over the crew as half of them quickly set the detonators and the other half desperately hack into the mainframe. “The clock is ticking gentlemen! Need I remind you that the Party is relying on those atomic secrets for the good of the Motherland!”