Sci Fi
To be Frank
The wail of the sirens keeps growing. Frank estimates he has about sixty seconds left to enjoy the most worthy crime of all time. The crisp air of dawn stings his cheeks, he has no other desire than to stay in that moment as long as possible and just feel.
By Pablo Cervera5 years ago in Fiction
Breathe Wisely
A soft chirping slowly ricocheted throughout Anne’s home, reverberating off the four walls of her small, black pod. An artificial sunrise slowly brightened the space, mimicking that of a Portland lighthouse. Sweat dappled her forehead. Air conditioning was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
By Nicole Best5 years ago in Fiction
Love in the Wasteland
“Don’t you just love the smell of sulfur and the faint feel of radiation on your skin?” I ask my best friend and the absolute love of my life. “Well Sally I wouldn’t exactly say I love it but I know you, Ms. Brightside can find life even in this dismal wasteland.” I look at him with an ‘I-am-so-not-amused’ look. “Well Dr. Isaac, the gift of healing himself, I wonder whose fault it is that I can find life wherever I go.” I reply sarcastically and he blushes making me wish he wasn’t so cute. We live in a small community of survivors who actually care about the world and the way we once knew it to be. It wasn’t always like this. A chemical wasteland barely detectable on any map but it was home to any weary wanderer if they had what it took to survive but people would wander into this small little town that barely managed to survive. From the love I'm able to freely give and Dr. Issac's medical genius, this community is starting to once again rise to its former glory.
By Jevin McGovern-Ross5 years ago in Fiction
Every Little Thing is Going to be Alright
They said labor shortages caused the world to stop, but can anything like the fall of capitalism be that simple? The sun blazed overhead, baking the dirt path before her as she walked, her thoughts beating against her skull. She envied those who were born after the great fall because they didn't know any different. It was torture for people like her, people who still remembered another way. Getting food and water shouldn't be this difficult, it wasn't always this difficult, the thought stung. She remembered turning on a faucet and water just coming out. She'd never even realized what a miracle it was, to just turn a handle and water comes out. It was clean water that came out. There were no clean water sources anymore, no clean water and no fresh food. I'd sell my soul for a strawberry. She tried to remember the last time she'd had a strawberry. She couldn't recall; it was so long ago she wondered if she even really remembered what they tasted like. She remembered the sensation of biting it and the juice that would fill her mouth as she chewed, it was sweet – she remembered what sweet tasted like, at least she thought she did. She remembered what sweet felt like at least. She grasped at the edge of her memories trying to feel a strawberry.
By Genevieve Hartley 5 years ago in Fiction
Love You in Death
March 22, 3256 The fall is coming. After decades of corporations manipulating crops and livestock the earth is no longer fruitful. Where animals once grazed and crops flourished, now stands concrete jungles and uninhabited metal monuments to men long since deceased. It did not matter how many of the one percent died in their fight for wealth there was always another to feed the greed. The mass production was not for the prosper of their fellow man, but to produce the greatest profit. Fat old white men lined their pockets with the hard-earned money of the working class and for what? Food full of chemicals and preservatives that the amount of plastic present surpassed the residual organic material. Now, without enough food, the world is starving. Entire continents have died off. There are approximately fifty million people remaining across the surviving nations; but this is nothing I have not seen before. I am a constant. I have seen the rise and fall of man from the beginning. Sometimes it is nature that destroys them, sometimes it is themselves. No matter the cause, when society falls, so does my love. I’ve lived this love story for too long and I refuse to continue living it. Unlike before, I will not seek her out. If she finds me, I will be cruel if need be. When the fall comes, and she dies as she has before, I will not be there. I will not suffer the loss anymore.
By E.M. Deirdre McCarthy5 years ago in Fiction
'I love you more!'
The clanging racket of metal woke him from what had already been an uneasy, troubled slumber. He never slept well, or deep enough, anymore, so it didn't take minutes to become fully alert. He was already alive and electrified, left hand glued to the sidearm strapped to his waist, right hand adjusting his decade-old bifocals, eyes and ears adjusting to the gray, dim light of dawn and the sounds accompanying it.
By James Sprague5 years ago in Fiction
Lia the Baby Light Orb
There once was a baby light orb that lived in the void. Her name was Lia. She floated for years, eons maybe - who knows how long time is where there is no time. She flitted about, this way and that, sometimes alone and sometimes with a thousand million other orbs, young and old, baby blue and royal purple, pale yellow and bright orange, peering into every crevice of the universe all the while.
By Jessica Hoffman5 years ago in Fiction
RECYCLE,REBIRTH and REPLENISH
Recycle,rebirth replenish, the three r,s a mantra, a pledge, the permanent revolution. The Visionfiles we watched,for our education, showed that during those times ,most of humanity had lived , fuelled, by both waste and exploitation. The residue, we ,the survivors, harvest, every solar cycle , was also testament to this . The decadence in their lifestyles was difficult for us to comprehend. Future structuring , the very signature of civilisation, was conspicuous by its absence .They had access to recordings from the past , so only malfeasance, and conscious negligence could explain their actions. The subjects had more than one uniform. They had no utility features at all, they wasted their precious body fluids, only having the most primitive ways of checking their bodies chemicals, there was no way of immediately indicating distress or disease. How many crimes went unpunished, how many organs were wasted , lives cut short, by some antiquated notions of self. The revolution had cut these poison vines down, and daily we sifted through the soil of recycled fields, pulling out the roots , so no more could the clamour of an individual, drown out the sweet harmonies of the reborn collective. It was in those fields doing the task I was allocated,that led to my first real experience of anxiety.
By James Gilbert5 years ago in Fiction
