Sci Fi
Celestial Penance
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. They are wrong, for I can hear them. They echo across the eternal expanse, filling the void. They transcend space and time, juxtaposed with the abyssal magnitude of my mind--but I gave up screaming millennia ago, or so it feels. Floating, weightless, the speck of earth no longer visible. Has anyone traveled further? Perhaps.
By Carl G. Lilley4 years ago in Fiction
The Questioners. Top Story - September 2022.
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Nobody can hear a scream from the head of a crazy woman either, unfortunately for you. But what if they could hear? Would they listen? Would they heed your warning?
By Cathy holmes4 years ago in Fiction
The Human Signal
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. This is true; to an extent. Certainly with no atmosphere to act as a vector, it would be quite impossible for soundwaves to reach a waiting ear. But there is so much more to voice than mere sound. The pain and fear embedded within a scream travel on much different channels, projecting through the void to reach organs infinitely more subtle. For decades, theorists have worried that it would be Earth's radio broadcasts that render it visible to those looking from beyond; but never would they have imagined that all the suffering and loss borne from mankind's endless cruelty, that all the wars and injustices and torment would prove a far more potent beacon than our greatest technology could ever be.
By Kyle Short4 years ago in Fiction
Sunk by the Moon
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. But you can see one. You can almost feel one. The muscles flexing as powerfully as they ever have, desperately trying to force oxygen down their lungs, but there is none. Meanwhile you float ideally by, helpless, staring and scrabbling over to try to aid the futile. In the void of space, I’ve never heard such savage silence in all my life.
By Chris Mitchell4 years ago in Fiction
Before I Rejoice
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Professor Jean-Yuu in his 23rd century paper on The Man & The Stars, commented on the ‘human’ in space. Of the few races across the cosmos to evolve from the hominid, it is in our nature to conquer and scorch an indifferent universe with divine prejudice and governance. To a multiverse otherwise existing, we spend our days searching for purpose, for rationality, for order. The human condition and motivations lie in psychotic self-involvement, the only race that would otherwise scream in space– for other claves have already understood that nothing could hear you… What does that mean?
By Adam Terrelonge4 years ago in Fiction
Airlocks
Nobody can hear you scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. I couldn’t tell you who they are. Honestly I don’t know how the proverbial they would know. If what we’ve heard about the Itrosians and the airlocks are true, I may be finding out very soon. Too bad I won’t be able to let them know for sure. I try to shake that thought from my mind and turn back to my work.
By Micaela Sparrow4 years ago in Fiction
The Fifth Voyage
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. It sounds like that old riddle, doesn’t it? You know the one: if a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one there to hear it, does it make a sound? I’d say of course it does. It hit the ground, it vibrated, it made a sound. You might argue that without hearing it I could never prove it and that my opinion is no better than conjecture, to which I would shoot back that just because you aren’t there to witness it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, and besides, there were probably plenty of organisms around that did hear it fall, even if there happened to be no human present. And you’d say, “so you would ask them what it sounded like?” to which I would clench my jaw and think of some equally-condescending retort. We could go around in circles like this forever and never get anywhere. I’ve never liked riddles like that. So let me ask a more real question, one that’s been on my mind every night since I landed back on Earth: your husband is floating in space and you’re reaching out for him, but your gloved hands come up inches short and those inches are growing by the second. The visor of his helmet is reflecting Mars below you but the planet’s crimson beauty means nothing because you are looking only into his eyes, and for a moment he smiles, for a moment you think everything will be alright. And then something cold and sharp and evil pierces his chest. A handful of particles scatter, but most just float idly; bits of him, bits of his clothing. The terrible thing withdraws and leaves a hole in his spacesuit, in his body, and you’re shocked by the fact that he’s barely bleeding. His mouth contorts and twists, opens wide, wider than you knew was possible, but you don’t hear a thing. There is no air between you, nothing to carry vibrations, nothing at all. You watch him die in silence. So I ask, if your husband is killed by an alien in the vacuum of space, and there’s no air to carry sound, does he scream?
By Miguel da Ponte4 years ago in Fiction
