Sci Fi
High Violet
There is a cabin in a rainy meadow, bisected by a rocky stream. The meadow is surrounded by firs, maples and cedars, whispering and creaking as the wind tugs at them. The skies are gray and voluminous, a confused tangle of textures and shapes. What would, on a sunny day, be a palette of bright greens, browns, reds, is transmuted by the rain into a somber range of navy and maroon, cobalt and pewter. It has silenced the birds and insects, and aside from the steady drone of the downpour, there is only the periodic thwack of a splitting maul striking wood, and the thud of logs tumbling into piles.
By M. S. Bird5 years ago in Fiction
The Waters of the Past
How long have I been here? Hours? Days? Time has always been…relative to me. Now it feels as if I’ve lost all sense of it entirely. Here in this room, these metal walls, time takes a different meaning. Seconds, hours, days, months; these simple concepts evaporate into thin air within these cold walls. Time is warped, transformed from words into questions. Time for Question 1; time for Question 2; 3,4, so on and so forth. And like any reliable clock, time inevitably resets itself with the repeat of the same questions. Why do they ask the same questions? Do they think my story will be any different? Do they think that if I give the same answers enough times, I’ll feel regret about what I’ve done? I only ever had one goal: to improve the health and living conditions of the forgotten and unfortunate. Why should I regret that?
By Maseo Jones5 years ago in Fiction
Humans 2.0
I woke up in a cold, steel ‘coffin’. I later found out this was not unusual, but at the time, there was nothing more frightening than waking up in a sealed container with no chance of escape, just waiting and hoping that someone will take you out of it.
By Mariya Barakova5 years ago in Fiction
Station #9
Pandora Medical Log - Emergency Doctor Reginald Patients are becoming infected at an increased rate. The transmission seems to have doubled from R-2 to R-4, more research will be needed to discover if this is the case. The method of transmission remains unclear, although blood is the most likely method.
By Lucy Richardson5 years ago in Fiction
The Mariana Landing
I can’t ever sleep on a drop, but Teddy can. He’s snoozing already, his company jacket wadded up between his head and the thick plane of glass that separates us from the dark sea. He’s managed to drift off with his name tag pressed against his cheekbone, and he snores softly as occasional bits of bioluminescence flicker past the window. His mom doesn’t like that he goes by Teddy, but it fits him so much better than his real name. I can’t imagine addressing that mess of curls and freckles as Theodore.
By Liv Savell5 years ago in Fiction
Soul Stone
“Hey Scott,” Brian said inquisitively. “Why does Neil have a missing person’s poster on this post here?” Scott turned away from the door to look at the poster. “That’s a friend of his. He went missing last year. He’s never been found.” Scott said, as he turned back to the door and knocked again. “He’s not here.” Scott got his phone from his jacket pocket, “It’s 3:05. He said to meet him here at 3:00, he won’t be long. Let’s sit down.” Scott said, pointing to some empty chairs on the porch.
By Jason Wokna5 years ago in Fiction
Soul Stone
“Hey Scott,” Brian said inquisitively. “Why does Neil have a missing person’s poster on this post here?” Scott turned away from the door to look at the poster. “That’s a friend of his. He went missing last year. He’s never been found.” Scott said, as he turned back to the door and knocked again. “He’s not here.” Scott got his phone from his jacket pocket, “It’s 3:05. He said to meet him here at 3:00, he won’t be long. Let’s sit down.” Scott said, pointing to some empty chairs on the porch.
By Jason Wokna5 years ago in Fiction
Falling
I don’t like falling. I can’t imagine that anyone really does. In a lot of instances your stomach jumps up into your throat, your brain panics, making you flail around like an idiot, and then you always – 100 percent without a doubt –hit the ground. Or the floor, or some hard surface. And that hurts. But what I’ve always wondered, not actively mind you, but just a question always flickering at the back of my brain – is falling terrible because of the impact at the end, or because of the buildup? The drum roll beforehand. It’s puzzling. But at the end of the day, gravity’s a bitch.
By Megan Martin5 years ago in Fiction
