literature
Science fiction's most popular literary writers from Isaac Asimov to Stephen King and Frank Herbert, and the rising stars of today.
The Blanketed Blackness. Top Story - September 2026.
The drummer kept slapping at the snare and the rhythm guitarist and bassist plucked away at the stringed instruments, respectively. A sense of euphoria swept throughout the packed stadium. As their last sold out show, Steel Spirit, rocked with an all-black hip hop and rock and roll nu-metal disposition. Lights from smartphones looked like lightning bugs swaying all over the in the open air. The little dots of light illuminated the night.
By Sky Saunders11 days ago in Futurism
In the Flow of His Life's Sweeping Existence
In the flow of life's sweeping existence, there is a silhouetted discovery that surges through the plains of my independent fight. It is much lighter weighted, adrift with vibrant new life: an antidote to the fallen stars that haunt the raindrops of my stubborn sky, digestible across the new plains of my existence. It pulses in a space I'd sweep with the breadth of ecstasy, infinite yet cumulative to the wonders of a universe that never ceases. If this yet to reach discovery withstands the bonds of time and wraps the light of my breadth's trails in a cherished trove, let it be. It will satiate the deep emptiness that swirls within like hot, triple-smoked rings, doubting the very silhouette of a future that I avoid.
By Susan L. Marshall13 days ago in Futurism
Stitch: Saltwater Silence
Sara Foxgrove remembered the last normal moment of her childhood as something small and quiet. She sat on the back steps of her mother’s cabin 0n Popham Beach, peeling bark off a stick and pretending it was a wand, the kind that could call storms or open secret doors if she pointed it just right. The tide had pulled back far enough that the sandbar stretched toward Fox Island like a pale, exposed spine. Her mother, Mara, wasn’t home. Neither were her father or her brothers. They had left an hour earlier to drive into Bath for groceries and a part her father needed for the woodstove. They’d promised to be back before the tide turned. Sara had waved as the car disappeared down the dirt road, not knowing it was the last time she’d ever see them. The afternoon felt suspended, like the world was holding its breath. Even the gulls seemed quieter, circling lazily above the water as if waiting for something.
By Syl De'Vil21 days ago in Futurism
Plato On The Toilet. Runner-Up in Already Here Challenge.
Plato (428-348 BCE) is giant of Western Philosophy, whose words cast a long shadow to the present day, where the study of ethics, ontology, justice, metaphysics and many more fields begin with a chapter on him. His work has shaped the mind of many generations of great thinkers who, in turn, either built upon or criticised his words, but never ignored him. However, these great thinkers have typically fallen into very narrow categories of people, making the study of Plato almost exclusively a pastime for the privileged. This has changed with the invention of the internet, which allows me, some random guy, to read Plato on the toilet, on my phone, when I am meant to be doing my job.
By I. D. Reeves24 days ago in Futurism
It started with a spell check. Runner-Up in Already Here Challenge.
"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." Arthur C. Clarke When I first started writing, I wrote with a pen. Teachers had taught me the fundamentals. Reading showed me how others did it. I checked my spelling with a dictionary. Broadened my vocabulary with a thesaurus. Read grammar books to remind me of my school lessons. And used style books to keep up with the times. Strunk and White, along with William Zinsser, stood in for the tweed-jacketed academics of my youth.
By Pitt Griffin24 days ago in Futurism
The Truth About Data Centers
Every time we send a message, stream a movie, ask an AI assistant a question, upload a photo, or buy something online, there is a good chance a data center is involved. Yet these enormous facilities are mostly invisible to us. They sit behind the scenes, quietly processing, storing, and moving the information that powers modern life.
By AnthonyBTVabout a month ago in Futurism
THE SENTINEL
Chapter Five: the weight of the known --- They left the keeper’s enclosure before dawn. Lian had not asked for the box’s origin, and the keeper had not offered. The exchange had been concluded—not with words, but with the simple act of Lian placing the box into his pack and turning toward the door. The keeper had not watched them leave. It had already turned back to its shelves, as if the visit had been a brief interruption in a longer task.
By Nier Rossi3 months ago in Futurism
THE SENTINEL
Chapter Four They were three days into the wildlands when the signal arrived. It didn't come through any standard channel. There was no sender ID, no origin stamp, no timestamp. It was just a coordinate, embedded in a single pulse, broadcast on a frequency that should have been long decommissioned.
By Nier Rossi3 months ago in Futurism
THE SENTINEL
Chapter Three --- Lian woke to the sound of breathing that was not his own. --- His eyes opened before his mind caught up. Instinct—the kind that Caius had beaten into him over years of training—told him three things in the span of a single heartbeat:
By Nier Rossi3 months ago in Futurism
THE SENTINEL
Chapter Two --- The road out of the Eastern Alliance was not a road at all. It was a scar—a long, jagged wound cut into the earth by the weight of a hundred years of overpopulation and under-repair. The asphalt had long since crumbled into gravel, and the gravel had long since been swallowed by the dust that never settled in this part of the world.
By Nier Rossi3 months ago in Futurism
THE SENTINEL
“The old man bought a Sentinel because he no longer believed in God, but he still believed in goodbye.” --- Chapter One The delivery arrived at 4:17 AM, which was precisely when Caius Voss had scheduled it. He had always believed that important things should happen when the world was asleep—when there were no witnesses, no questions, no paper trails that could be traced back to a man who was already half-dead and trying to finish his business before the curtain fell.
By Nier Rossi3 months ago in Futurism
