literature
Science fiction's most popular literary writers from Isaac Asimov to Stephen King and Frank Herbert, and the rising stars of today.
Plutus Playground
Today, someone left a strange box on my doormat. Encased in black cellophane with rings of duct tape binding it all together, this peculiar package looked challenging to open. At first, I was excited, I loved getting deliveries, but the more I thought about the details, the more suspicious I became. Questioning its origins made me hesitant to bring the abandoned package inside. I couldn’t recall actually purchasing anything that would serve as an explanation. Being estranged from my family and having not made any meaningful connections with another human in recent years led me to guess that this was not some pleasant, surprise gift. I decided to bring it inside; standing in the cold wasn’t going to answer any of my questions. The package itself was no bigger than a footstool, but whatever it was, it wasn’t light!
People! Just say Something!Published 3 years ago in FuturismHow to avoid a bounty
Kepler made a fine living as an arms dealer. Old Azure connections gave him access to high grade weapons, secret shipping routes, and another bishop or two willing to look the other way for a piece of the action. Kepler always paid extra. A man of his profession lived less than a breath away from trouble and paying extra was a good way to avoid it. Most of the time.
Romario AshleyPublished 3 years ago in FuturismPaper Jilu
The tall, wrought iron gate is open. It is the first time in two years that Jilu wishes to share her imagination with me again.
Susan MarshallPublished 3 years ago in FuturismVoice on the Radio
It was late—but what time it was, I couldn’t be sure. The sun had set, leaving only memories of orange in the deepening blue, and the streetlights flickered on moments ago. The radio, set to some rock station, buzzed and faded out into white noise. I sat up, intending to turn off the radio, when a slow, deliberate voice came through that gave me chills.
Jessica RuganiPublished 3 years ago in FuturismThe Key
I look into the bright blue sky above, not a cloud in sight seen through a broken ceiling. Flashes of a bloody roman bath house with beautiful blue triangular tiles on the wall that dance at the slightest twitch of the eye. Smooth white grouting made of packed sand, smooth granite slabs on the floor kept the house cool in the shade during the summer. All the rooms seem to be looted and disserted. But so strange no bodies in sight just blood splatters. The Year is 502 C.E. The halls of the entire villa lay silent and uncomfortable, home to nothing more than insects and small rodents now. About 4 years ago my entire family had been slain where I stand now, while there was nothing I could do. An army of 2 leagues of Germanic soldiers had descended upon our humble country villa village. I dressed and prepared for war, prepared for victory and triumph, and glory. I was excited to use new spells I had just mastered from my mother’s red grimoire. I descended the stairs ready to hear my commands. And my father and older brother lock me under the false floor in the basement. The false floor has only one exit which leads to our private hunting cabin in the woods. Before he locked the floor, my father said to me “return home for your key on the 3rd blue moon only you can use it” ... The false floor backtracks underground, a 10k cold damp hike. I have done this trek thousands of times alone, even with weights, but never to escape and never with no one on the other side waiting for me... But I stayed and hung to the floor as I listened as my family pulled off their suicide plan and killed everyone who entered our house, including themselves. My father and my brother must have fought off 20 Germanic soldiers each. I could hear the flint of swords clashing together and my brothers grunts, and the enemy soldiers' war cry turn to shrieks as they fought my father. But I know this is just a stall while my mother frantically put together a gas bomb spell which makes the air in the house toxic and non-breathable for humans for 52 moons. A simple spell she conjures into a glass bottle only needing it to be broken to activate. There were a few more parlay attacks to a shield it sounded like and more enemy soldiers screaming “Hilf mir”… Whatever it meant it could not be good but after I heard the glass break.. I heard nothing, just silence. I take a seat next to books packed near the fireplace, thinking about what my father could mean by the key. He left a key for the floor along with $20,000 in the cabin. “How far did he plan ahead?” I think to myself. I wasn't ready to return home and lost track of the moon count. But last night through all the fires in the land I witnessed the 3rd blue moon shining through the endless smog and felt the need to check. But what if I’m wrong and die looking for the key? A mouse scurries chasing after a beetle and catches it just as the beetle starts to fly. The pair land in the sooty books and just as quickly scurries off. I see a light coming from under the book pile and instantly feel adrenaline bubbling, hoping some kindle has not suddenly caught fire from the heat of the day that would surely let anyone know exactly where I am right now, and I have no allies. I frantically dive towards the pile and start tossing books aside left and right. I start to cough due to the soot flying in the air only to see the light disappear when I pick up this Little Black book.
maybe: mayaPublished 3 years ago in FuturismEnough
“98.3° this morning.” The intake nurse’s printer whirled to life and she handed me a half sheet of stickers with my name and medical information barcode on it, as well as a Screened sticker to adhere to my shirt. “Go ahead and take a seat in the waiting room and a nurse will be out to get you shortly."
Amanda PilewskiPublished 3 years ago in FuturismGreys Wish
"How many days has it been Sin Eater, oh, I know, it has been fucking thirty-seven days since we have caught you. My patience is wearing thin, where is it?" The man says face to face with Greys.
Rafael OliverasPublished 3 years ago in FuturismThe Little Black Book
The metal of the ancient car crash graveyard creaked, far above, rhythmic, slow and fading. Laying on the intrusive plants that bled through the cracks in the grey of the road, Vincent quietly shifted in the shallow crawlspace to a slip of daylight that somehow made it through the pileup unhindered. Heeding his heartbeat to steady, he opened up the little black book.
Holly MorningstarPublished 3 years ago in FuturismAdelia's little black book of revenge
We lost the cops after five blocks. A record for Mikey, our Prius-obsessed getaway driver. Not just inconspicuous but also good for the environment, he liked to boast. Michael Galaphy, everyone—a conservationist and bank robber.
Keira WattusPublished 3 years ago in FuturismThe Book Keepers
I could hear them bickering in the main library; two opposites both alike in their story telling however separated by different genres. Richard was consumed with dark and mysterious tales, crimes, torture and the truthful side of unhappy endings that make you need to take a break for a breather. Grace his un-companion as I’d like to describe her was the fantasy, the magical thinking, the warm fuzzy feeling you get when you read something delicious and have to put it down to relish in that sensation of happiness. Their argument was about what to do with a story.
Melissa-Grace AndersonPublished 3 years ago in FuturismAzrael's Song
Angels didn’t get sick days or paid time-off like humans did. But after the last war—it was a doozy, even by the standards of the 20th century—who could blame Azrael for needing to take a few days off for some “me time”? Michael wasn’t happy about it, but he granted the request. He couldn’t remember the last time the angel of death had done anything that didn’t involve some aspect of war, plague, or one of the many disastrous human inventions that peppered the sphere known as earth.
Jillian SpiridonPublished 3 years ago in FuturismLittle Black Notebook
Marking a tree with a vertical line for each person that traveled down that trail, I wondered why no one has returned. No one has noticed the shoelace left behind, the cigar put out on the stump, or the half-eaten sandwich left on the picnic table.
Mary Catherine WatsonPublished 3 years ago in Futurism