science fiction
The bridge between imagination and technological advancement, where the dreamer’s vision predicts change, and foreshadows a futuristic reality. Science fiction has the ability to become “science reality”.
A Locket of Time
I stop to rest in the shadow of a few charred beams, what probably used to be a small family home, but is now little more than a pile of rubble. Sitting down on a larger piece of broken concrete, I take a gulp of the rancid water; the only thing there is to stifle this relentless thirst. Looking down at the filthy plastic bottle in my hand, I smirk at the thought that this battered vessel with the faded letters, C-a -ola, will long outlive me. But that’s nothing unique, everywhere there are mountains upon mountains of deathless plastic, half buried in the soil, waste from peoples who were alive long before The Event finished the work that they started. I pull back the hood that protects my face from the incessant radiation, and wipe the torrent of sweat off my brow. Why does it have to get so hot here? Even in the dead of winter, the relentless heat singes my feet through the half melted soles of my boots.
Teagan MatthewsPublished 3 years ago in FuturismDad's Notes
The view of the sunrise behind the canyons through the rectangular glass frame provides a momentary relief of beauty – the earth-toned stripes convey a mesmerizing pattern, reminding me that, although the world was deteriorating quickly, there was still something to fight for.
"Other" Love
Smooth, shiny, I couldn't see the locket. But it was etched in my mind’s eye. Paralysis had set in everywhere, but I still felt it dangle. It was still around my neck. I hadn’t slept in days, so dreaming was welcome, and the locket was still with me in this “real” world.
Jenna PinkstonPublished 3 years ago in FuturismA Couple Of Batteries
At the start of when everything fell apart, there were those who chose to blame anyone and everything. They had to find the villain, and often resorted to violence to get what they wanted, proselytizing a better age in recent past. Others chose to hide, giving up what they could to those they saw as having the power to fix things, and constantly pointing out any criticisms they could find to the injustices they felt. They were overwhelmed and wouldn’t fix anything because they were crippled by their own fear but raised their voices on a constant cycle wanting things to change, for us to keep moving forward.
Rhett MartensPublished 3 years ago in FuturismAnna’s Locket
Clang! Clang! Clang! Anna felt the bed shake before she registered the Headmaster’s cane pounding on the metal frame. “Get up! You have school!” The young Headmaster said. Most people seemed young, Anna reflected. The elderly were the first to die during the SARS-21 plague.
Mark JeffersonPublished 3 years ago in FuturismThe Cure
The bark of the tree was digging into her back through her thin white cotton shirt. Her heart was thumping so fast she could feel it in her ears, but she tried her best to breath as quietly as possible. Sweat was pulling under her heart shaped locket and dribbling down her forehead. Her jeans had ripped while she was running and her feet were throbbing. She had on her house slippers when they knocked on her door and there was no time to change before she ran out the back door.
Haley LunaPublished 3 years ago in FuturismRust Red
Red. A dirty, rust-red stretching as far as the eye can see, the jarring intensity of the sunset deepening its vivid hue. I always likened this earth to dried blood, the sand beneath my boots an open wound. Broome was always an arid place but now the analogy I used for her soil holds a deeper resonance. I still remember the life of this land, the prevailing gums that seemingly survived anything, no drought too long. The dingo and wild dogs that preyed upon my livestock. The silhouette of the eagles marring the sky, their slow circling a reminder that the land took life as much as it gave it. Now it just takes, no giving. With the colours of the bush gone, and the sounds of its inhabitants just as absent, the life I once knew is just that; a memory, and the open wound now a scar.
Freya ScottPublished 3 years ago in FuturismPixel Eyes
I remember nothing but flashes. Empty glimpses. Colours fading in and out. A sound, a whisper. Sometimes, if I focus hard enough, I can almost see a face.
Patrick PoulinPublished 3 years ago in FuturismThe Tumble
the suit is warm. Jade is thankful for that. a huge comfort in the doomed situation. it is a relic from the Middle Reich of stellar exploration, designed at a time when chic was still important, but tech had moved well into the new wave of super-efficient advanced life support. still, it has it’s bugs. with age the perspiration re-sorbers have become sluggish, resulting in a light but frustrating and accumulating level of fog and damp. like a personal humidifier. memories rise in her of small snatches of time visiting what remained of the equatorial forests - hot, wet, foetid, oxygen-starved - strange, but necessary and rare escapes away from the safety of the last vivosphere. she can smell her own despair in the sweat that condenses on the visor’s inner surface and trickles, vermiform, towards her neckline and chest. raining on the inside.
Brendan MorsePublished 3 years ago in FuturismLike Velveteen and Cave
My skin crawled at the sound of the cries. My guts tightened and my steps were shaky. I can't say why I was going toward, rather than quickly away from, that eerie sound; or why there were tears on my cheeks.
Sue Stade BergstromPublished 3 years ago in FuturismIambic
The heart muscle was the last to go and the first to return. Universal hum replaced the rhythm of the iambs formerly locked in human chests behind the pureflesh and the cage of organic bones. But Samel -- the last fleshmachine -- kept a heart long into the age of Electrantity. For a time, when we still kept clocktime, some considered his choice a matter of nostalgia, like keeping a record player or a bicycle on hand beyond the first paradigm shift; others believed he had plans to replicate fleshhearts from dna and create a resurgent trend of packaging historical remnants in lockets that opened and selling them to newborns as novelty items.
Angelina CiceroPublished 3 years ago in FuturismRed Sun Setting
Laden with supplies that would easily snap my spine back home, I lurch forward to take another burnt hunk of scrap. Perhaps a receiver or a housing. I listen to my filters lightly hum to drone out the silence. Each step I took made another brown-orange print on the surface of this months-old battlefield. To most, this would be a tragic sight: miles of melted vehicles and bodies burned to cinders. To a fool like me, this was merely opportunity calling.
RedemptionVAPublished 3 years ago in Futurism