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”.
Out of the Gravity Well
Syl's lungs burned, not from oxygen deprivation, but from the sheer, crushing weight of three gravities pressing her spine flat into the custom-molded carbon-fiber couch. This was nothing like the cinematic, roaring liftoffs of ancient science fiction. There was no shaking windows or fiery, explosive cinematic drama; instead, it was a brutal, mechanical physics equation being executed with cold precision. The falcon-like ascent profile of the heavy-lift shuttle was a calculation of raw thrust overcoming the stubborn curvature of Earth's gravity well, and every single metric Newton of that force was being transferred directly through her rib cage.
By Syl De'Vil19 days ago in Futurism
The old man with the map was having a great day
The silence came at 2:14 on a Tuesday. I was standing in line at the coffee shop on 4th Street, waiting for a cold brew, watching the guy in front of me tap his phone screen over and over. Behind the counter, the barista was holding an iPad, tapping the glass with a sharp clack-clack-clack.
By Annam M Gordonabout a month ago in Futurism
Scroll No More. Top Story - September 2026.
Dear Beloved, The world has gone mad. Well we always knew that. One minute, I am texting, scrolling, swiping, posting, ordering, navigating, and checking the time. The next, every smartphone is rendered useless. A complete and utter shutdown.
By Chloe Gilholyabout a month ago in Futurism
Static Ovah the Kennebec
Linda always said Bowdoinham mornings looked like God forgot to turn the brightness up. Fog rolled in thick and low, swallowing the rivah, the trees, and half the Town Landing like it was tryin’ to erase the place one bite at a time. She stood theyah at 7:12 AM, sippin’ coffee that tasted like burnt driftwood and bad decisions, watchin’ the Kennebec breathe like some big creature sleepin’ under the surface.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month 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'Vilabout a month ago in Futurism
