literature

Science fiction's most popular literary writers from Isaac Asimov to Stephen King and Frank Herbert, and the rising stars of today.

Coventry
The weather was unusually warm that morning; the barrel was no longer frozen solid. Usually only the water in the deep inner storage was in liquid form when the sun first rose. Usually the barrel, abandoned at the entrance, was a immovable block of ice. Something was different. Not a lot. Just a little.
By Rebecca Lupton5 years ago in Futurism
Paper
“Nia. Come back to the surface. Over.” “Another minute, I almost have—" “Another minute and you’re free diving, Nia. Just please, come back. Over.”
By Harper D.5 years ago in Futurism
How Curious
Eddie walks with shoulders slumped and uncomfortable in his way too tight red cardigan sweater and tan Docker's pants down the crowded subway corridor.
By Christopher Robertsson5 years ago in Futurism
Tusk Glass
It was Trimalchio Tusk, one of the American Elect who could honestly claim to be 1/10th of a trillionaire, who stood before what a perspicacious passerby would assume was a replica of The Monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey. This wondrous spectacle of Hollywood memorabilia, stuck in the white sands of Carmel-by-the-Sea’s beach, featured a small troop of baboons, sheltering within a sliver of shade cast by this sun-transformed sundial scaling 20 feet into the sky.
By Jon C. Hopwood5 years ago in Futurism
Escaping reality
“Everything comes with a price. What is to give light must endure burning”. That was the first line she read on what it seemed to be an ordinary little black book. Little did she know that the book was neither ordinary nor random.
By Nuhy5 years ago in Futurism
The Interminable Life of Emma
There, sat a wise little girl. Wiser beyond her years, little did she know before going into the woods to sit with nature on this beautiful Sunday, spring afternoon. Emma, she who had a sensation and feeling of knowing that her life would simply fall into place. Never questioning and never doubting. Emma, this eleven year old little girl, simply knew she had to stop the chaos around her by being still in her little corner in her neck of the woods. On the ledge of the tree trunk, Emma sat and pondered about her ancestors and how there will one day be a version of herself, long in the future, whom she wishes she could help the next “mini-me” she called in her mind, unknowingly realizing spirit could hear her.
By Alexandra Blight5 years ago in Futurism
Life Unwritten
It had been passed down for generations since what seemed like the dawn of time. Those who protected it were chosen by a select council made up of men and women who were chosen carefully and secretly by someone who was even more careful and secret. That someone was so secret that no one knew who they were either. This Little Black Book. The Holy Grail of recycled paper and leather. This little book designed to look so ordinary it was beautiful. So simple it was refined. And it held secrets to the very human civilization that existed today. Those that knew the Order of Caretakers even existed spent every moment of every day making sure that no one knew that they knew, because everyone knew what happened when someone slipped up. They knew the consequences of exposing the knowledge that this book existed, Well, they didn’t actually know what the consequences were, but they knew they were a secret within a secret, and of course, with that many secrets involved it must be very dire. Something truly horrible and unthinkable. Like pancakes with no maple syrup, pizza with no pineapple, or, and I can hardly think about this, it's so horrible, a Canadian who never ever apologizes. All things that even the most horrible person would admit, go way way too far into uncharted territory. And no one likes uncharted territory because it is, well, so, uncharted. So, according to those who were chosen to remember and to protect this little black book held within its pages the answer to something important. Right?
By Johanna de Boer5 years ago in Futurism
Floating Girl, Sunken Man
After the business of shooting Anne was over, Denys alone was to take care of the witch notes. She had given no instruction on how to safely do it. Indeed, she had denied they carried the touch of the devil at all, which left him blessing a bolt of linen and shearing it into strips. He made mitts of them and fashioned a sling to carry the slippery tan stacks, spurning the touch of their gleaming bodies.
By Mallory Palmer5 years ago in Futurism
Verity Rising
I It’s the last time I’ll see my father alive, a suited silhouette against the spiral of autumn leaves caught in a frigid afternoon wind.
By Sarah5 years ago in Futurism
Little Black Book
The warm summer evening breeze dances through Mira’s hair. Cracked city sidewalk crunches beneath her thin-soled All-Star sneakers as she weaves through allies around old homes and abandoned warehouses, camera in hand. Catching the sunset illuminating abstract jagged edges of rusted fencing puncturing plumes of iridescent clouds, she pauses and brings the camera up to her eye, leaning at just the right angle and smiling at the soft click of the shutter.
By Megan Plummer5 years ago in Futurism
A Message from the Gods
A strange humming sound drew Caecilius out of his dreams. It was soft, yet powerful--laced with many tones high and low underneath the main purr droning from outside.
By Jeremiah Ericson5 years ago in Futurism
Relatively real
I stepped into the glassy front lobby of the Boston high rise, looked down at my frumpy street worn shoes, and back up at the gleaming elevator doors. The late afternoon sun effused the vaulted lobby with a warm and scintillating glow. Catching my reflection, I regretted my worn-out cargo pants, but classier options simply were unaffordable.
By Julie Perez5 years ago in Futurism