literature
Science fiction's most popular literary writers from Isaac Asimov to Stephen King and Frank Herbert, and the rising stars of today.
The Bluebells
Doctor Morin watered her Bluebells that grew outside of her Green House she called Cornamona. The aspiring Scientist wondered what her Grandfather, Packy, would have thought of her career. Sarah’s imaginative grandfather had seeded in the Agronomist the deep affection for the Earth and all that is produced. The summers of her childhood on the small farm in Cornamona, Galway, with hills of lush green, that would spread to where it met the Irish sea and sky, the edges of the land gently decorated with Irish Bluebells. "You see these bluebells here, Sarah. They've grown on this land for centuries…warning us of any evils lurking about. When you see them blowing back and forth, and there is no breeze…just know the Fae are warning you to keep you safe….” Sarah could still feel his breath close to her ear as if told her the secret of the Bluebells. Her chest clenched up as she fought back the pressure in the back of her eyes. Lost in her thoughts, the Doctor became aware of a crashing noise inside the greenhouse, “You're on borrowed time," she teased at the bluebells as she approached the entry to Cornamona.
By Nora T. Browne5 years ago in Futurism
Behold, a book.
Rebel had never left the city. Seventeen years in society and there was never a reason to leave the city. The monumental sky scrapers that were once comforting, now felt like ghastly reminders of how difficult life could be when families ended up on the wrong side of societies' favor. Today, her mother found out she did not win the house seat as the incumbent. For the first time since she could remember the events of her life, her mother was lost. She sat in their flat, with a bottle of wine and false lashes unhinged; tears streaking through matte foundation. None of Rebel's so-called friends even rang her, no video calls, no virtual meet-ups. Her inbox was depressing and silent. Rebel wanted to cry with her mother but her mother would barely let her see her anyway. The only person who Ms. Angleterre would allow witness to a breakdown was her assistant, Jack. Rebel took the elevator down to the lobby and stepped outside in the icy November air. She shrugged her jacket over her shoulders tighter and flipped up her structured hood with face flaps to cover her. She didn't want to be noticed and she desperately wished she could turn off her recognition ping. As she walked past strangers, she tried not to make eye contact. She was afraid they would connect with her ping and recognize her handle. Someone did ping her because she heard someone snicker as they walked past, a moment later they yelled, "Sucks to Suck, Angleterre!" Rebel broke out into a sprint, using her embedded peripheral vision to guide her without looking up. After a while, she stopped to catch her breath and found herself at the metro station. She looked up and a stranger pinged her handle, they started booing at her, louder and louder until others joined in. She raced down the steps and found an empty car; she sat down. The train door slid shut and crept into motion. Rebel sniffled, holding back tears. She wanted to make a status update to everyone, a grand, 'fuck you'. She said, 'open Social Setting' to her earpiece and the platform appeared in the foreground. "New update", she commanded angrily. A new window appeared in her field of vision and the typing line blinked. "Fuck you all", Rebel said. Her earpiece responded, "prohibited language detected, please restate your sentence". "F-U-C-K you all", Rebel spelled it out this time. Her earpiece responded once again, "Prohibited language detected, please restate your sentence". Rebel screamed in frustration and closed the platform. She stood up and slammed her palms against the plexiglas. She plopped back into her chair with defeat written in her bones. Tilting her head back, she slipped into slumber.
By Chelsea Kurtz5 years ago in Futurism
Little Black Book
Little Black Book I'd never deemed myself a 'little black book' sort of person, but - and this is to my credit - I concede all use of social media that adds people in a list of contacts is essentially no different, as soon as you are looking at a particular quality or aspect to those contacts, so you're defining the little black book as their containment.
By Christian Hilton5 years ago in Futurism
Pallid Airs and Lost Highways
Connie’s hands gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles were blinding white. The way her fingers ran to firmly caress you’d think she was looking to break it in half as her unblinking eyes stared hard at the dark road ahead.
By Julius Whitfield5 years ago in Futurism
Counterfeit Feast
Hunger burned in my belly. Most of the time it was a dull ache that I could distract myself from, but there were moments when it turned into a pain I couldn’t ignore. This was one of those times. I went over to the cupboard and looked for something to take the bite off the pain in my stomach. There wasn’t much to be found. There were a few small bags of chips and a couple of half-eaten candy bars. I took one out and broke a piece off. Not exactly what you’d call a healthy meal, but it would do. I sat down at my old creaky table – the only one I’d ever known. I didn’t actually think it was that bad because I didn’t remember experiencing anything else. Sure, it was falling apart and covered in stains from all kinds of drink spills, but it did the job. There were some nicer looking ones in the magazine that I often flipped through, but those weren’t real. I had never seen someone actually own one of those. The pictures in the magazine were pretend people with pretend lives. My life was the only one I’d ever lived and it did not involve fancy tables and especially not the steaming food that I saw in those pictures.
By Cecilia Penner5 years ago in Futurism
The Archaeological Discoveries of Sara and Anne
There was someone else out there. There had never been anyone else out there, not in the weeks and weeks that Anne had spent sneaking out to the Old City. That was why she did it. Everyone else stayed in New Chicago, building things and growing things and repairing things and generally being too loud and bright and busy for Anne to get a moments peace.
By Typethreewriter5 years ago in Futurism
The Hoot of an Owl
“Everything you build will crumble, and everything you cherish will be ripped from your clutches at the hoot of an owl.” Those were her last words, the final offering of a fallen queen before the broadsword swung and the transition of power was complete. To say that it shook the prince - now king - is a grave understatement. Imagine him standing there, armored in haughty superiority and adorned in shining triumph after a six-summer campaign - and the final act is blemished by the venom of a headless snake.
By Stephanie Nielsen5 years ago in Futurism
There is a Forest on The Moon
“There is a constant humming in the ethereal void above. It lays its trail from the steps of its silent orchestra and latches onto dust particles hurling through the cosmos. It plays its tune to its starry audience with all their glitz and glamour and Gods of the solar systems attend and applaud. There is a constant humming in the ethereal void above. I’ve never heard it but I've felt it. It hums through me and it hums through others too and for those of us who feel the humming, we are just chords being executed by the ultimate conductors, we are strings being plucked by the musicians of time. Have you ever felt it, Doctor?”
By Aryan Ali-murad5 years ago in Futurism
