literature

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

Science Fiction: Science as Craft
Writing is a craft. We talk of crafting a story, and of wordsmiths who forge metaphors from the white heat of their imaginations. The creation of fiction, therefore, involves a process akin to that of making art. This process involves the mind constructing a fabrication which will more clearly define our reality, or even go beyond our understanding of what reality is.
By Nadia Davidson9 years ago in Futurism
Brutalist Stories #25
“—and what do we take from this?” I look down at them, give them a moment. Pathetic, soulless, shrink wrapped, and ready to pick up off a shelf somewhere in the annals of time; "One whole life: Wasted.”
By Brutalist Stories9 years ago in Futurism
The Game
"Hello?" I called, looking into the darkness. There was no light or sound. "Is someone there?" I called out again. I had no memory of how I had gotten here or where I was. I went to take a step forward, hoping that maybe I could find a way out of here when the ground there disappeared. Splashing noises echoed around me as I caught myself from falling into the knee deep water.
By gillian pajor9 years ago in Futurism
Outrun Stories #25
“The easy way out?” she asks herself, cruising along the Pacific coast highway, top down, the moist night blowing through her thick hair. “Is there ever any easy way out?” She flicks her cigarette away and watches the embers melt into the night. “I’ve started something here, and now I’ve got to finish it.”
By Outrun Stories9 years ago in Futurism
Birdhead Father in Brightness
When Birdhead Father found the box baby (as his name in that moment went from being "Birdhead" to "Birdhead Father") the problem was his (literal) birdhead moved independently as a (literal) bird's might, and the more excited he got (and becoming a father for the first time was certainly exciting) the more wild became the thrashing of the birdhead. He was practiced in piecing together disparate images, but anything new to his well-pieced-together routine was an extra mystery, so images of his new son came to him in shattered pieces. Now was the time he most wanted and most needed to concentrate, but his head wouldn't let him.
By F. Simon Grant9 years ago in Futurism
Spring
Carl is drinking heavily—two bottles of gin and a bottle of Hennessey. He sits alone in his home with the television volume turned way up. He’s watching a funny sitcom but can’t remember the name.
By Matt Feinstein9 years ago in Futurism
The Voice of the Universe
“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle. The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom the emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand wrapped in awe, is as good as dead —his eyes are closed. The insight into the mystery of life, coupled though it be with fear, has also given rise to religion. To know what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their most primitive forms — this knowledge, this feeling is at the centre of true religiousness.” - Albert Einstein.
By Alva v.Harzi9 years ago in Futurism
Quietude of Soul
Entry I: Where Has The World Gone? In quietude of soul, the demon lies. Fallen angel of destiny. With knowledge of fate yet fighting. The demon is fighting. Where have you all gone? It is written that you ought to stay, at least for a while. Perhaps I read too much. A cocktail of good and evil inebriates the world. Quite the solution, quite the mix. Why are your eyes red? Why are your eyes red? I have allergies, bitch. Why is your back slouched? Why is your back slouched? I’ve got to hide my chest, why do you think? What are we? A generation of bitchfilth, smeared in an abyss of bitchfilthy glass. Where has the world gone, but to recruit me? The Saul, the king you claim to need. The little fuck falling on his sword while his son falls on his too. The Nathan telling Adonijah he’s not the king. The dirt underneath the altar to which he clung in vain for life.
By Τίποτα Oὔτις9 years ago in Futurism
Sweethearts: Chapter 1
Zaz is in love. Unfortunately, he's in love with two different women. Before you get critical, he's not dating either one of them right now. Let us start from the beginning.
By Chas C. Smith9 years ago in Futurism
Gender Ender
Carter didn’t know who she was or where she came from. He went to bed and when he woke up and came downstairs there she was at the casino bar.
By Mickey Finn9 years ago in Futurism
Shoulders of Knees
John Anomalies sold real estate for Shoulders of Knees long before he knew his whole world was inside the body of Theo Huxtable.
By F. Simon Grant9 years ago in Futurism
The Close
A nondescript Volvo estate rolls down the gravelled drive, the engine switched off. This is the perfect way to intrigue a whole close, cobbled-together with geriatric and naturally suspicious neighbours. The driver is short enough to appear invisible. His long-finger-nailed hands grip the steering wheel from the underside. If it weren't for a thicket of white hair, back-combed and quaffed to give him an extra inch of height, the car would appear empty. The front passenger, a deathly-pale woman with glossy raven hair, cut into a sleek bob, bends down to retrieve a lit cigarette, which she drops when her Gothic, teenage son throws a pocket dictionary at her from the back seat, because he is angry. He is eternally furious.
By Carla Day9 years ago in Futurism