Out in Jupiter orbit, Langdon woke, his panicked breathing echoing through his space suit.
A nearby helium miner picked up his SOS. Their medic examined him; traumatic amnesia, she said. They began the journey back to Callisto base.
Inside his body the creature stirred, sensing the presence of new prey.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. A cadre of monks maintain the chant, keeping the nightmares trapped in his head. If they should falter, then the whole universe would tremble…
Earth is a pretty strange place. These beings are only interested in destroying each other and their planet. Their machines constantly belch thick black poison, clouding the view of my ship.
Oh well, I think. They can have fun while they can, because their planet won’t belong to them soon.
Mathieu Munroe is a self-taught artist and writer. You can find him loitering in his room or in tree covered areas.
“Made of rosewood, padauk, or simple plastic, resounding with two octaves or many, and whatever mallet pleases you, but xylophones remain just that: quivering fountains of life.”
“I can’t play,” she told her lover.
“You’ll learn, for me.” The music-breathing alien placed her hand on the idiophones, and smiled.
Russell Hemmell is an alien from Mintaka snuggled into a (consenting) human host. He’s had fiction published in PerihelionSF, Strangelet Journal, Vine Leaf Literary Journal, and elsewhere.
Craig is fond of the saying, “Two heads are better than one.” As head of the personnel department, he would emphasize this to employees. Craig would say, “It’s all about teamwork, and two heads are better than one!”
A two-headed alien walked in one day and said, “Heard you’re hiring.”
Denny E. Marshall has had art, poetry, and fiction published, including fiction in Black Petals #73 in October 2015. See more at dennymarshall.com.
A knock on my front door awakened me.
When I opened the door I saw a red fellow who stood three feet high. He asked me for a cup of sugar.
I was out of sugar.
He flew billions of light years and went home empty-handed.
Small tragedy I suppose.
Doug attends Wittenberg University. He hopes to entertain the world through the written word.
Something was wrong. It was a feeling more than an observation, something intangible, instinctive. Hannah backed away.
The creature seemed offended. “How typically human. You see a purely biological life form and consider me slimy, primitive, and murderous. How ignorant.”
The heads-up display built into Hannah’s eyes blinked a warning.
This story is based on the adjectives intangible, slimy, and murderous, as provided by @RubyCosmos.
“Hey, have I told you about the sci-fi book I’m writing? It’s set in the coolest solar system ever. The main characters live on a lava planet which is kept cool by the rays of an icy anti-sun.”
“…You can’t be serious.”
“And there are secret cloned laser cyborg aliens.”
This story is based on the title suggested by @Yax.
It was New Year’s Eve, and the world was quiet. There were no people banging on pots and pans, no fireworks, no descending balls of light.
The humans peacefully, mysteriously slept.
Arthur C. Clarke predicted contact with extraterrestrial life in the year twenty-ten.
He was wrong by half an hour.
“As I suspected, Gling, the human aliens are paranoid and aggressive. He ‘killed’ the dummy in order to escape.”
Gling gargled. “But this one had a weapon. We must test others.”
They watched as Herbert Cralston flung the hospital doors open and sank to his knees in despair.
Herbert peered very cautiously around the corner. The hallway was empty.
No, wait. One of the inhuman creatures was lounging in a chair just beside the exit with its back turned.
It was all or nothing.
Herbert crept up behind the creature—
raised the steel letter opener—