A stem. A swirl, a sniff, a sip, and a sigh. The luxurious liquid flooded down his throat. This was what he lived for, what he worked for. To travel and taste the things he’d enjoyed for decades in their place of origin.
It wasn’t new, but it was novel.
Daniel Thomas is a creative freelancer in the NYC ad industry. Beyond working and writing, he can be found reading, cooking, playing hockey, and wishing he had an apartment big enough for a dog. A big dog.
Three new planets are identified orbiting a distant star. Humans take two generations to approach them, investigating for necessary colonisation.
The first planet is too hot.
The second is too cold.
The third looks just right.
Hugely excited they land to find
a lifeless wasteland
and seabeds awash with plastics.
Vivienne Burgess generally likes to write something vaguely humorous, but the news keeps getting in the way.
Heading south through the ruins, I startle three deer. Their barks echo through the concrete canyons as they run.
I see ever more plants breaking through the tarmac; a green infection. I pause to watch the sunrise. The morning light has a golden quality.
Manhattan has never looked so lovely.
Bill lives in Aberdeen Scotland. He is considered a pioneer in the art of slacking off by many, but he can’t be bothered seeking accreditation.
“With one formula, we’ve reached singularity. Those black skies will be mapped; endless mysteries will become facts.”
That was the pitch, anyway. Now, standing on this… living satellite, I shiver despite the heat.
Overcome by hostile hosts, it dawns. Now that we live faster than light,
so too we die.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the star-scraping hills of West Virginia.
I look through the window and se two children playing catch.
I look down at my feet and pet my orange cat. “Which reality do we visit today?”
The cat meows.
I strike a few buttons on the keyboard. Seconds later, our window is full of bright lights.
Larry Sells wrote this story.
Marian’s self-driving vehicle came home without her. Her smartphone was in the driver’s seat, but it wasn’t talking. The passenger seat was empty. The trunk was filled with farewell presents for her family and friends.
Her final text: I’m going in search of Judge Crater, B. Craven, and Amelia Earhart.
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Betty Fedora, Crimson Streets, and elsewhere.
Despondent about the Earth’s ecological state, an old, grey scientist named Arthur Quisling entered his six-by-eight, pyramid-shaped Dimensional Flier. In search of better universes, his yellow ship, which was capable of elongating and navigating through celestial holes, left our flawed planet behind.
Acclimated to Armageddon, the Earth awaited its fate.
Bob McNeil is a writer, spoken word artist and illustrator of some modest renown. Influenced by the Beats, he attempts to address the needs of our human mosaic.