The Robotic Revolution was celebrated by some.
I received six rejection notifications today. My feet pounded the pavement from door to door in search of work. The stipend I receive feeds my family, but not much else.
Everywhere I’m met with the same message. “Now Hiring: Humans Need Not Apply.”
Anthony works with numbers by day and words by night. Happily married in the heart of Kentucky.
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.
I have been reading all of those stories about some strange creatures invading the Earth from another planet. One politician even says that there is a space war starting.
Don’t believe any of those lies. We are only visiting. We are staying for a long time because we like you.
Usually, Fillip writes in the fields of international politics and economics under a different name. These flash stories are creations in the shower when he can remember ten minutes later what he has composed.
A body on the floor, warm blood drip, drip, dripping onto the carpet.
He has my face. My beautiful young face.
I was going to set things right. That’s what the time machine was for. But he wouldn’t listen and I got angry.
I always was my own worst enemy.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland where, in between the odd piece of writing, he plots the downfall of humanity on behalf of his Martian overlords.
Engineers created robots that wrote music based on brainwaves.
We wanted to hear thoughts of wonder, imagining a new wave of ‘sub-conscious’ brain-raves.
Exhilaration turned to panic as a deeply buried sorrow filled our ears. A dying world screamed within our minds, and we had turned the volume up loud.
Alex Massey is a writer and the editor of Story Seed Vault
. They can be found hiding behind decorative foliage at parties or on Twitter
His name was called at fourteen-hundred hours Zulu Time. Winners (losers) of this lottery went up to surface level.
No contact in 31 days. Rations running dangerously low.
Necessary for the continuation of government. Shaking his hand and smiling. This burlesque head of state before him never made the shortlist.
Kevin Doalty Brophy is twenty-three years old and has just graduated from Economics, Politics and International Relations at University College Dublin. He will be commencing a Masters in Common Law in University College Dublin in September.
When the radiation cleared, they were ready.
When they ventured, blinking, out onto the surface, they were overwhelmed, but they were ready.
When they followed the maps, found the seed vault intact, they were ready.
When a fat mouse ran across the littered cement floor – no one was ready.
Sarah Krenicki likes writing short fiction about large things.
“Is the temperature of your experimental tank okay?” the alien inquires.
“It’s fine,” I reply, words bubbling up through the strange pink liquid.
“Want to watch Twilight Zone re-runs while we test?”
“Have to ask,” he explains. “New regulations.”
I sigh, remembering that I work tomorrow.
“Just probe already.”
A sci-fi micro story written by Hargreaves called “Maybe Next Time” is forthcoming in Daily Science Fiction
The centurion realized they were doomed
surrounded by barbarian hordes
Not his choice, being sent to Germania
To die on foreign soil, in this supposed adventure
For the Glory of Rome and Gaius Cornelius Tacitus
He marked the time on his Rolex
The professor was wrong
Time travel… really sucked
Paul Hock wrote this story.
Being alone was the least of his worries. Looking out at the void, the emptiness was hypnotic, enticing him outside.
His crew was sadly gone and two years remained until his arrival. “But who will need rescuing by then?” he thought.
He switched the ship to autopilot just in case.