We live in the shadows. We watch and wait. We act to safeguard all. We have futurist capabilities. We make the tough decisions of life and death. We ensure the planet.
We are Atlantis.
We are the world’s second foundation. We are humanity’s fail-safe.
Enjoy your ignorance; hope is secured.
John Keeley is an NYCer and futurist who believes that tomorrow is ours and guaranteed.
“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.
“The buildings outside look bizarre, different. The people we pass look… odd. Whose idea was this?
“Let’s take the bus to the terminus. See where it goes!”
We’ve been driving for hours now. It’s dark outside, but there are two moons in the sky.
I just want to go home!
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. His campaign to be crowned King of the World has yet to really take off.
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.
A hundred years on, tumble-weeds race along deserted interstate highways and a gigantic crater tells of unimaginable destruction. As we land and take readings of the surroundings, we discover our home is barely habitable.
“At least it’s recovered more than the red planet.”
“We’ll start terraforming this one first, Adam.”
Connell wrote this late at night.
“Come with us,” they said. Eventually, he went with them.
The world’s media had long been alight. It’s not every day undecipherable symbols appear on the Moon.
His crime? Fishing on the river while everyone was panicking.
That, and being the only being on Earth able to read the symbols.
Chris Judd is an Englishman living in South Korea riding the ESL wave.
“Time’s up.”
“What? No! I need to go back! Please!”
“Your life savings would give you… maybe a month. Sign here.”
*Frantic scribbling.* “Yes! Take it; just get me back there now!”
The pod clicked closed. The custom Virtuatopia and life support resumed.
“Now we can afford another pod. Excellent.”
Jason was inspired by dystopian literature and the science fiction short stories of Ray Bradbury. With virtual reality at the forefront of gaming technology, Jason wonders if simulations may end up being abused. Escaping reality can be quite addictive. On a more personal note, he is looking forward to high school graduation, attending UC Riverside, and perhaps taking a creative writing course there.
Maurice buys an apartment on the moon. He calls it speculative real estate.
His friends just laugh. But, Maurice, no one goes to the moon anymore, they say. No one even wants to.
That’s all right, says Maurice, gazing up through the cloud-laden sky. At least I know it’s there.
Sometimes, Cathy Ulrich would like to live on the moon, but only when she’s feeling really antisocial. Her humor writing can be found at hollywoodhatesme.wordpress.com.
On my first day as a pest control technician, I met Dr. Krankenblatz. He came to the door in a lab coat, brandishing a raygun-like contraption.
He pointed to my sprayer. “It doesn’t detect tachyons, does it?”
“No, sir.”
“Oh,” he sighed. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to work out…”
Rollin T. Gentry lives in Birmingham, Alabama. A software engineer by day, he can be found reading and writing speculative fiction during much of his spare time. Several of his stories have appeared in other publications. Read more from him at rollintgentry.com.
“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.