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.
I picked my son up.
As I drove home, I peered at him. He looked like my son but he smelled different, talked different, and his smile was so wrong.
As we sat at traffic lights, I received a text: Dad, where are you?
That was how the world ended.
Steve Coverdale is an Englishman living in Nova Scotia. He keeps trying to write short stories with a happy ending but keeps on getting dragged back to the dark side.
Brad thought he might find tools or supplies in the old mine shaft. The last thing he expects is a cave in. Brad knows there are other exits miles away. After two long days Brad finds daylight.
Now if only he could get his ship fixed and get off Mars.
Denny E, Marshall had had art, poetry, and fiction published, including fiction in Black Petals #73, October 2015. See more at dennymarshall.com.
The moon had been eaten again.
People glanced through the bullet-proof glass of their homes in the stratosphere, realised the time of the month. None of them worried.
The creature would regurgitate it again soon, bit by bit, its surface shining with saliva.
Perhaps one day it would admit defeat.
William Shaw is a student, blogger, and amateur journalist. He is slightly obsessed with the moon. You can find him on Tumblr, where he writes haiku poetry about Doctor Who.
The searing heat drove them inside to rest. Scavenging could wait until nightfall.
“Gran,” Caleb said, “tell me a story.”
She licked her dry lips, remembering other Octobers. “Leaves turned bright colors and fell from trees. We raked huge piles and jumped in.”
Caleb frowned. “Leaves? Trees? What are those?”
Joanne R. Fritz lives in West Chester, PA. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in various magazines. She blogs at My Brain on Books.