The metal frame lay across the pasture, its ironwork rusty red. Edward mused that it had once stood erect, envisioning a tower that would have pierced the very sky.
“To have seen such a thing!” he marvelled.
The wind howled its agreement, as it roared through the ruins of Paris.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. He doubts his sanity all the time, and sometimes it doubts him right back.
The day I headed to Jupiter was a fine spring day. I’ll never forget my euphoria of anticipation and the fine sense of adventure as the blue Earth shrank behind me, our galaxy’s most beautiful jewel, full of dreams and life.
Too bad it was gone when I came back.
Sandra Siegienski enjoys writing science fiction/fantasy and young adult fiction. Her focus ranges from novels to six-word story contests.
Three million years entering R.E.M. A dreamy rendezvous with a handsome-beaked mollusk. Wasted.
She half-awoke fully enraged. Fleshy apes. Again. Transmitting waves embedded with trains, rockets, and cream pies. Again.
She hit the snooze, propelling an asteroid toward Earth.
She hoped, vainly, to rejoin the mollusk before waking for work.
boomer trujillo knows it’s not Mondays; it’s really any day without the automated, communist utopia from Star Trek. Check out more of his stuff at boomert.info.
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.
An uncle told me TV laughter was dead people—It’s canned, he said. For years I couldn’t eat tuna, soup, or beans.
Until the bombs.
Now, canned food is all that’s left—hoarded in caves and holes. And let me tell you, no one’s laughing anymore. Not even the dead.
Daniel DiFranco lives in Philadelphia. He graduated from Arcadia University with an MFA in Creative Writing. His words can be found in Smokelong Quarterly, LitroNY, and others. Full list of pubs and miscellany can be found at danieldifranco.net
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.
The other survivors kill the animals and cut down the mango trees to build fires to cook the carcasses. No longer starving, they laugh and spit gristle, their greasy chins shining in the firelight.
In the peacock cage, I pick up a feather and put it in my lover’s hair.
Scott Ragland has an MFA in Creative Writing (fiction) from UNC-Greensboro. Before taking a writing hiatus, he had several stories published, most notably in Writers’ Forum, Beloit Fiction Journal, and The Quarterly. More recently, his work has appeared in apt, The Conium Review, NANO Fiction and Newfound Journal, among others. He lives in Carrboro, N.C., with his wife and two dogs. His three kids have left the nest.
Afterwards they rose to meteors scribing violet and crimson arcs across the sky.
“Too beautiful,” she said.
“Near the end, when the halo ice burns, we’ll see fire falls.”
Later, she whispered, “We’re still fabulous together.”
“Never better,” he agreed.
Together, they watched the night become the incandescence of extinction.
Jack Kogut is a mostly professional engineer and mostly amateur scribbler of mostly fiction.
The church bell chimed, a signal of hope.
In the streets, the dead tore apart the living. Ancestor feasted upon descendant.
As the innocent ran towards the high church tower, the sky became red. Buildings burned; mothers cried.
As folks poured in, the priest’s black eyes showed the true cause.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the apocalyptic hills of West Virginia.
We starved in the fallout shelter, awaiting winter’s end, with limited and repetitive rations.
One day, someone yelled cruel words: “Fresh-baked bread! Whipped butter! Crispy calamari! Spicy cocktail sauce! Grilled teriyaki salmon! Freshly brewed iced tea!”
When the kicks and punches started, I finally realized: the crazed person was me.
Michael Janairo’s last name is pronounced ha NIGH row. His writing is forthcoming in Star*Line Magazine and has been published in Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History, among others. He lives in upstate New York with his wife, son, and dog, and blogs at michaeljanairo.com.