Sci Fi

The Arrivals
They found the first one in the backseat of a yellow taxicab in New York city. The driver was interviewed by Ellen and Oprah – 15 minutes of fame as they replayed the viral video again and again. He leant back in their deep couches, his silk shirt open at the neck, black hair sprouting over the top like a 70’s porn star. He threw his arms around wildly as he performed for their cameras – feigned surprise at the baby appearing where a moment before there had been none. The audience laughed, lapping it up. Critics accused him of trickery – was it staged? A CGI effect, perhaps, or an accomplice off-screen? His interviews added nothing to the story – the simple fact was, he didn’t know. Nobody did.
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Fiction
NothingGold.Exe
She didn't mean it. When Mommy said I wasn't real. I sniff, wiping tears from my eyes as I struggle in the small space to which she had confined me. I grip the gold locket which contained the picture of me and Mommy. In the photo, Mommy crouches beside me, her arm looped lovingly around my neck. I can remember the way the dock creaked beneath my flip-flops. The way the leaves had turned to gold on the other side of the sparkling lake.
By Brian del Rio5 years ago in Fiction
A Tap on the Wall
“Where’s Mom?” Charlotte asked her father. “Is she ever coming back?" “I don’t know, sweetheart,” Oliver lied to his young daughter. “But we have to keep moving. Grab your brother’s hand, let’s go!”
By Justin Bellman5 years ago in Fiction
The Mistakes He Made
Watching the wind rustle the hair of the dead is often unsettling. I walked by a killed raccoon just the other day, and the breeze slithered through the animal’s fur. It looked as if it was taking a shallow breath. I wondered why the image disturbed me, and I thought, Maybe because we know dead things are not supposed to move. It is almost like the wind is playing a cruel joke, tricking me into thinking that life still courses through those veins. Or perhaps I misjudge the wind. Maybe it is desperately trying to revive the dead. Give it up, then, what is dead will not come back no matter how hard you will it. Poor wind, I would guess that it gets lonely. Its’ air is the substance upon which we live, what failure it must feel when it can no longer fill our lungs.
By Samantha Crites5 years ago in Fiction
The Chain
“Do you think there was more, before?” The chug of the factory floor is a steady thrum in the background. “Before what?”
By Amber Murray5 years ago in Fiction
My Last Days
ENTRY #1 If you’re reading this, there’s a good chance I’m dead, or maybe just gone. I wish I could tell you what I mean by “gone”, but I have no idea what happens to the ones who disappear. I found this empty notebook at the last house I visited, so I’ve decided to start keeping a log, or a diary of sorts, in the hope that if someone finds it, they’ll have an idea what’s happened. Not that I even know what happened, but I’ll do my best to explain.
By Kevin McMechan5 years ago in Fiction
The Baby Bureau
Dea and Mort headed over to the Baby Bureau. They’d just finished their bio tests, plus they’d had their application installed in their frontal lobes to monitor their mental suitability for Bonding Officer training. Now for the final hurdle. Interview time!
By SARAH STEWART5 years ago in Fiction
Trituration
Trituration Sometimes it's the first moment of the day that catches you off guard. I opened my window to see fire engines and police cars burn rubber as they rushed down the street. While this wasn't something completely unheard of, since the city had a large crime rate, it also wasn't completely normal. I could feel it in my bones that it was a sure sign something unusual would happen and it was the way I wanted the day to begin.
By K8W5 years ago in Fiction
Vision of Angels
A storm rolls in and rages in a purple-pink hue. Thunder crashes on the ground and trembles the nearby houses into a panic. As the clouds get closer to the ground, I think that this will be it my first tornado, too bad it's going to be on my house. As the swirling vortex of an ashen nimbus get closer to my door, it makes contact with the placemat in front of my door to clear up and reveal a blue eyed, blond hair, chubby baby. I blink once, then twice, then open the door to see the baby extend their arms towards me. I grab its' chunky arms and feel the cool touch of skin. As it starts clinging to my calves, I push it aside and cling closer to my doorway. I don't trust it. I see the baby look in surprise at my haste to run from it. Then with an unbothered look, he turns and wobbles away. As my vision enlarges, I notice that every house is going through the same wonderment that is encountering me. There is an exodus of hundreds of these ethereal babies, in all the shades of the world, with different fabrics of color representing the cultures of the world. They seem to be heading over a small hill in the distance. As I watch in awe, I begin to fear if this is a test. My vision that I had last week came true and I took it lightly. Was I suppose to keep him? He seemed happy to stay but also was indifferent after I rejected him to stay.
By JIN5 years ago in Fiction
The World That No Longer Glitters
The last ship went out last night. The world is quiet in the pre-dawn hours, and I long for just a few more moments to steep in dreams while I lay in the cot I’ve been provided.
By Jillian Spiridon5 years ago in Fiction
The Quantum Foam Makes Me Roam
The heart-shaped locket dangled lazily from his left hand, sunlight glinting off it’s smooth surface as it twisted back and forth. Where am I? Who am I? Questions flew through his mind as he focused on the spinning locket. Slowly, he began to be aware of his surroundings. Feet, planted firmly on the ground. Describe your environment, he admonished himself. You know the drill. One question at a time. Where Am I? I am in a room. The room has cheap linoleum flooring. The walls are baby-shit green. I’m seated in a high-backed wooden chair. A name floated through his mind...Jackson. He understood without knowing that this was his name. And then, everything hit him all at once. Fuck. How many jumps had this been? What was the date? That was the most critical piece of information he needed as he tore the room apart looking for something, anything that would answer this. Had the math been right this time? Was his goal finally accomplished? Could he rest? The date on the newspaper he finally found told him that at least he had gotten the date right this time. Tennyson had said it best, “...once more into the breach, dear friends.”
By Jack Richey5 years ago in Fiction
Ada's Last Day
There was a strange vibe in the building that morning when she walked in. Threading her way through the symmetrical cubicles, she noticed a tension in the air as she headed towards the elevator.
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Fiction