Posts Tagged ‘SF’

by R.W.W. Greene

A lot of people cheered when our space plane docked with the Sam Walton but I wasn’t in the mood. The ride up was terrible. First I felt squashed, then I felt like I was falling, then I just wanted to puke. The flight attendant had handed out anti-nausea gum before we took off, but people were throwing up all around me. A couple of rows back, someone missed the barf bag and vomit bubbles floated by my head. The attendant captured it with a net. Gross.

Issue 19 (Mar 2012)
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by Nick Wood

We are amongst the last of the last, the ‘do-not-dies’ as the dead now call us. They follow us, the dead do, whispering and pulling at our ears and hair. The other two don’t notice, although they do see and comment on the occasional cock of my head, as I listen without comprehension to dry and meaningless whispers from shadowy lips, the occasional repetition of that one phrase, all I can make out - ‘do-not-dies…’

Issue 18 (Feb 2012)
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by Thomas Carl Sweterlitsch

Ashen drizzle. Black sky. Christ, thought McKinley - nothing like the fucking rain. It collected in muddy drifts. It pooled at the curbs. Already the streets were slicked with wet soot. McKinley lifted his boot from the accelerator and hit the emergency flashers. The bald tires of his Ford Focus fishtailed. It was bad enough on clear days when the ash was like fucking snow, but when it rained everything just turned greasy.

Issue 18 (Feb 2012)
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by Cat Hellisen

We must be close to New Londinium by now. The jungle is thinning and this little clearing is as good a place as any to stop and rest. My current employer sits hunched on a fallen log thick with fungi and bottle-green creeping vines. She holds her hands against her face, palms over her eyes. Her hair has turned black as feathers.

From Issue 17 (Jan 2012)
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by K.A. Dean

The Third City drifted slowly across cresting water - a blue-green sheet of rippling shades, sunlight dancing - moving against the wind. A floating island of glass and gold and silver, frozen towers like ice, basking. Behind, left by the motion of the massive propellers beneath water's surface, a faint trail of froth.

From Issue 17 (Dec 2011)
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