Posts Tagged ‘SF’
by William Mitchell
I liked to call it my "dirty little secret". Not that "little" was the word, of course. Understatement had always been a vice of mine; now, however, I had another. For when the captain of an opium clipper is slowly killing himself with his own cargo, it's something he can be excused for wanting to keep hidden. Could you call it a weakness? Some might. Could I have stopped? Maybe, if I’d wanted to go mad in the process. For if you'd ever experienced the kind of pain that makes you think you'd rather die than carry on living, then perhaps you'd understand why I did it. |
From Issue 14 (Oct 2011) |
  |
by A.A. Garrison
They left in the gray of morning, Penning and his only son, Willam. By carriage, the city was a half day's journey. The treasons were at high noon. The two mounted the carriage's uncushioned bench and Penning started the horses, the chinked, tumbledown house drifting past. Willam followed it with his head, Henri on the porch and waving. Willam called out, "Bye, Mama!" and waved back. The humble property was soon out of sight. It was Willam's ninth birthday. |
From Issue 14 (Oct 2011) |
|
by Damien Filer
“What is this pain down in my seed?” Herman was prone to wonder, of a day. He would fidget and shift, so restless there at the dinner table, grease beading up on his big ole forehead under the shine of the fluorescent light. |
From Issue 13 (Sept 2011) |
|
by Paul Marlowe
“May cause disorientation and transient emotional anomalies… do not use in combination with other nanopharmaceuticals… consult a physician before use…. Harmless, was that what she called this stuff?” McHaffey sighed and tilted back his head. He hated putting things into his eyes, but there didn’t seem to be any choice. |
 From Issue 11 (July
2011) |
|
by Abi Godsell
The doctor is small and grey-haired. He talks rapidly and jumps between subjects. It's hard to believe that this abrupt little man headed up the team that implanted the world's most advanced artificial intelligence into the body of a brain-dead teenager. My editor is going to have a field day. "It worked out well though. Her parents had given up, they were looking for a reason to pull the plug. Donating the body to science must have seemed easier.". |
From Issue 11 (July 2011) |
|
Posted in Fiction, Podcasts | 
Tags: Abi Godsell, Fiction, Issue 11, Joe Vaz, Mark Sykes, SF, Vincent Sammy | 
2 Comments »
By Peter Simon
The boys looked up. To eight-year-old Jamie, the two black bins looked like an exciting spaceship. Papered with blue crescent moons and glittery stars, the bin-rocket stood garishly in the corner of a field. Fiery-red tinsel underneath represented the rocket exhaust. Dan, at eleven, saw it as a pathetically childish contraption. But he just sighed and went along with the whole charade. “I’m getting in the top bin!” demanded Jamie. With a roll of the eyes, Dan acquiesced and clambered in the lower bin, using the makeshift “door” to shut himself in.. |
|
by Paula R Stiles
Jarred tapped the steering wheel in time to the drumbeat, as his black Ford Mustang cruised down the desert road, blaring heavy metal. Dust trailed him, clouding the view in his mirror. The song’s rhythm wasn’t doing much to cut his boredom. It wasn’t a particularly good one. It was however, the only track on the CD, given to him by a friend who’d told him he needed some decent road music. Sometimes he really hated Tristan’s sense of humour. His eyes scanned the horizon, running over the border between desert and sky blankly until they alit on something curious. It grew as he drove nearer, slowly morphing from a curious, small, black speck into an even more curious, tall, black girl. |
|
Posted in Fiction | Tags: Fiction, Horror, Paula R Stiles, Pierre Smit, SF, SW Issue 10 | Comments Closed
By Brett Venter
She lay dreaming, drifting on an ever-shifting ocean of information. Everything that ever was and ever would be was hers to examine and elevate or deride as she saw fit. Nothing could escape her grasp, even in slumber. Microseconds were as eternity in the formless world wherein she ruled without permission. Existing as she did in a mental realm, she watched, always watched. She learned. &arial was the Virgin Mary, Jezebel, the whore riding to Armageddon on the back of the nine-headed beast. She was limited only by the minds of those who worshipped, believed. She was the Alpha and Omega of the wire, the goddess whose favour was all. |
|
Posted in Fiction | Tags: Brett Venter, Fiction, Horror, Pierre Smit, SF, SW Issue 10 | Comments Closed