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"Science Fiction" means—to us—everything found in the science fiction section of a bookstore, or at a science fiction convention, or amongst the winners of the Hugo awards given by the World Science Fiction Society. This includes the genres of science fiction (or sci-fi), fantasy, slipstream, alternative history, and even stories with lighter speculative elements. We hope you enjoy the broad range that SF has to offer.
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Hither & Yon

Alternative History


Past is prologue. There are so many spots in history where a small change would evidently create a very different outcome. Historians call them counterfactuals and extrapolate how society might have differed. Science fiction writers populate that different world with characters and tell a story. Harry Turtledove dominates this topic possibly more than any single author does any other.

by Edoardo Albert
"Ring the bells. It is dawn, and this day at least, God willing, we will endure." I watched the man scurry from the room. The bishop stared out of the window as if by sheer force of will he could force the barbarians from the walls of his city. "Write this down. Take it with you to Possidius and see that it is added to my Confessions." Augustine turned to look at me. "I want to tell how I lost my son."
Published on Oct 15, 2010
by Lou Antonelli
He hefted the handgun up and down in his palm. It felt very heavy and solid. What was it the man in the gun store said just a minute ago? "This will provide excellent self-protection." "More like self-destruction," he thought as sat behind the steering wheel. He closed his eyes and contemplated his suicide.
Published on Jun 11, 2012
by Lou Antonelli
***There is swearing in this story. -Editor's Warning*** I was poking at my drink with a swizzle stick, killing time waiting for my connecting flight. The American Airlines Admiral's Club was nearly empty. I stared at the D/FW runways and watched the flights taking off and landing. I had lost interest in the television a long time ago.
Published on May 11, 2012
by Helen E. Davis
The man, sitting at the desk, thinks he is alone. His head is bowed and his fingers touch the edge of a grainy photograph. All day he radiates youth and energy, but here he lets himself feel the pain that gnaws at his bones. Weariness shows in the slump of his shoulders, in the sag of his chin. War, pain, grief--all these things have bowed him, but never broken him. He is not the kind of man we can touch. But now we have our chance. His finger taps what looks like cigars laid upon the ground, if Cuban cigars can be twenty feet long. I taste despair. It rolls across my tongue like a fine brandy; I savor it before I speak. "I can make that go away."
Published on Nov 21, 2013
by James S. Dorr
She was one of the many, les filles les caissettes, named for the little sea chests they had been allowed for their voyage. Casquettes, as some on the river later mispronounced it, as if they had all worn little caps--although some of them did. Some of them were orphans and could afford no more, but many had come from better families, good, respectable Catholic girls. Often from convents. Just what would be needed to tame a frontier.
Published on Apr 10, 2014
by Barton Paul Levenson
29th-century Texas, like much of the rest of the world, was hot, dry, and windy. Sool, son of Menk, stood outside the National Research Arena, in dusty air that smelled of boiled cabbage, his cloak wrapped tightly around him. Three white-robed elders stood with him. The setting sun left long shadows everywhere. One elder reached out to take Sool's hands. "You agree with our aims?"
Published on Aug 27, 2014
by Brian K. Lowe
"Soames, you haven't by any chance solved those fourth-dimensional differential equations of yours, have you?" My valet's face remained impassive, but I had learned by now to read his eyes, which most would term "steady" with perhaps a touch of "stern," and they told me a sad tale of continuing futility.
Published on Mar 22, 2013
by Thomas A. Mays
Ansel Matthews poured cream into his coffee and watched as entropy curled black and white to brown. He enjoyed tracking the delicate whorls of liquid as they folded in upon one another, but he would not remember this. It was too mundane an event to retain specifics. There was far too much to remember already. And even more to forget.
Published on Jul 15, 2014
by Lon Prater
Undated journal and loose pages of manuscript found beneath the floorboards of The Daily Confederation, formerly McConnell's Printing Shop, Montgomery, Alabama, CSA, 1885.
Published on Dec 3, 2010
by Robert Reed
The mutation probably arose in the twelfth century, almost certainly in northern Italy. Several generations later, a Venetian trader married the local beauty, both most likely endowed with the copy of the young gene. Their son might have been the first human who felt the full impact of HETERO3. A tall adolescent with an inclination for romance, Marco Polo found himself embroiled in such scandal that his father and uncle had to carry him off on a journey across Asia, saving him from the revenge of various husbands and fathers. Twenty-four years later and dying of cancer, Marco returned to Venice, surviving long enough to dictate an account of his spectacular adventures. The court of the Khan and the lost lands of the Orient have fascinated generations of historians, but the unexpurgated texts are what remain famous among schoolboys: Tales of a thousand beautiful women lying down with the tall foreigner who leaves his seed in cities and villages across two continents. But Marco Polo didn't invent the modern world. Venice was the premier seaport of its day. Its sons and their genetic cargo sailed across the Mediterranean. Where other travelers would drink and brawl, these warriors sought women of every color, every faith. By the fifteenth century, one in every four Greeks was at least heterozygote for the trait. Norse and the English populations grew taller and better looking. The Spanish Variant arose in Catalonia, and it proved particularly efficacious. Columbus' voyage ended without gold or spices, but he presented five native maidens to the spellbound court and stories of their exotic beauty captured the imagination of millions.
Published on Sep 12, 2011
by Lavie Tidhar
Abraham Stoker's Journal --From the archives of the Bureau of Secret Intelligence, Pall Mall, London, Classified Ultra, for Head of Bureau Eyes Only--
Published on Jan 20, 2012
by mark budman
April 23, 1879. I just turned nine. That evening, I sat on a wooden zavalinka outside my house. Mosquitoes bit me all over, even through my pants and thick shirt. They could be vicious in East Russia, but I was too busy to pay attention.
Published on Jan 28, 2014
 
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