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Not just rockets & robots...
What is Science Fiction?
"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

SF/Fantasy


There is some fiction that incorporates aspects of fantasy and science fiction but doesn't have that indescribable flavor that would make it clearly slipstream. China Mieville and his work spring to mind. Wizards on space ships, robots riding magic carpets, AIs on a quest to find unicorns? Could all be candidates to appear here.

by Milena Benini
***Editor's Note: Adult language and situations.*** Marrakech Express hurdles its great bulk through stringspace. There is no speed in stringspace, but hopping as it does from one planet to the next and trading for a day or two at each, Marrakech Express could be called slow.
Published on Sep 27, 2013
by G. O. Clark
On this day in February 2020, first contact was made with an alien kind. More specifically, a Volkswagen bug-sized flying saucer landed on a Little League baseball diamond, and Cupid stepped out; buck naked, pink bow and arrow clutched in his pudgy little hands; wearing an impish smile upon his pudgy pink face. His robot co-pilot, Obay, stayed inside the saucer, instructed to monitor the encounter with the humans and keep a channel open to the home world.
Published on Feb 13, 2014
by Michelle M. Denham
The silver doll sat quietly at the corner of 9th and Park, in front of the Ace Hardware. Jack Lattimer did not want to stop. In fact, Jack Lattimer saw the silver doll, looked away, and drove right past. If he could unsee the doll, he would. But he couldn't, and so he spent all day thinking half-finished thoughts he wouldn't allow himself to complete.
Published on Jul 31, 2013
by Shane Halbach
Hades sat in his office, high atop his dark tower. He put the finishing touches on his black painted fingernails and held his hand up to the light to inspect his work. Perfect. The shade of black exactly matched his hair, his eyes, and his coordinating shirt and pants. Only his pale white skin contrasted the darkness of his appearance. He was just about to complete the look with some dark eye shadow, when he heard a knock. Hades looked up quickly. No one ever dared to disturb him in his tower. "Enter!" he commanded, and the door swung open.
Published on Jan 7, 2013
by Amanda M. Hayes
They went down to Mercury protected by technology in appearance and magic in fact. Truthfully, it taxed his strength to keep the temperature around them to levels the tech could handle, but Dain had a wry hunch they'd rather not know. Under lamplight the southern ice glittered, unbelievable, wonderful.
Published on Sep 15, 2010
by K.G. Jewell
22 September 1917 Dearest Janet--
Published on Jul 1, 2011
by Andrew Kaye
Doctor Longtooth tapped at the x-ray images with a single gold-sheathed talon. A troubled series of clicks rattled at the back of his throat. Smoke dribbled from the corners of his mouth. "I am sorry, Mr. Callahan," his voice rumbled. "It is at stage four. And the tissue is dying." My father stared at the images. What should have been the black shadows of his lungs were instead a foggy white reminiscent of frosted glass. "That's it then," he said, taking my hand and squeezing. "It's over. It was a good life while it lasted."
Published on May 7, 2013
by Alexander Lumans
Skull: When your last breath issues out, it will be with thanks. Thanks that you are not bedridden with combat injuries or nerve damage. Thanks that you are not interrogated at dagger-point over the whereabouts of your world's supply of silicon and chromium. But before this last breath, it's difficult to ignore two things: the overhead concussions of Ratshot jets breaking the sound barrier and the loud ticking of a strange rain--the enemy's clusterweapon. Odd polymer beads as big as soap bubbles slowly descend out of the sky. You could still be up there, dogfighting the invasion, bombing their coiltrains, living out your dreams--the ones The Wheel of Fortune predicted long ago, that day the three of you (your mother, you on her lap, and the fortuneteller) watched its eight symbols spin around and around. But you went AWOL. You wanted to be content with what you'd already done, not with what you were promised to do. Today, washing a plate, looking out the window, your heart full up like a cup of warm blood, you thank the evening for its devastating view of the American Southwest. "Everything is connected," you would like to go back and tell your younger self, because everything is the same." Across the sunset the winds whip iridescently because of what's falling through the air.
Published on May 28, 2013
by Melissa Mead
When my television died I grieved. It had been a faithful little TV, bringing life to the house for many years with its bright pictures and chatter. I'm something of a Luddite ordinarily, preferring non-interactive appliances, but TVs are special. It's been that way ever since my mother's old black-and-white met me at the door when I got home from school, proudly showing my favorite cartoon. The house felt empty with my television gone, and the neighbors began dropping hints. Wasn't I lonely in that silent house? I needed companionship, and so many televisions needed good homes....
Published on Jan 10, 2012
by Christopher Owen
Published on Jun 13, 2011
by Gary B. Phillips
There was a hole in the fabric of your favorite dress and the light seemed to bend around it. Light always favored you, softening or illuminating to give you an ethereal beauty at all times. I didn't say anything to you about the hole. I knew how angry you would be. I knew what could happen if your anger got the best of you, but I didn't fear it. I wanted to keep you safe.
Published on Apr 25, 2013
by George Potter
It was a gift, they said, that let her see the quiet, sun-drenched field as a rolling, primal sea. An artistic worldview that heralded great things and a bright future. The wild green grass and sudden bursts of flowers became breaking waves and tiny coral islands. She was only seven when they noticed her strangeness. Charming at first, delightful almost. As she aged, it became mundane, then tiresome, and finally disturbing. It began young, that separation from the normal children.
Published on Dec 19, 2011
by Alex Shvartsman
Bob shuffled into his editor's office with all the confidence of a cat venturing into a kennel. "Peter," he nodded.
Published on Sep 23, 2013
by Jeff Stehman
Her first customers of the day were teenagers, a brother and sister. Too young to remember the one they sought. Dolores kept the curtains drawn in her little shop, not for atmosphere, but for the privacy of her customers. From these two, however, she expected no tears, no weeping. They were here on a lark. Their chairs close together for courage, they fidgeted and shared frequent smirks and giggles. Probably ditched their parents in another part of the memorial village.
Published on May 13, 2013
by Eric M. Witchey
"Go ahead," his father said. "Stand up." Vince was a Vanderpender ninth-grader, and he'd seen flat-bottomed punts in his art history courses. Not that he liked art history. He was a math boy, but he'd seen pictures of men fishing from boats like his dad's. They'd started rowing before sunrise. Now, they floated on glassy water in a back bay of Oleanta Lake in the rolling hill country near the Ohio river. Wisps of steam rose off the water, and a bird somewhere made a really spooky cry. At least his father told him it was a bird. A loon, he'd said. Vince wasn't sure if the name was a joke or not. The cry sounded crazy, and he supposed someone might have named a bird that made that sound the loon.
Published on Jun 13, 2014
by Michal Wojcik
Roses don't grow around New London any more. Cast-off trolleys, engines, scrap metal, and rusted airship frames press up against the city's edge, not trees. The Fraser River resembles a tongue of burnt milk licking the Pacific Ocean. This is the realm of the scrap-runners, tripping through iron mounds to scavenge what they can for resale to the factories. If anything else could grow here, it gave up a long time ago. That didn't stop people from talking about roses.
Published on May 16, 2014
 
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