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Science Fiction
Aliens (75 stories)
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Clones (16)
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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.

Recent Stories

by Gregg Chamberlain
Hey there, folks! Mad Melford here with another steal of a deal. I guarantee there's lots of good eatin' waiting here for you. Now Thanksgiving is just around the corner. And we all know what that means, right? You got it. Turducken!
Published on Oct 30, 2014
by David Gill
The rocket sat on the launch pad, pointed up and into the dark grey sky. From the bleachers, Marcus Xian watched as he prepared to make history. His clone, a young boy, was up there, asleep in that capsule, waiting like some ancient seed, waiting for an oxygen-rich environment, for damp soil and sunlight after so many years in the cold blackness of space, waiting to emerge from his steel husk and set foot on soil they could not yet know the color of. The children waited, asleep, in that tiny capsule. Waited while the world hoped that this turned out better than all our other endeavors.
Published on Oct 29, 2014
by Raven Jakubowski
There was a saying among the oracles, when there were still oracles: Every vision is a choice. Through the window I can see the great capitol of Ethrehym burning in the valley. Warriors will be here soon, and whether they are ours or theirs, I no longer think it matters. I am the only remaining oracle; this is the choice I made almost sixty long years ago.
Published on Oct 28, 2014
by Nina Kiriki Hoffman
***Editor's Note: Adult story.*** I don't know how many of us are in this head. I just got here, and I'm ready to leave.
Published on Oct 27, 2014
by H. L. Fullerton
Felix bumps into me and I drop my rock. An embarrassing sound caws from my stupid throat. Over a rock. But I can't help it. I need my rock. Mom calls it a worry stone. I have a bunch of them--different worries, different shapes. Different colors. The one Felix knocked from my grasp is gray with black spots: my Dalmatian rock. I use it to make me invisible to kids like Felix. Perhaps it worked too well. Felix kicks my rock down the hallway, sneers. Says, "Freak," and pushes past me. I chase after my treasure, wipe it clean on my jeans and tuck it in my pocket. By the time I reach English class, the rock is back in my palm, my fingers curled around its curves, my thumb rubbing soothing circles on its favorite facet. I zone out, forget about Felix, let the rock work its magic. My spell isn't a complete success. Mr. Hathaway wants to see me after class. It's about my Robert Louis Stevenson essay. "There aren't any dragons in Treasure Island." Mr. Hathaway's eyes are confused: the right one is concerned; the left suspicious.
Published on Oct 24, 2014
by Vaughan Stanger
"So, Reeves! I imagine you're surprised to see me." "I must confess that your resurrection has come as something of a shock, sir. I had thought you quite dead and buried!"
Published on Oct 23, 2014
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