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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.

Recent Stories

by Kris Dikeman
I reach for a package of chocolate chip cookies. "Partially hydrogenated oils," the cookies say. "Palm oil, even. Be quicker if you just stabbed yourself in the heart. Also, we've been sitting here for... gotta be eight months."
Published on May 4, 2015
by Jun Yi
They refused to delete Amy's account.
Published on May 1, 2015
by Jeff Xilon
Upon command, the squad members inject the H and begin the final check of helmets, armor, ammo, guns, grenades, knives--not once, but twice, three times, again, and again--waiting for the H to kick in ...I think it's... so they can storm and swarm yes, we're coming on-line the bunker-cave-fortress as one writhing, flailing, shooting lock and load, we're going in, cutting, chopping, tearing mass of warrior drones we smell them because the H subsumes the human and connects soldier to soldier with a cocktail of virus and microbe devolving them evolving us to the level of ant soldier swarms and they we strike shoot, tear, cut, kill as one multi-body human-hydra of death and I we am are here to observe shoot, tear, cut, kill and they we are baptized in their our unholy bond with blood, and bile, and worse and as we yes are slowing down our frenzy for we are victorious and they are dead, dead, dead I wonder try not to think about... how any of us ...how do I... carry the guilt and responsibility of an ant-swarm-like human-hydra when the H is gone and we are I am staring at our my ceiling...alone.
Published on Apr 30, 2015
by Sarina Dorie
So you're the new model, an HV320. May I call you HV? The humans call me Robo-butler 5000, but my friends call me Rob. I was watching you with your suction control and motorized brush working the floor earlier. I saw you coax that cat hair out of the shag carpet like a natural. With all your state-of-the-art settings and my deluxe features, we'd make a cute couple. No, I'm not just saying that. I want to get down with you, girl.
Published on Apr 29, 2015
by James Luther Reinebold
The cubicle witch lives on the thirteenth floor of my office building deep within the accounting section. I think she may have been an accountant once, but those days are long behind her. Her 10x10 gray-carpeted workspace is filled with owl beaks, bat ears, dodo eggs, and mermaid tears. Instead of a computer she has a cauldron filled with bubbling green liquid that smells like expired miso soup but supposedly tastes like Sprite. She trades spells, good luck charms, and hexes for things you might not want to give.
Published on Apr 28, 2015
by Alex Shvartsman
Samuel Kanu took off his respirator and allowed himself a few moments to enjoy deep breaths of the clean, air-conditioned air of the lobby. He used a handkerchief to brush the yellowish fog droplets out of his hair, and looked outside through the glass door. The fog was so thick that he couldn't see his car at the curb. With the industrial complex of the entire planet dedicated to the war effort, no one bothered to be green anymore. This meeting was crucial, so Kanu braved the traffic and the polluted air of the Capitol. Both seemed to be getting worse every time, and he counted his blessings for not having to make such trips frequently.
Published on Apr 27, 2015
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