Science Fiction
Not just comic book superheros live here. But when they do, it's amazing what can be accomplished with superhero legends in the hands of a capable writer.
The cars might as well have been parked. Sixty miles an hour is just not that fast anymore. I ran between the rows, head down, arms pumping. It doesn't propel me much faster, relatively speaking--like running on board a jet plane--but it's necessary. Everything is necessary, if it increases my efficiency by even the slightest margin.
I slowed as I neared the crash site. It's hard to see in the blue-lit twilight that comes when I push myself to my limits; I didn't want to bump anything. Might cause more damage than I prevent, at this speed.
The old man set the bottle in its stand, leaned back into his pillows, and sighed.
"Perfect. I've still got my touch."
Clay felt his blissful night sputter and die in the morning reality of public transportation. "No, really--I don't take the bus."
Her jaw dropped open--but she kept the morning-after smile fastened to her face. "I thought you were joking. How else are we going to get there?"
We were sitting across from each other on the subway car. I wouldn't have been looking at her--there, I mean--except it was the first thing I noticed. Sometimes your body reacts in a certain way, whether you want it to or not, or even before you know you're doing it. Face, chest, face. Sometimes I hate myself for being so hormonally driven. Which doesn't stop me from being that way.
Once I'd seen, it was too late. I mean, I couldn't stop looking, wondering if it was real. I studied her face. I knew it was her. The stripes, those colors, that metal-studded bra strap--all peeking out from beneath the collar of her cotton sundress. And I knew it had to be real. I mean, the rest of it could be fake or a joke or themed underwear (themed underwear?). But a metal bra strap? It had to be her.
Destiny drove him forward like a taskmaster from the bus, up the grand entranceway into the ballroom at the Civic Centre, past the sign-in table where he received his laminates and loot bag, onward to his publisher's booth in a back corner. There it was: the fabled anthology, bright with colour but creepy enough to grab his attention. He picked up a copy to examine it closely, saw his name on the cover, third from the top, felt a surge of satisfaction. His first sale as an author.
"Do you like science fiction?"
"Ladies and gentlemen, although all of the participants are consenting adults, the final act of the evening is illegal under United States law," said the announcer. "Fortunately, our ship has passed the twelve-mile limit, so we are in international waters."
Guillermo turned his attention from his frozen strawberry margarita to the stage as the ceremonial drums ushered in the feather-clad dancers. At the center of their multicolored whirling, the black-masked priest stood behind the altar. The drums grew louder, slower, and the dancers parted to allow a young man to walk step by step to the altar. Face painted crimson, he was stripped to the waist. Sweat glittered on his chest.
The hero roars up on his Harley, and deploys a grin that could melt an ice cave. "Hey hon, what's new?"
I can tell you firsthand that it's impossible to hate a hero. It's also difficult to date one, unless you enjoy dangling from cliffs, being chased by henchmen through a burning building, or struggling winsomely against chains that bind you to the tracks. Otherwise, you'll never get his full attention. He's too busy running out the front door, still chewing half a mouthful of the full-grain pasta lasagna that you baked, because there's an earthquake or someone's cat is stranded up a tree.
Superhero
Not just comic book superheros live here. But when they do, it's amazing what can be accomplished with superhero legends in the hands of a capable writer.
by Ciro Faienza
William had to wiki the word "psi-phy". The explanation — ". . . pop-cultural slang for the various disciplines of psioneurology, neurophysics, and quantum neuroscience," and further, ". . . where some have noted the hyphenation illustrates the dichotomy of the competing approaches to the study of psi phenomenon," — sent him on an endlessly nesting hyperlink tangent before he finally gave up and tabbed back to the blog entry that had prompted the search in the first place.
. . . but it's time for a small confession — I don't subscribe to this sustained vogue for Theories of Everything. And I know, you think, another iconoclasm from your favorite blogging contrarian (am I your favorite? Is this all just a quest for approval?) Honestly, I'm just going with my gut. I'm sick of reading about the rise and fall of the various avenues of discovery — string theory, information theory, variable speed of light, ad infinitum. I remember when holographic theory was one step away from quackery, before the "new" and "revised" monikers.
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