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Not just rockets & robots...
"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.

Hither & Yon

Alternate 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 Philip Apps
"So, what are you reading these days?" he asked, as we sat down for lunch under the portrait of Henry XVIII. It was an easy question, but I paused a little to think. It was always best to think when you were meeting with Guillermo Smith-Rodriguez--head of the department and my jefe's jefe, so I chewed my bite of cod burrito just a little longer than usual.
Published on Nov 26, 2019
by Robert Bagnall
Stop. I know you think this is a fiction.
Published on Aug 1, 2017
by Philip A Berry
Beynon, a little known Near Space historian, found himself thinking about Winston Churchill as he transferred into Jovian orbit. Churchill, ignoring his advisers, had flown 18 hours from a meeting with the U.S. president in Bermuda back to England during the height of the Second World War. Miraculously he evaded detection by the Luftwaffe.
Published on May 24, 2016
by Zachary Morgan Brett
Gaius Scatulus stood with the rest of his legion. The Roman soldiers waited calmly for the enemy to make himself known. This man, Pyrrhus, had come to take their homes, their freedoms, the very city of Rome from them. He had come to make himself their king. Gaius was not a senator, nor were the men around him. They were not knights, and theirs was not the noble blood of the patricians. They were common men. In any other army these men would have been little more than blunt instruments to be sent charging into the spears of the enemy. In the Roman army they were something more. Common men they may be, but they were free in common with all the senators, knights, and patricians. Every man there had shed blood for the Republic, or had ancestors who had done the same.
Published on Dec 12, 2017
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 ŕ 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 Yorgo Lee Douramacos
********Editor's Note: Adult language********* A dosckside bar in Liverpool, 1970-something. A steel worker named Osbourne has come from Birmingham looking for work and steps in for a pint. He sits next to a soused dock hand by name of Lennon. No words are shared but they do stop to hurl abuse at the performer on stage peddling clever pop tunes that lilt and sway but have no punch. "Fuckin' McCartney..." Lennon says. Osbourne piles on, but he secretly loves the twee little ditties the bearded troubadour on stage is playing. He and Lennon dicker between hostility and sullen camaraderie. A half full glass is thrown and McCartney leaves by the back door. Osbourne hums one of the tunes to himself as he gets up to leave. He walks past two unseen forms hovering near the door. The angel smiles at Little Richard and says, "This is what would've happened if you'd never been born."
Published on Sep 15, 2021
by Matt Dovey
42nd of Autumn, 16th year of Annabelle II Regarding yr/ article of 37th of Autumn, and the ongoing judicial case around consent and "press-ganging":
Published on Jun 1, 2017
by Lynne Lumsden Green
By the time of his inauguration in 1789, thanks to the curse of cherry tree kraneiai, George Washington had only one tooth left in his mouth. When he had chopped at the tree as a child, the resident fairy laid a spell on him that everything of the cherry would act against him. He loved cherry pie and cherry tarts. They rotted his teeth faster than an acid bath.
Published on Apr 2, 2020
by Clayton Hackett
The child was alone, sent by parents desperate to save their son before tragedy struck. Wrapped in cloth, placed not in a basket in a river, but in an escape vessel large enough for only one. A refugee from an impending crisis that inevitably would lead to the destruction of the child's home. Desperate parents launched him from their planet, knowing they would never see him again, but with a hope that he could survive the cold vacuum of space and land somewhere safe. Did they know they were setting him on a path to the land of the free? You think you've heard this story before. It used to be, we liked the idea of the small-town farmer in middle America with the Very Rural English last name rescuing the orphaned child, raising it as their own. The child was taught values and morals, and grew up to save the planet over and over again (by most accounts), the greatest benefit to humanity, to the world.
Published on Nov 11, 2019
by Michael Haynes
Miranda waddled into our cabin, something green and many-limbed squirming in her arms. "Dammit, Randy!" I grabbed my sidearm. "What have I told you about bringing critters into the house?"
Published on May 20, 2016
by Larry Hodges
• Harry Truman: We Dropped the Bomb, by Nathaniel P. Perkins, 1953.

• I Like Ike: We Lead in War and Peace, by L. Christian Berrios, 1961.
Published on Jun 9, 2022
by Rebecca Ann Hodgkins
"You weren't there, you don't understand!" My wife screams at me from the bed. Her forehead is a war torn map of trenches when her brow furrows. "You don't know what it was like to run, to hide. The German checkpoints. Vous ne savez pas! Ils Ă©taient des monstres! You don't know!" I don't. All I know is, my wife is thirty-seven years old. She took Spanish in high school. She's never to my knowledge spoken a word of French until the past few days. She's never lived or traveled outside the U.S.
Published on Feb 26, 2019
by John Francis Keane
"Let us go to the place," said Nardoo excitedly. "It is time for us to live forever." The tribe were well-daubed, clad in their finest furs and bearing their best weapons. This day was important to them above all others, the third day after the salmon spawned. They trooped out of the camp, leaving their children in the care of old Sundoo. Children could not stay still long enough to live forever; but someday their time would come.
Published on Aug 20, 2018
by Michael Allen Lane
Jovak leaned back in his chair. The coding changes were complete, the beta testing had detected no faults, and with this one last keystroke, implementation would begin. It was a drastic change to the software but it would prove the versatility of the test subjects. He stretched his twenty-four arms, wiggling the twelve fingers on each and pressed the button. Sehsurak noticed and walked over. "You look happy. You implemented the new changes?" Sehsurak was the coding group's senior reality design engineer.
Published on Sep 10, 2018
by Matt Larsen
"Let's ask Tim about Hitler," I said, binding a corner of the Autobot potholder for my nephew's ninth birthday. "If you're done staring at your phone, Tim." Tim looked up, blinking. "Godwin's Law?"
Published on Sep 26, 2016
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 Xavier Lastra Martinez
"Butterfly affect, my ass!" Announced Mark, one hand clutched to his wobbly beer jug, the other to the table for balance. "Effect," I corrected.
Published on Apr 2, 2019
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 K.S. O'Neill
Submitted material: Movie Review The Post (2018)
Published on Nov 29, 2018
by Kat Otis
President Abraham Lincoln stopped breathing entirely and the assembled doctors all consulted our pocket watches; it was 6:50 A.M. After several moments, the terrible silence was broken by a prolonged inspiration and a sonorous expiration. He still lived, but not for long. I rose from my chair at the President's bedside, yielding my place to his son, and exited the bedroom to inform Mrs. Lincoln. Her weeping had been so distracting that Secretary Stanton banished her to the front parlor. Not that our ability to concentrate made any difference in the prognosis. Everyone knew it was impossible to recover from such a mortal wound.
Published on Jan 26, 2016
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 Luc Reid
So it turns out these people don't even have paper, they just write on sheep hides or something, so I have to write this amazing historical account on these pepper wrappers. This grad student named Eleanor had me get the pepper. I was going to bring beads and hand mirrors and things, but she said people paid through the nose for pepper, so I bought some at Costco. She was right! It's incredible how much money I'm making. Plan's going amazingly.
Published on Apr 25, 2017
by Jessie Seigel
In our country, when a boy reaches the age of puberty, he is blindfolded so that he will not be tempted by the sight of women. This law is neither unreasonable nor unduly onerous. Boys and men are permitted to go without eye-covering amongst family members within the confines of the family house and its courtyard--so long as the walls surrounding the family enclosure stand at a regulation ten feet, sufficiently elevated to prevent the sight of any female passing in the street beyond the enclosure. It follows logically from this requirement that boys and men may not leave the confines of the home unless accompanied by a mother, a sister, or a wife. Any rational person should see the sense of this, for if a male left home blindfolded, who knows what ill might befall him? Surely, he would walk into a brick wall or a lamppost and injure himself. Or, God forbid, he might step into the street and be struck by some unsuspecting motorist. If he should survive these dangers, boy or man, he would still be vulnerable to robbers, or find himself irretrievably lost in our cities' maze-like streets, unable to do other than cry out for help--thus advertising his vulnerable position to the world. Therefore, for the blindfolded male's safety, he must be accompanied in public by someone who is sighted.
Published on Aug 22, 2018
by Will Shadbolt
Aristedes killed the beast. He had survived longer than his other sacrificial comrades--the minotaur's meals-- survived long enough to grow used to the labyrinth's darkness. His nose and ears were now his world.
Published on Nov 8, 2018
by David Soyka
Odysseus is back. Back from the wars. Back from the western edge of the world. Back from whoring with Circe.
Published on Apr 2, 2015
by Bud Sparhawk
"The future," the mathematician intoned, "is both unknown and unknowable," which seemed an interesting contention at the time, somewhere near the end of the meal, when all were pleasantly sated and ready for one of their usual debates. "There are, after all, a huge number of variables involved in any outcome." The group, a military engineer, two mathematicians, a physicist, and a philosopher had met at this beir stuben every month to share a pleasant meal, frothy beer, and conversation. Their political member had demurred, begging other pressing issues, as usual.
Published on Jun 28, 2016
by Susan Taitel
Lady Jane Grey sits across from me, studying the menu. This is the last time I let Aunt Margie talk me into a blind date. We've already exhausted the standard small talk. Where do you live? Me: Chaska. Her: the Tower of London. What do you do for a living? Me: freelance graphic designer and rideshare driver. Her: unemployed, previously queen. "Queen of what?" I ask, against my better judgment. Jane is odd, even by Aunt Margie's standards but this is not the worst date I've been on recently. So far she hasn't tried to recruit me into an MLM. "England, briefly," she says, barely audible. "Queen of England. That's an accomplishment." "No," she shakes her head, "it was neither my doing nor my wish to rule." The waiter comes around to take our orders. Jane orders soup and asks for more bread. I order the duck. Aunt Margie promised to reimburse me for dinner. "How did you become queen if you didn't want to be?" "My cousin Edward, then the king, named me his successor shortly before his death." She looks away, lips drawn in a tight line. "The Duke of Northumberland manipulated him to prevent Edward's sister Mary from taking the throne. She was a Papist, you see." "A Papist, right. That would have been... bad?" "It's no matter now," Jane sighs. "For all my father-in-law's strategizing, my reign lasted a paltry nine days." "Father-in-law?" "The Duke of Northumberland is father to my husband, Guildford Dudley." "You're married?" Aunt Margie didn't check that she was single? "It is not a love match; our fathers arranged the marriage for political gain. Still, I am sorry that Guilford will surely be executed for treason." Our food arrives. I know it's rude, but I can't stop staring at Jane. She's not pretty, per se; she's on the plain side. Her eyes are the palest blue I've ever seen and her skin is equally pallid. What I can see of her hair, under the headpiece she's wearing, is light brown and possibly thinning. She seems tired and sad and very young. It's impossible to look away. When I was ten, my friend Sam was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I was eleven when he died. The last time I visited him in the hospital I was struck by this feeling that all the decades he'd never see had collapsed, trapping his small body underneath. Being only eleven, I couldn't put it into words. All I knew was I'd do anything to make him smile. I don't care if Jane is a crackpot or a con-artist. I'm going to show this sad, exhausted, girl a good time. Over dessert, I tell her my weirdest rideshare story. I picked up a man in neon green pajamas in front of a Hyatt. He told me to drive in any direction for at least five hours before returning to the hotel. Then he fell asleep, snoring so loudly my seat shook. Exactly five hours later, he woke up, pulled a business suit on over the pajamas, and handed me a small drawstring bag before getting out of the car. "What was in the bag?" she asks, head tilted in interest. "A silver egg with iridescent swirls all over the shell. I put it on top of my radiator. It stayed there for three weeks then one morning it was gone and its place were pieces of charred shell." "What hatched?" "No idea. But ever since, my apartment has smelled like honeysuckle and wet dog." Jane's lips curl into a smile. "You made that up." "It's all true, except the egg was just a paperweight." Sadly, the wet dog smell is real. "Can I give you a ride?" I ask once I've paid the bill. She shakes her head. "It's not far, I can walk." "I'll go with you." It's not late but it's already dark. November in Minnesota, we don't have much daylight to speak of. She fastens her cloak and we leave the restaurant. After a few blocks, she turns into Loring Park. The trees are wrapped in Christmas lights and the path is lined with booths selling ornaments and spiced nuts. "Is it a festival?" Jane asks. "Sort of. They do this every weekend until Christmas." I buy Jane a pair of mittens from one of the vendors. She puts them on gratefully. People are gathering in an open clearing. Jane and I fall into the crowd. There's a sudden whirring sound overhead and then a crackling explosion of light and color. "Oh my!" Jane gasps, covering her mouth with a mittened hand. We watch the firework display. Jane claps enthusiastically when it's done. We walk back toward the edge of the park past the skating rink. Jane pauses to watch. "Want to try?" I ask. "I don't know how." "Me neither. We'll learn together." I get us each a pair of rental skates, taking a guess on her size. I help her tie off her brocade skirt so she won't trip and we gingerly make our way onto the ice. Luckily, we aren't the only novice skaters. She clutches my arm. We're not so much skating as scooting at the exit. I lose my footing, dragging Jane down with me. "Sorry! Sorry!" "It's fine." She hauls herself upright, laughing as I crawl to the wall. "My word," she wheezes, still laughing. "That was so reckless! I loved it!" We return the skates and continue our walk. We should have reached the end of the park by now. I should be able to see the headlights of cars merging onto I-94. All I see is more trees. Looking back, I can no longer see the fair behind us, but Jane seems certain of the way. We stop at a stone wall twice my height. A large turreted building looms behind it. Jane stops. "This is it. I had a very nice time. Thank you." She hesitates for a second then plants a kiss on my cheek, then turns around and disappears through an opening in the wall. Still disoriented, I walk in the direction I think we came. My phone won't turn on. It was seventy percent charged when we left the restaurant. Maybe it was damaged by the tumble on the ice. I look up at the sky in an attempt to navigate by the stars but even they seem out of place. I'm almost positive that I'm walking in circles. I'm starting to panic when my phone chimes. The screen flickers erratically. "Hello?" "Alex?" Aunt Margie's voice crackles through the bad connection. "Aunt Margie? I think I'm lost. I don't know--" "There there, Alex, you're fine," she interrupts. "Take a breath. Look around." I do. Trees. Darkness. More trees. I turn in a circle, still noth--the duck pond and the little bridge that crosses it. The basketball court. And the playground. It's Loring Park. "Okay, yeah, I'm good." I do feel good. Like when you almost trip and you see the spot where you would've hit and your skull isn't cracked open on the pavement. I glance up. The stars have returned to their proper locations. "Thank you, Aunt Margie." She's my grandfather's sister. Or possibly his cousin. Come to think of it I don't remember seeing her at any family functions. She could be one of those family friends that you call "aunt." "All right, I just spoke to Jane and she had a marvelous time. Well done, kiddo." "Uh... thanks but I don't think it was such a good match, Auntie. We didn't have much in common. Did you know she's married?" Aunt Margie makes a noncommittal noise. "And I'm pretty sure she was underage." "That's true enough but I knew you wouldn't take advantage of her. You didn't, did you?" Her voice takes on a slight edge. "Of course not!" "There you go! Everyone had a nice evening. I'd call that a success." "But... Is she going to be okay?" "No, definitely not. She never was. That wasn't the point." I let that sink in. "All right dear, are you free on the seventh?" "I think so. Why?" "There's a girl you should meet. She's not as dour as poor Jane but she's as much in need of a nice time. What do you say?" "Um..." It had been a strange, sometimes unsettling, evening. I close my eyes and see Jane gasping at the fireworks. The way her eyes lit up while we were "skating." Then I see Sam in his hospital bed, parrying my paper-towel-tube-sword with one of his own, smiling one more time. "Sure, why not?" "You're a good egg, Alex. I'll arrange it with Marie. That reminds me, how's your French?"
Published on Nov 19, 2021
by Mark Brian Thomas
I suppose writers are like gamblers or fishermen, we loudly celebrate our triumphs and conveniently bury the failures. I'd made a point of mentioning a rare bit of success to an elderly neighbor of mine, who also fancied himself a writer. A popular science fiction website had finally accepted one of my stories, about a robot obsessed with Gustav Klimt's early paintings, and they were even going to pay for the privilege of stroking my ego.
Published on Feb 18, 2019
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 S. DeFreitas Timmons
The world ended the way it always did (US dictator, WWIII), pretty much (clowns, Central Park), on a Tuesday. This time I was born in Minnesota, which seemed familiar (snow, Lutherans) but different ("you betcha"). My parents weren't quite the same, but close: my mom was a CNA from Edina, my dad a cab driver from Bangladesh. Our pets were different (schnauzer, beagle) but had the same names (Bowser, Snoopy), and when I was old enough to go to school, I made the same best friend, Chelsea (Hadley). Chelsea and I liked the same things as before, but our interests were reversed: her, 4H, and me, PE. This time I became the athlete--Class B state champion forward--and she the geneticist. I kept in touch with my jerkwad boyfriend Steve (Alex) from high school, like always, and after Chelsea graduated from St. Olaf, she dated her biochem professor, Terry (Mark).
Published on Apr 16, 2018
by James Van Pelt
The women I’ve loved are all decades dead. Myrna Loy in The Thin Man movies, of course, wise cracking and elegant, and Katherine Hepburn in Stage Door with her unforgettable voice, and the sad and cynical Bette Davis in All About Eve. Everyone moving through their stories with sculpted elegance, shifting the world around them. Strong-flavored women: Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday. Her hand brushed mine as she swept through the newsroom, Cary Grant hot on her heels. Oh, yes, I’ve been there, not the stage sets, not the flickering presentations from a movie screen, but actually there in black and white reality--never a color one for reasons I don’t comprehend--standing on the sidewalk as Maureen O’Hara replaced a drunk Santa in the Thanksgiving parade in The Miracle on 34th Street. The city smelled of candy canes and hot chocolate, and people bumped against me in eagerness to catch a closer look at the giant balloon figures. Oh, and Greta Garbo in Queen Christina?. Joan Crawford said, “The beauty you see in other women while you are drunk you’ll see in Garbo sober.” Wearing sailor's clothes, a woman in disguise, I stood on the shifting deck behind Garbo as she wept for a dying Don Antonio. How could I not love her, a sea breeze shifting her hair as she stood on the prow, looking for Antonio’s house on a cliff that presided over the wrinkled Atlantic? But most importantly, vitally even, the reason I started, was Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, where Ugarte always dies. I built the time machine in my shop with the single goal of reaching May, 1942, Burbank, California where Warner Brothers shot the film. To watch a classic being made, to be in the presence of the incomparable Ingrid Bergman in what was arguably her greatest film, to meet with her perhaps and express admiration. When I was eleven and saw the movie for the first time, sitting in our tiny apartment, where I shared a bed with my big sister whose hand-me-downs I wore to school, where I couldn’t join the girls’ soccer team because mother couldn’t pay the athletic fees, I watched Bergman walk into Rick’s Café Americain, and like Sam, my heart stuttered.
Published on Aug 20, 2021
by Thomas Carey White
Welcome everyone. Mr. Speaker, Mr. Secretary, Knight-Senators, honored warfighters, fellow citizens. Before I begin with my opening remarks, I would like to lead everybody in the pledge of allegiance. "I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the United States of Vespuccia. And to the empire for which it stands, and to the cannon that we uphold, and to the God that we serve, one nation, one people, one king and one purpose, of security and justice for all."
Published on Nov 20, 2019
by S W Whitehouse
Georg waited patiently in the Tiergarten, the park within central Berlin, hidden in a copse of maple and plane trees close to the zoo. It was the first of February 1933 and he felt a pang of excitement and fear comingled. Soon their plan would reach fruition but for now the most dangerous part was still to come. He thought back to his time in Prague, 1968, and the turmoil of Soviet oppression that had swept the continent since the end of the war exactly twenty years earlier. A sense of change had begun that January when Alexander Dubcek was elected First Secretary of the Party but Georg held little hope. So he had "slipped through the sponge-like quantumness of time. A cold spring awaited his country and this had seemed the only way out. The death of one man bringing peace to the multitude. His lover, Kveta, had calculated the odds. Then together they had struggled hard to create the means to literally fall into time. To calculate exactly where, and when, he would arrive. And it had to be Georg. He had no wish to kill a man, even one so vile, but he felt a stronger repugnance in allowing Kveta to kill. Besides he was the historian, the one who knew most about Berlin between the wars.
Published on Sep 27, 2019
by Filip Wiltgren
Imaginary Concepts, People, and Places Hitler
Published on Dec 29, 2016
by Tyler Young
SERBIAN FREE GAZETTE Court Clears "Mad" Murderer; Anti-Empire Fury Boils
Published on Aug 18, 2016
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