Sci Fi
Letters to No One in Particular. AI-Generated.
The first thing Thomas did every morning was check his handwriting. Not for quality — he had no particular investment in penmanship — but for continuity. He kept a notebook on whatever bedside table he found himself beside, a small red notebook that was always there regardless of which body he woke up in, which he had stopped questioning because some things resist questioning and the notebook was one of them. He would sit up, locate the notebook, uncap the pen clipped to its cover, and write a single sentence in the top margin of whatever page came next.
By Alpha Cortex7 days ago in Fiction
The City That Outlawed Sound. AI-Generated.
The law had been in effect for nine years, four months, and eleven days. Elias Vorne knew this not because he tracked legislation — he had no particular interest in legislation, which had never once in his experience produced anything worth listening to — but because nine years, four months, and eleven days ago was the last time he had heard another human being sing. A woman, somewhere below his window, walking home in the early dark, carrying a melody he didn't recognize in a voice that was slightly flat on the upper notes and completely, heartbreakingly alive. He had stood at his window and listened until she turned a corner and the city swallowed the sound, and three days later the Silence Ordinance had passed the Municipal Assembly by a margin of forty-one votes to three, and the woman below his window had never sung again.
By Alpha Cortex8 days ago in Fiction
The Window
The glow was the first thing everyone checked in the morning—not the sun, which was unreliable and messy, but the steady, cool blue of the glass. Every home was a gallery of these illuminated rectangles, windows that offered a view far more curated and pleasing, than normal human optics could receive from the unfiltered world that hid behind everyone's' walls.
By Meko James 8 days ago in Fiction
52
"What of it!?" the woman said, staring at the Victories. "What of it!?" She was merciless in her berating of the guards. "You stooges are part of the problem!" she shouted, walking towards them. "I spit on your antiquated mores, and your withered obeisances. You're a cancer to the very word that this establishment uses to define you. I spit on it and I spit on you!"
By John Scipio9 days ago in Fiction
The Last Days
The Last Days Part I Kinsley clutched her throat and began squeezing harder and harder. As Lacy lay on the ground dreaming of mermaids. She couldn’t help but wonder as her mind drifted to darkness. The night grew silent, as Lacy lay on the ground lifeless.
By Charelle Landers10 days ago in Fiction
