“United Space-Service ship USS-4271 calling … Mayday … Mayday … This is Space-Patrol astronaut John Plantain … we are in low orbit around IO, we have meteorite damage, Auto-Nav’s not working and we have less than forty minutes before our low orbit causes Auto-Ignite to fire
I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, but it’s how we referred to you all these years. We assumed you were dead; lost in the war with so many others. Your letter was full of news, and we hunger for more. Especially about your “whole new family”
“Is it working? This is Lieutenant Cypher of the Echo-114 squadron. If you’re hearing this transmission, it means we’re lost. I’m the only one left. More specifically, I don’t know where all the others have gone.
One evening in late October, I thrashed my old rusty scythe at my overgrown lawn, whilst practising the odd golf swing. That’s when the flying saucer arrived. It hovered, casting shadows. Startled, I struck my foot, saved only by the scythes bluntness.
“I am not a warring man.” Igor watched the old man lead a German Shepherd through the rubble which Berlin had become.
At the ripe age of 21, Ariel lives in failure of that first step. She’s filing papers now, an administrative assistant at the Dropbox headquarters in the heart of Silicon Valley. She watches the computer engineers check in and out behind the front desk on the third floor, and all day this plagues her with a sense of inadequacy. She thinks about her upbringing in an upper-middle class
The Magic Spot: A story inspired by Giorgio de Chirico’s “The Melancholy of a Beautiful Day” He lay in the grassy median of a road which bounded one side of a large inner-city university. How he had come there, nobody knew. From his looks, though, his path had been a cruel one. His body showed the signs of a life wracked by insupportable pain. His face was hollow and sallow,
he fortune teller pushed the cloth curtains out of her way and stepped into the room, adjusting the oversized turban on her head.