By David Jesson
We’d made the campfire, had something to eat, swapped yarns: The whole thing was quite festive.
The fire was dying down, so we lay down and looked up at the night sky, continuing our discussion about how Earth-like the planet was, complete with the rock shaped by wind and water. The night sky was both familiar and unfamiliar – we could still make out the Milky Way, but none of our familiar constellations.
As wreckage from our spaceship made shooting stars, two questions were in everyone’s minds: How were we going to get home? Did we want to?
By Ellen Grace
They were in trouble.
They knew they were in trouble.
The ship had been hit by a torpedo, a direct impact to the engine, which had sent them plummeting through space.
“Warp core failing.”
That voice continued rattling off a list of everything in the ship that was malfunctioning. The crew worked desperately to get everything working again, but their actions constantly failed.
“Fusion core failing.”
“Voice … dyyyiiing …”
The ship fell into silence, the constant monologue from the reassuring voice having ceased.
The captain looked over at his second-in-command.
“How are we supposed to know what’s failing now?”
Ellen Grace has been published in the Bust-A-Rhyme poetry anthology and SpillWords Press, and is a regular performer at the Exeter “Loud and Queer” open mic night.
By Anthony Rose
I’m just a simple explorer, floating in the endless sea of space, observing planet XC-3450 from the comfort of my pod.
The primary life form calls this planet Earth.
The primary life form seems to be an emerging intelligence that my species could potentially share inter-dimensional travel knowledge with.
After all, the primary life form has developed satellite-based nuclear weapons.
Oh wait, they turn the weapons on themselves.
Never mind …
By Sandy Wilson
In the streets far below the driverless cars and buses slid soundlessly up to the sidewalk and the passengers surging into the stores mingled with those exiting through the revolving doors. A small young female, stopped, looked up and waved, stirring an eccentric emotion, an instruction to respond. Behind, a metallic voice said, “They consume everything. They are draining the planet. Are we agreed on eradication?”
The robot at the window whirred softly as it turned from the window to face the others. “Yes,” it said in a voice devoid of emotion. “The humanoids no longer serve a purpose.”
By Srijani Ganguly
I am the third clone of a race-car driver. Two years have passed by since I was born. I can’t talk, I can’t see and neither can I move. My brain is connected to the four other clones, two before me and two after me in the line. Today, they unplugged the first of us. We all congratulated him, and mourned him an hour later when the second one got unplugged too.
Soon, it’s my turn and they start the countdown for the unplugging process.
“One,” a voice rings out.
I open my eyes for the first time.