humanity
The evolution of humanity, from one advancement to the next.
Seeing the Forest For the Trees
The city glowed before her eyes as it always did: never any pure darkness, never any complete ease. Of course, stars were something people mostly only read about; it was impossible to ever really glance at any true stars in the thrall of technology that loomed all around her.
By Jenifer Stephens5 years ago in Futurism
On the Cusp
November 5th, 9:29 pm. Miami, Florida. Given this challenge's nature, it's easy to assume this information relates to my birthday, but that is not the case. This is the moment my life changed forever. This is the date and time of my young father's unexpected death.
By Bryanna Nunez5 years ago in Futurism
This Place is Not My Home
He’d searched for meaning in all the right places, but everything had seemingly failed. He thought that trying to find himself through art, meditation, exercise or connection would lead somewhere better than where he’d started. Maybe it was time to start over.
By Julian Ramirez5 years ago in Futurism
The Fourth Panel
Unsure of the next step, he reached into his back pocket pulling out the black leather bound moleskine journal that had become his most prized possession. He felt the smooth warm pages and was delighted to find that he knew what to do all along. He liked the reassurance of consulting the book. He smiled remembering the first time he laid eyes on the contents of the journal.
By Makayla Ray5 years ago in Futurism
The House of Happiness
Your name hurt. It hurt to say. Hurt to think. Hurt to hear. Each syllable slowly unravelled, dragging its nails down my heart of stone until it cracked. The grey rubble fell, bit by bit, until all of the memories, all of the joys, all of the pain, gushed from the cracks, drowning my insides before overflowing through my eyes. I wasn’t supposed to cry. But that book. That damned black book is the last thing I have left of you. And I don’t know how much longer I have left with it. I close the tear-stained pages and press them between the tattered leather cover. Running my fingers along the spine I notice every detail — every indentation, every cavity, every scratch — and savour it for what may be the last time. I lift my head from the indelible journal on the marbled bathroom bench and lock eyes with myself in the dull, elongated mirror in front of me. Everyone always tells me I have your brown eyes and perhaps once upon a time I did. They were like golden pools of honey which absorbed gleams of sunshine and reflected their sweetness back into the souls of anyone you looked at. Passersby would grin and anyone lucky enough to engage in a conversation with you would leave in a sugar coma, so deeply paralysed by happiness and pure contentment. Now my eyes are empty, broken — sheer brown — and, as for yours, I’ll never get to see them again.
By Jordan Allan5 years ago in Futurism
Apostle
Decimus’ chest heaved, his breath recouping from chase given to a hulking boar in hopes of preserving his wife and young boy in this, yet another dire Northumbrian winter. His step slowed further, the fallen snow tacitly giving way to his overly taxed boots as he squinted against the frigid wind, looking for a sign that his arrow had met its mark. It was then, upon a hearty maple trunk that Decimus caught the glint of the moon, glowing crimson in a spatter of the boar’s life-wine. Decimus turned his head high to the luminous celestial body, bold and bright among the bounty of sky-stretched stars, grateful for that which he could see but not understand.
By Austin Alan Palaoro5 years ago in Futurism
Mouth Agape
Mouth Agape: A Moment Of Atonement by Brodie Michael Yake “Why are we here?” Robert asked, a timber of fear salting his voice. The stars hung low overhead that night as Robert awoke, noting the other three men asleep around the crackling fire facing the beach. The rhythmic crashing of one wave after another harmonized with its churning forebears like a mighty tuning orchestra. Had the quintet of strangers known beforehand what they would grow to learn about themselves and each other from one end of the night to the next and as a marriage of the fire’s heat and the ocean’s frothing symphony awoke the remaining four and set the stage for this transformative moment in their lives, perhaps Robert would have abstained from opening his mouth and asking the question in the first place, but he did not. As he looked around where he sat, another gentleman spoke up wiping sleep and sand from his eyes.
By Brodie Michael Yake5 years ago in Futurism
And the Band Played "And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda"
In another life, Optenant Thirteen could have been an Irish rover. Made by those only somewhat more sophisticated than herself, there was within her something of the perpetually lost and the always wandering, a curiosity beyond her years that belied the expected and even expecting patterns of her code. Therefore, perhaps unlike later models, when her sensors detected a subject in motion, regardless of its mass or its velocity, instead of jerkily halting and starting—back-and-forth, back-and-forth, always back-and-forth—she would immediately begin moving toward it, increasing her own speed to the extent that she was capable. This was, unfortunately for her but nonetheless rather good for the thing she was pursuing, not by much. She could’ve been an Irish rover because her body—her chassis and operating system, each transistor, everything that contained and was contained—was often in the cities, the decrepit metropoli as they currently were, but her soul, incalculable and transcendent, was always living and reliving the impossible past.
By Bradley William Holder5 years ago in Futurism
