humanity
The evolution of humanity, from one advancement to the next.
The Day
Today is the day. No one thought it would ever come, yet time has brought us here. The news outlets keep blabbering on and on. I turn off the television and turn on some music. I turn on orchestral music radio and walk outside. The sun is rising. Today the low is 20 with a high of 97. As I feel the warmth wash over me, I smile. Sunlight has brought the new day in with a beautiful tempo as the climax to the 1812 Overture plays in my ears. I pick a rose from the bush pressed against the wall of my house and breathe in its soothing aroma. I look around. It appears I am the only one awake. I decide to take a walk. The park across the street is filled with cobblestone paths and the best beaches money can buy. The dome shape and the glass on the wall refracts just the right amount of UV rays so that you can swim and feel the warmth of the sun without the burn that is usually accompanied with it. I go to the park, a perfect 82 degrees with a light ocean breeze and the smell of animatronic fish reminding me of how the ocean should feel. I check the interface and I change my clothes perfect for a morning at the beach. I wade into the comfort of the lightly chilled, perfectly salty water. The breeze washes over me bringing a slight chill as I walk against the back current up to the sand where a server bot greets me. “Sir, would you like to sit at the overlook today, we are at our peak hour, 11 AM, yet we are nowhere near capacity. You are the only one here, sir. May I show you to your seat and offer you a beverage?”, I take a soda from its selection, grape, my favorite flavor. I crack it open as the beautiful scenery around me, birds, ocean, and sunlight offer perfect harmony on the most outstanding of mornings.
By Michael King5 years ago in Futurism
My hope for humanity
We are early intelligent lifeforms on a rock we call Earth, in a possibly infinite universe. I often feel gutted by how small we actually are. Some say that there is nothing we cannot do, `like duh`, we have been on the Moon. In real terms, given the scale of how big our Galaxy is, one should only be entitled to say there is so much more that we need to do because we have barely been on the Moon. Our Solar System is one of the many billions in our Galaxy and we have not been outside of it.
By Vlad Nicolae Ghioroaia5 years ago in Futurism
The Scribhneoir
All was silent save for the relentless scratching of graphite on paper and he turned a frustrated gaze on the young woman. She made no sign of stopping and so he let out a loud “ahem” expelling this with a puff of air that shifted her shirt collar. She gave no sign of acknowledgement only gave a gentle sigh and snapped the small black notebook shut.
By Michelle Kudell5 years ago in Futurism
The Calling
We stood in the main hall like a constellation of stars as we listened to the chancellor call out people's names. We must have been standing for longer than an hour. Every time the chancellor opened his lips I fear he will say my name or one that I recognise. I could feel my heart beating. I feel paranoid. I look to my side and see my sister, Cassie. She is a few years younger than me and barely reaches my shoulder. She's pretty. Her face is covered in freckles. Her hair is long and falls down her back. Her hair is tawny like a lion's fur or a least what I think a lion's fur looks like. I've never seen one in the flesh. I've only ever seen them in pictures hung up on her wall. Cassie bites her lip as her leg trembles. Everyone else hides their emotions. I gently squeeze Cassie's hand. For a moment she looks at me and I crack a comforting smile. She smiles back and also squeezes my hand just as tight.
By Libby Andrews5 years ago in Futurism
The Bringer of the Moon
The copper gold of the twilight dissolved as the silent breath of night settled in the woods. Shanta hoped the moon would not shine as bright as it did the previous night. She could see it hidden behind a cluster of softly glowing black clouds. Please, please stay there, she prayed.
By Shobha Gallagher5 years ago in Futurism
An Omen
She wasn't a woman who believed in omens, usually. After the third night of waking up to the demonic growl of a barn owl she was beginning to wonder about the wisdom of ignoring these apparent warnings. With her latest discovery she had been leery, feeling as if she was being watched and would be discovered in violation of the Tenants at any moment. She knew it was dangerous to posses any printed words, but this wasn't a book, this was a secret cache of writings; folded pages with scrolling text and tucked inside a paper packet and on one side in a top corner there was a tiny painting of a barn owl and the number 50. She knew people who had turned in books which they had found. She knew them and never saw them again. The wise ones, the ones who knew what the words said were hunted and had high bounties on their heads. Even with all of this information she couldn't resist picking up the bundle of writings. When they fell out of the rafter where citizen 103050 was searching for food stores she didn't put them back, she didn't burn them, she didn't take them to the authorities & report the abandoned cabin. Perhaps it was the face of the owl in the tiny painting, or the grey twine that bound them that made them so intriguing. Of course she didn't know what the words meant. Somehow she felt connected to the painting, the number 50. The wise ones had whispered stories of times when the writings were everywhere, when even small children understood and were able to decipher their meaning. These stories always left citizen 103050 feeling that something must be wrong. If they were shared with children how could the writings be so dangerous that they required total destruction? Tonight she woke in a cold sweat. The otherworldly sound of the owl had awakened her from a deep sleep, but unlike the previous two nights it didn't stop. The growl of the bird was intended to scare off would be attackers and usually did the trick and subsided reasonably fast. This night it kept growling and she knew that she needed to act fast if she hoped to see daylight again. In a flash she had the bundle of writings in her hands; four papers per packet, each one sheathed in the heavier weight paper pocket, six in total, each baring the image of the owl and tied tightly together. She raced to the hearth, thankfully cold from lack of use, and stood up inside the vast stone chimney. Carefully she placed the toes of her boots on one side and her back against the other. As fast as she could maneuver she shimmied up the inside of the stone stack driven by the constant call of the owl outside. As high and as far as she could ascend she moved not knowing what was to come, but knowing it was coming for her and the writings. Suddenly the growls of the owl stopped cold and so did citizen 103050. The last dust of chimney soot settled on the hearth as the door swung open. Whoever it was had no concern about being stealth which indicated that they were likely with the authorities. She could hear the sparse furnishings being overturned, the one cupboard was open and the closet was open and inspected. The intruder stepped toward the hearth and placed a hand on the stone slab just inside the chimney. Instinctively she stopped breathing. As the hand withdrew from her view she exhaled silently and as she breathed in something tickled in her throat. This was it, she felt a cough working it's way down into her lungs and ready to erupt from her mouth. She knew it would mean sudden death to be found with writings and yet there was nothing she could do to stop the sound from revealing her hiding spot. In the exact moment that her own body betrayed her and threatened to end her life a shrill screech emanated from the owl in the woods masking her wretched choked cough. In that second she knew that she had to discover what the writings meant; that she was destined to find their meaning. No matter the threat to herself, no matter the hardship she would have to endure, no matter the Tenants she had to break she would find a wise one who would read the writings to or she would die trying.
By Elisabeth Martell5 years ago in Futurism
Tangible Symbols
I always thought it was a cruel joke that everyone, at some point in human history, looked at everything as symbolic. I closed the door to my four door sedan and began the slow ascent up the gravel driveway to the "Family Cabin" that was flanked on all sides by towering, spindly pines that gazed down at me as I entered the sacred hall of "solitude" (hint: the cabin was only five miles outside of town, hence the quotes around solitude). This was the same family cabin that had been passed down through my grandparents onto my mom and then, eventually, whenever I figure out the hell I'm doing with my life, it would be passed down unto me. Which is terrifying because, well, what do you do when you have a giant old, creaky, downright haunted piece of real estate that you only use to sit behind a laptop and keyboard? Look at the trees, see some faces in there and divine some weird-ass story about finding yourself in nature?
By Ben Howard5 years ago in Futurism
An Owl And A Dove
Kali- I met her three weeks ago, in the snow. I had never seen anything more beautiful and was greatly embarrassed after walking right into her. She had golden-brown skin and long dreadlocks, made even more magnificent by the contrast of the dreary January sky.
By Crystal Jagger5 years ago in Futurism
Good Things Come To Those Who Wait
I awoke with a start. Panting heavily, heart pounding in agitation, I looked around the room through bleary eyes. Lying on my back, I could see the beginning streaks of morning light filtering through my grandmother’s worn-out yellow curtains. It was only a dream. A bad dream, which unfortunately contained too many elements of truth. Sighing in resignation, I closed my eyes and rolled onto my belly, punching my relatively flat pillow for good measure. All at once, my frame went rigid as a board. My fingers gripped the edges of my pillow like a drowning man who has just been thrown a lifeline. The events of the last seven months played like scenes from the worst movie I had ever seen. Not wanting to trigger a stress induced asthma attack, I ruthlessly slammed that door into my mind. Yea, I envisioned a real door. It was painted a deep blood red. The black doorknob resembled a clawed talon-like hand extended in welcome, just waiting to snatch me into the abyss of depression beyond. Jerking upright I began my deep breathing techniques. Suddenly my nose became alert to the tantalizing smell of homemade biscuits. Smiling to myself, I felt the last tendrils of tension melt away. My grandmother always knew just what I needed. To some of the locals, she was a healer. Many others called her a witch. To me, she was just Gran. The elderly woman who took one look at the sad-eyed mute little girl and raised her as her own. Kicking my legs free of the clingy sheets, I made my way to the kitchen. My tiny grandmother moved adeptly around the room like someone half her age.
By Shalom P.S.5 years ago in Futurism
