via FREE Fiction / Raindrop.io https://raindrop.io

via FREE Fiction / Raindrop.io https://raindrop.io

via FREE Fiction / Raindrop.io https://raindrop.io

She had never slept so well as when she was in space. Even when she dreamed that gray, dome-headed aliens were tapping at the windows of the shuttle. Karen sat up in the bed when she heard the bot coming, though it took some painful effort. via Pock… Clarkesworld Magazine - Science Fiction & Fantasy When Home, No Need to Cry by Erin K. Wagner via Instapaper https://ift.tt/2Eq9zCI via FREE Fiction / Raindrop.io https://raindrop.io

via FREE Fiction / Raindrop.io https://raindrop.io Aimee’s big trick is that she makes 26 monkeys vanish on stage. She pushes out a claw-foot bathtub and asks audience members to come up and inspect it. The people climb in and look underneath, touch the white enamel, run their hands along the little…

via FREE Fiction / Raindrop.io https://raindrop.io Towering cliffs topped with bright lush greenery. Cold clean waves crashing against the stone below, sleek gray clouds swirling through the unbound sky above. A woman dances along the edge, her long hair and scarf whipped wild by the wind. via Pocket

via FREE Fiction / Raindrop.io https://raindrop.io Serolar existed in a state of curfew and of anticipation. Steam-powered mini-dirigibles issuing directives from the Governor’s Palace traveled from quarter to quarter every afternoon. Every seventh-day or so, klaxons wailed while the dirigibles advi…

via FREE Fiction / Raindrop.io https://raindrop.io My name is Tetley Abednego and I am the most hated girl in Garbagetown. I am nineteen years old. via Pocket

via FREE Fiction / Raindrop.io https://raindrop.io It’s a very old trope in fantasy stories and games: the wizard or healer who needs an incredibly rare, delicate, or deadly flower, leaf, root, or bark for a critical bit of magic, and the plant from which it grows may only be found an inconvenient d…

via FREE Fiction / Raindrop.io https://raindrop.io You couldn’t talk about the Helmets, which looked pretty ordinary displayed in a glass case in the lobby of the Smash Pad, the converted mattress warehouse where we practiced. via Pocket

She had known that she would end up like this, but she gave in. Lights. Music. She closed her eyes. In a sea of beautiful visages, she reached out to the one and only beloved face. “Thoreau—I know it’s a meaningless name to you all. Yet this Thoreau…

I know what Dave wants even before he says it, before I’ve even taken off my stupid work cap or thrown my keys on top of the pile of crap beside the door. via Pocket

Szanna, do you remember this game from the twentieth century? Skip along the informational alleys of realspace, leap the archives inter-generationally. A descending white cascade of snow. #FFFFFF. Pixelated scrub. You’re a miniscule skier. via Pocket

The Eagle Knight came like a star in midday. I looked up, and I saw the profile of his helmet’s beak so sharp against the light, the golden feathers of his wings so bright in the glare of the sun. As though he were Huitzilopochtli himself. And then …

With a clunk, the shaking of the hawk-eagle came to a stop. After confirming through the monitor that the spaceship’s four legs were properly grounded in the beansprout garden, Brook got out of the pilot’s seat, put on the helmet of her spacesuit, a…

In the giant arachnid’s shadow, her silken face mask—Uranian-blue, luminescent, and vaguely human in countenance—was always a welcome focal point. via Pocket

via FREE Fiction / Raindrop.io https://raindrop.io "Always." At the moment I'm standing in my darkened cabin at base camp in Mare Nubium. By headlamp only I carve a chess piece—a knight—out of moon rock. I'd crushed one earlier after Tchaikovsky called me out on a dumb move. The screen and radio cut…

via FREE Fiction / Raindrop.io https://raindrop.io “That’s Ifenwa,” the captain said, pointing at a smear of light almost directly overhead. Inlesh repeated the name dutifully to himself. “That’s Ontok.” A pentagon of bright sparks halfway up the sky. “They’ve each got their own names, but you don’t… Shattered Sidewalks of the Human Heart by Sam J. Miller Clarkesworld Magazine - Science Fiction & Fantasy via Instapaper https://ift.tt/325fgRm