Fiction, Monologues, Plays & More
Challenge of the month: write a 100 word (or less) science fiction story.
Medical Officer Off Entry
This is Med-lab, date 2046-02-25. Dr. Clarence Bender issuing vocal recording. In lieu of Science Officer Benji Crowder, deceased, I have now undertaken examination of the artifact discovered on M-126. Object appears completely spherical and roughly 7.62 centimeters in diameter. The outer casing appears metal gray in color, yet is spongy in texture. There are no markings of any kind on the exterior. A single ridge around the circumference is the only break in the smooth surface. There are no visible… what’s this… pulsing light, high pitch humming are coming from… what is it doing… . End Transmission.
—Written by Mark Bate
Who Am I
Is this a dream, or is this real? I remember the fever. The intense heat that felt like it was burning me alive. Like a witch on a pyre, the body was trying to cleanse itself. Only by the grace of that which had made me did I survive. Did I survive? I feel like something died. Maybe died isn’t the proper word? Changed, yes, something is different. I breathe in deep, filling the lungs with air. The arms move, and so do the legs, although not well. This new body is strange. I wonder, who am I this time?
—–written by Jeff Folschinsky
“Why’d you stop?” he asked.
“We… seem to have reached the end,” she said.
“The end of…”
“No, that’s it. Just… the end.”
They gazed out in silence at the vast expanse of nothing that spread before their feet. It encompassed all they could perceive or apprehend.
“So… what do we do now,” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“We could go back.”
“We’ve already done all that.”
“Yeah, so we have.”
“We could jump.”
“Would that even do anything?”
“I don’t know.”
She reached out and took his hand in hers.
—written by Sean M. Kozma
“The whole thing?” the droid asked.
“Yes”, said the man.
“It’s an extensive process, sir. It will take some time to download all your memories and reactions to-”
“No, no. I don’t want any of those. Like I said, I want it replaced.”
“I don’t understand, sir. You want your brain replaced, without duplicating your memories?”
“And what shall be downloaded into the brain?”
“A replacement. That’s why I’m here.”
“This is very unusual sir. You won’t be you anymore.”
“That’s the idea.”
“I’ll have to charge you extra for someone else’s memories.”
“Right this way, sir.”
—-written by Jason Britt
Named Piss Pan by the boy, Clunky by the wife, Soulless Piece of Shit by the old lady as it rolled down the hallway carrying bins of her soiled night-things as if she hated it just for knowing her underwear-middle-of-the-night secrets, though it couldn’t understand the insecurities of old age any more than the boy or the wife. Five-Eight-Two is what the husband called it, as the manuel had suggested, after all it wasn’t a human. But the robot had always preferred the name Wanda. Good job Wanda the robot said as it set the washing machine to permanent press.
—-written by Chelsea Sutton