Just when you thought high school was over... #YA #ScienceFiction

The Academie

by Amy Joy

The sinking feeling in my stomach renewed itself. The ancient stone building lookedthe same as I remembered, but the sixteen-foot barbed-wire prison fences aroundthe perimeter and guard shack by the drive reminded me that this was no longer Grant High School: Home of the Angry Bees.
A line had formed at the school entrance, and I looked ahead to see what the hold-up was. But given my size, I couldn’t see anything.
“What are we waiting for?” I asked the girl ahead of me.
She turned and I could see I wasn’t the only one who’d been taking this hard. Her eyes were swollen and her voice was tight as she answered. “I think they’re collecting papers.”
I started to rummage in my bag. Weeks ago I’d been given extensive paperwork to complete, and was told to bring a copy of my social security card and birth certificate.
The girl in front of me sniffed. I wanted to say something, but I kept quiet. Sometimes you just need to be alone to cry.
I watched as she tried to wipe the tears away, and I reached into my bag again,rummaging about until I came upon a pack of tissues. “Here,” I said, holdingthem out to her.
“Thanks,” she answered, accepting the pack. She wiped her face and blew hernose. “Sorry…I’m just…”
“No, it’s fine. Really, I understand.”
“I have a daughter, Charlotte,” she answered.
“Oh,” I said, surprised.
“How old is she?” It seemed like a nice enough way to make conversation.Apparently, it was not the right thing to say.
Tears started down her cheeks. “Five days.”

"The Universal Mirror" by Gwen Perkins

“There’s a proverb on the docks that goes,” the younger man hesitated. “’Death’s the universal mirror.’ Have you heard it?”

“Something about, oh, how every man sees the reflection of his own life just when he’s facing death?” Asahel nodded in response and Felix replied, “I understand, then—go on.”

“Aye, well,” the younger man continued. “As we—Quent and I—as we’d begun to understand what we were about and the consequences… he looked in the mirror and he thought that healing others was worth dying for. I looked and… I was afraid for my own life. I still am.”

"World of the Chernyi: Pedro Six Two" by D. K. Richardson

Two characters, Samantha and Robbie are talking in the aftermath of an attack on a remote farm...  

She sat in the back seat; he sat on the floor, legs hanging out the door.  After several minutes, she said, "It's finally started, hadn't it?"  
 

  "Depends on how you look at it, Sam.  I think it started a long time ago, only now the senseless violence isn't just in Africa or the barrio or the ghetto - now it's in everyone's face.  I've seen this coming for a long time.  I have to guess, so did your folks.  That's why they moved out here - yes?"

  The reply was soft, "Yes, someone broke into our house while we were out shopping.  Within the year, Dad had sold the house, found the one out here, resigned his position and we moved here.  I had to give up all my friends; I was just starting high school..."

Robbie shifted, pulling his legs inside, crossing them, he faced her directly.

  "And it was hard, almost impossible; to make friends, no matter what you did or how hard you tried.  Always the outsider, even after - what - living here for four years?"

  "Yes," this almost a sob.

  "So, did he rape you or just lie to you?"

"Dead Heroes" by Kae Cheatham

“What?” She frowned. “Sage Gamion was possibly going to tell about a—a war, or are you referring to the second century before the government was formed?”

“No, not pirate tales.” He stopped before her. “Your elders probably call it the conflict or deception. We went to the inner sector and fought the…the Yivenese.”

The mysterious word conjured vague thoughts about creatures of the inner sector. Unenlightened, they were called.

“I’ve been trying to learn more, but my sponsor, won’t acknowledge my questions. I know he could have been involved. Anyone over ninety surely remembers it. But all information is stored in the Hall of Memories. I can’t access that because I’m not a student any more.” He was pacing again.

“Why would you want to know about that anyway?”

“Why not? Doesn’t the concept intrigue you?”

Sinoa’s curiosity had been nudged, but she told Nathan, “We’ll learn about it when we get to the proper level of academics.”

From "Legends of the Light Bearer" by L. M. Aldrich

Breanna arrived that morning with the same sense of foreboding that had lingered for days now.  After parking her car, she hurried down the street, deep in thought, trying to isolate the source of her growing conviction that something was terribly wrong.  Not one for introspection, she actually relaxed a little when a more familiar emotion welled up.  Hello, she reminded herself, the whole frigging world is on a slow boat to chaos.  Of course, there's something wrong.  Though it was already warm and muggy, an unexpected chill rippled down her spine, and she resisted the urge to look over her shoulder.  She picked up the pace and, avoiding eye contact, began to maneuver past a crowd of angry protesters, screaming and spitting at each other.  Far-left, far-right, who knew, she was just grateful that she was still rarely recognized.  

From "Epiphany" by Stuart Land

Chapters alternate from different continents. This one is from Africa and is self-explanatory.

Ayira approached cautiously, for she’d never been to the outsider’s hut. The entire village was warned to keep safe distance, especially at night, for bad things can happen in the dark. She didn’t believe any of the children’s tales told about outsiders, but her heart seemed to pound as loud as her fist rapped upon his plank door.

“Bwana David, Bwana David! Nisaidie, tafadhali! Help me, please! They come.”

A voice from sleep called back. “Nini? What? Who’s out there?”

“It is I, Ayira Mukendi. Please, open door. You must come with me now.”

Angled shafts of light moving through cracks, scuffling feet, then the door pulled back. David, squinting and shirtless, peered down with his flashlight beam into Ayira’s frantic eyes. “What’s wrong, Ayira? Are you sick?”

She glanced at his concerned young face, then grabbed his hand and tugged. “We must go now, Bwana David. They come for you.”

He grasped her shoulder with his free hand, steadying her trembling body. “Hold on, Ayira. What are you talking about? Who’s coming for me?”

Tears came with her words. “Wazee, elders, believe you made me with child and come ninyiua, kill you.”

From "ad nauseum" by Durand J. Compton

Then he sat on the sidewalk at night.  A car passes and the driver tosses him a packet of cigarettes.  He flips the pack open and lights up.

 The crowds flow upon the city streets, beneath the lights, entering diners and cafes and theatres and cinemas and restaurants and bars and nightclubs.  Everybody was out to be seen and nobody notices.

He waits.  He knows not what for.  He pulls a note from his shirt pocket and reads it again.  He shakes his head and spits.  He crumples the note and tosses it into the gutter. A small child, wrapped head to toes in rags, runs up, snatches the note and disappears into the passing throng.

 A girl of some twenty years sits down.  He gives her a cigarette and a match.

“Do you love me?”

“I don’t know you,” he replies.

The beautiful girl draws upon her cigarette.

“Does that matter?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Then do you love me?”

“Yes.”

She does not smile.  She cocks her head to one side and brushes short shaggy hair from her face.

“It is good to be loved.  Will you come with me?”

 He puts out his cigarette.

“No, my love.  I must wait.”

From "Virus Monologues" by Durand J. Compton

Temporarily out of the loop, the sudden confrontation of suicide and it had been so long since the self-destruction had struck so close to homeless shelters dressed up as cafes and bars.  It is 2 a.m. cold as hell Nebraska December night.  The ground is frozen.  Solid, man.  Blake said little while Blake printed volumes.  The bass is without rhythm and the presses have finally stopped.  Spines break beneath time’s crippling apathy.  One note read, “and death shall have no dominion”, the other, “life is so dark, I can never find the light”.  He blessed the dark by stubbing out the candle, snuffing out the smoke.  This place is too dangerous for children.  Between the broken dreams and shattered glass, you’re bound to slice a vein.  There’s never enough coffee and if we’re all so depressed and isolated and alienated.  It’s our own damn fault.  Everyone is too afraid to have straightforward, honest and open conversation.  Never, ever say what you mean.  Chatter like ultra-hip monkeys until all the slang, all the distortion renders your message utterly illegible.  Or, at least, a bastard communiqué.  I can empathize, but you won’t get an ounce of sympathy out of me.  Sucker.  “If a couple aspirin kills the headache, I wonder what a couple of bottles will do.”  Insert the key, the tube slides down the throat, turn the ignition, pump the stomach.  Time enough for one last trip.

From "Thus Saith Eve" by Chris Wind

I have been condemned for choosing knowledge over ignorance: the fruit I ate came from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. In a society that praises pursuit of knowledge and honours men of wisdom, why have I been viewed with disfavour? Had Adam reached out first, would he have been so rebuked? Or is the state of ignorance requisite for women only? (Histories pass on Socrates, they pass over Aspasia.)

In the same vein, I chose experience over innocence. In a context of attitudes that value experience, the disapproval of my action can only imply the desire that women, like children, live in a state of innocence.

I have also been condemned for disobedience. If that were the issue, then why wasn’t the tree so named—‘the tree of obedience and disobedience’ or ‘the tree of temptation’. By naming it what it was not, God either deliberately tempted me or deliberately deceived me. And he should be judged, not I.

From "Ruin" by N.M. Martinez

Paula, recently banned from the Neutral Territory, learns a little bit about the history of the Wildlands from a couple of Wildlanders...

"They say that it was a girl who let the First Experiment out of the lab.” Maria looks at me and her lips curve into the tiniest of smiles. "She saw him from far off and felt sorry for him, so one day she opened his cage and let him go."

In school, when we learned about the Revolution, we never really went into much detail. Admittedly, I never gave it much thought myself, but the Revolution had to start somewhere.

Angel smiles at us. “My favorite is the one about the technician who spilled his coffee on the control panel.”

But these stories aren't real. No one seems to know the exact truth, though Maria and Angel share these strange stories about the First Experiment as if he were a real person.

"What's the truth?" I ask. "Is the First Experiment a real person? Wouldn't he have shared his story already?"

Maria pauses with her glass halfway to her mouth. She sets it down on her knee and looks over at Angel and Mitchell with surprise before turning back to me. "You don’t know? He didn't tell you? Your father is the First Experiment.”

From "Divine City: Bangkok Fantasies" by Scott B Robinson

The narrator watches a mysterious beetle circle his kitchen table:

I thought to myself, ‘It really is the absolute master of this tiny realm. What is it trying to achieve with this dire circumference…? What hex is it attempting to cast?’ And I began to imagine that perhaps instead it saw all, that those impenetrable eyes would engulf the entire cosmos if they only wanted.
Maybe, just as for the solipsist, what it did not gaze upon didn’t even exist.
And it was with these sort of meditations that the forgotten hours of the day dissolved away while the creature’s lengthening shadow shifted back and forth across the table, like a mad shuttle through an invisible weave, like a swart comet witnessed from irrationally far outside its orbit. My vision solidified. My mind began to penetrate into the crevices of that gloriously perfect shell, as though to glimpse beneath the robes of Phra Phrom himself. Becoming the creature—empty and pure. The insect’s mesmerizing silhouette faded into the blackness overtaking the room; its ominous pigment oozed into every corner, out into the world and across the entire city.

From "Ephemera" by Jeffery M. Anderson

Nester is kidnapped by Tex, the mysterious man who has been following him...

     The truck appeared to be a relic from a long forgotten age of vehicles. It had an old cassette tape player and vinyl seats, dials in front of the driver instead of digital displays, windows with hand cranks and lap belts with no shoulder harnesses for safety. He desperately wanted to open the glove box and see what treasures lay within. The cowboy reached inside the sport coat he was wearing and produced an ancient cell phone, something from the last century in the early days of cell phones, it even had a little antennae he had to pull out as he flipped it open. Deftly, he pushed a button and put it to his ear. “Yep, baby’s in the basket. See you soon.” He closed the phone and rolled down his window. Nester was about to ask if he could have a look at it when the cowboy side armed it out of the pickup into the countryside. He picked up the paper sack from the diner and tossed it into Nester’s lap.     

     “Start unwrappin’ burgers, pard.” A hand shot toward him, which he reflexively shook, not having time to consider whether one should shake hands with one’s kidnapper.     

From "Twist Turn and Burn" a story within "Homicide 2040" by Libby Heily

“I certainly didn't go into homicide to deal with dead bodies,” Detective Pavil said. The two fingers clamped down on his nostrils made his voice come out high pitched and cartoonish. He wore three latex gloves on each hand and had a piece of cloth tied around his mouth.

Detective Sylvester wasn't fairing any better despite shunning the protective cloth and wearing only one set of latex gloves. She was hoping to exude an air of confidence, but the vomit splattered on her shirt and shoes, the remains of an expensive lunch with friends, belied her true emotional state. “Are we sure he's dead?”

Pavil tried to snort through shut nostrils and nearly strained a muscle in his throat. Once he regained his composure, he said, “His head is missing.”

Sylvester shrugged. It seemed like a question a cop should ask. “Did anyone see anything?” she asked.

There were two uniformed police officers standing by, each with their backs turned to the crime scene. “Don't know. Haven't talked to anyone yet,” one of them called back to them. “Can we go now?”

Just then, the body expelled the gas that was trapped in its abdomen.

“Fucking hell,” one cop cried. Pavil ran away from the body as if it was about to explode and Sylvester unleashed the rest of her lunch onto herself and the floor.

From "Fezariu's Epiphany" by David M. Brown

Fezariu has just been issued a mission that will see him return to Clarendon, the town he fled years before...

Fezariu could not shake the fear that was cold around his heart whenever he thought of Clarendon. Though the city had never been far away during his training on Merelax Island there was still that reassurance of the sea being between Fezariu and Clarendon, while his devotion to the pursuit of excellence as a mercenary ensured he never felt the need to return and confront his past. Now his hand had been forced. Not only would Fezariu have to complete the assassination of a political figure, he was now returning to his childhood, to relive the memories that had driven him into the arms of the mercenaries in the first place. Fezariu’s only hope was that he could remain disciplined and focussed on the assignment and not submit to the temptation to confront the painful battles he had fought as a boy.

From "We, The Watched" by Adam Bender

“Will you look at that,” George says admiringly. My eyes unglaze and follow his finger out the window. A barn in the distance is enveloped in flames. Dark clouds of smoke billow out the top. A pair of men in midnight blue uniforms stand with rifles relaxed at their sides, smirking at the burning structure.

“What the hell? Why are they just standing there?” I scan the area for a fire engine, an ambulance, something…

“Must be one of them damn rebel groups hiding out in there,” he says, grinning.

“The soldiers set it on fire?” I sputter back.

The question appears to irritate George. “The Guard keeps us united,” he says. “If we can’t stand together, the heretics have already won.”

A figure dressed in black rushes out of the barn. His arms stretch into the air.

One soldier lifts a rifle to his shoulder.

Not totally believing, I glance at George. The old man nods his head in approval.

From "The Depths of Deception" by Ian Fraser

I knew without looking that on the wall beside my head there’d be a piece of reflective metal: a notional mirror. Do I want to see myself again? Shall I pretend to know me?  I turned my head, opening my eyes. In the mirror, my distorted cheekbone swam into view like some asteroid in space slowly rolling, revealing flaws and features. A bloodshot eye regarded me. Every time I looked in a mirror, awkwardness descended, as if my reflection and I were former friends with nothing to say, both of us co-existing in an uneasy silence.

You’re me.

 I told myself I wasn’t lying. My eye observed me and I returned the stare, searching for traces of judgment or disapproval. But the reflected eye was neutral, answering me with an impassive gaze. I watched the flesh around the eye crinkle, as if its owner was smiling. I didn’t think I was smiling. But I knew the eye had seen everything I had done, and intended to do, and, for whatever reason, it seemed content to convey nothing of substance about its opinions. I turned the light off; darkness returned; the pressure diminished. I need sleep. I shut my eyes.

From "In a Celandine World" by Catherine Thorpe

“Professor Smith?”  I interrupted him as he wiped his face with his pocket-handkerchief.

“Miss Jane—,” he said, pausing to look up at me, “did you enjoy class today?”  He tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket.

“Yes, thank you.”  I fidgeted with my portfolio bag strap while I struggled internally for the courage to bring up the painting.  “I was wondering if you had some time to talk about the painting from last week.”  I forced myself to keep any unrealistic enthusiasm in check.  “I was also wondering if you’d sorted out where you’d seen it before.”  I bit my lower lip with anxious anticipation.

“Oh, yes—,” he said, abruptly coming to his feet, “I had almost forgotten in all the excitement of that debate.”  He quickly tossed his notes into his briefcase and turned to face me.  “Miss Jane—,” he said, looking at me with childish excitement.  “We have a centuries old mystery on our hands.”  His cartoon-eyes danced off his face with theatrics.  He picked up his briefcase and cocked his head to one side.  His left eye dangled dangerously low to the ground in this position.  “Shall we get some tea?”