humanity
The evolution of humanity, from one advancement to the next.
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
Reaching for the Stars
I am inspired by the person who leads the ‘100-Year Starship Program’ because they aim to send humans outside of our solar system in the next century! When I found out the lead was a woman, I was pleasantly surprised. Then, when I discovered it was a black woman, my appreciation grew. Realizing she was about my age and taking into consideration what the world was like when we grew up, I wondered… "How in the world she was able to accomplish all that she has?” In 1992, she became the first black woman astronaut to travel into space. She’s served in the Peace Corps as an officer. She’s a doctor (General Practitioner), and an engineer. Plus currently, the aforementioned program lead for the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. So, I decided to do some research and find out how Dr. Mae Carol Jemison managed to lead such a remarkable life.
By Karla Bowen Herman5 years ago in Futurism
Tidal Pull
The tides in Puerto Peñasco, Sonora are some of the most drastic in the world. Low cliffs that in the early morning look out over pebbled coves become perfect diving spots, safe to jump from by lunch. Differing by 20 feet on some days, the rising water at high tide laps up entire rock formations, erasing concrete paths and even stairways that lead into the sea.
By Elaine Radosevich5 years ago in Futurism
Hereditary
Early morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains and I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter. I was having such a good dream. There had been aliens and a fantastical dimension that I’d somehow ended up in, the undulating scenery around me full of bright colors, colors I didn’t even know existed. I’d had these same kind of dreams as a child, but the more time I spent awake, the more the dream would slip away until it had all but disappeared. Sure enough, as sleep ebbed away and my mind started whirring once more, remembering it felt difficult, like trying to hold on to something slippery and wriggling and wet.
By Trisha Srigiriraju5 years ago in Futurism
