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"Science Fiction" means—to us—everything found in the science fiction section of a bookstore, or at a science fiction convention, or amongst the winners of the Hugo awards given by the World Science Fiction Society. This includes the genres of science fiction (or sci-fi), fantasy, slipstream, alternative history, and even stories with lighter speculative elements. We hope you enjoy the broad range that SF has to offer.

Longest day

The author grew up on classic sci fi at a young age, back when there was little else to do but let the imagination carry oneself off to whatever future beckoned, utopian or dystopian.

The room is dark but a small crack in the roof lets in a slanted beam of light. Dust motes dance in the air. There is a hiss of compressed hydraulics and a small black hand reaches, trembling, sunlight glinting off of the corroded and pitted metal surface.
"Hush little one, hush" the voice is metallic and flat, but the hand reaches for a cradle and rocks it gently. The disturbed dust swirls madly in the air.
There is nothing in the cradle. Maybe there once was, maybe it had been empty forever.
"Hush" says the rusted robot, rocking away. How long had it been here, rotting in the dark?
It sits there, like it has sat before, and its legs are swallowed by the fine dust that gathered over the years.
"Hush now" it gently says, like it's said before.
The arm rocks the cradle in a facsimile of compassion, there may be no one to rock, but that won't stop the robot.
Maybe there once had been a child, maybe not. It doesn't matter to the machine.
"Hush" it says, and the dust softly settles.
The End
This story was first published on Thursday, March 12th, 2020
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