Science Fiction Writing Prompts

The light was dimming, slowly, and then all of a sudden, as it’s always the case for people who are too fond of daylight. Tonight, though, there was a small consolation in place, a vestige of the day just gone, a reminder that light and darkness are really as indistricable as truths are from lies. As she glanced at the rain-soaked tarmac, she could sense it come alive with colours, like neon signs on the high street at dusk. As she looked up at the sky, the dimming city was repainted in technicolour, much more vividly than it could have ever been when bathed in sunlight. This eerie, almost surreal show, she liked to call the daylight spectre, and she always thought that somewhere in an alternate universe, rainbows must have only shown up when the sun was high in the sky.

She was pretty before. Turning heads in every room she walked in. Now, the tabloids that call her “beautiful”, pretend that she has perfect features. A million dollars for a photo session.

She was smart before. Straight A student, passionate of poetry. Now, the scientists that test her periodically, establish that her IQ has never been reached before, by a human being.

She was kind before. Never saying no when someone needed help, giving her last cent to the hungry ones, that kind! Now she gives the million dollars from her photo shooting (‘till the very last cent!) to poverty.

She was loved before. Family, friends, neighbors and, basically, everyone had a good word about her. Now she is adored, idolized, put on a pedestal and given as role model for the little girls all around the world.

She was happy before, always smiling, singing, dancing on her way to school. Now, the psychologists who analyze the changes, explain that she’s balanced, in deep peace with herself, optimistic and confident.

She was alive. Until she died in a car crash. Then, they did something amazingly new and unseen. A real progress for humanity. They implanted a chip in her dead brain, so it started functioning again. She is the AI girl, even if she believes she’s still human. Her functions depend on a very well written software.

She had faith before.

I have always dreamed of revolution. Something that would send ripples through the world, tear it at the very seam— and turn it upside down.

Think of an hourglass. If there‘s a quake, it will shake, shake, shake and, if the quake is forceful enough, it will flip.

How wondrous! My hands ache for the sense of new discovery, of breakthrough!

That is why I schemed. A grand scheme indeed it is that I have devised.

Unfortunately, I ran into countless issues as I was trying to create a substance that could transmute living beings into higher entities. But I have persisted. And I will until I reach my goal. What I want to achieve is the perfect creation. It needs a lot of fine tuning to make certain parts of the body change exactly the way I want them to. I am almost finished on that. The alterations I have thought of and implemented in rats and other small animals are something I am rather proud of.

However, humans are different.

I was not able to try my “Godsoup“, as I call it, on humans yet. I had to perfect it first, to make people agree. But would they agree to let me change their bodies at my will? At the risk of their lives?

It doesn‘t matter to me whether they want it or not. What I need are test subjects, damn it!

The only problem left to solve is changing human body parts, which are much larger than and built differently from rats‘, without destroying them or killing the subject, and then creating a formula that can be used generally, taking into account that there are different body types and races. Key to that is, of course, that the subjects don‘t die on me during the transformation, as it is equal to causing evolution to happen but at a pace that‘s about a million years faster than the natural process. It is a challenge. And that makes it all the more thrilling.

All I need are subjects…

A voice tears me from my thoughts.

“Mr. Wen, the samples you asked for are ready.“

I turn around abruptly, raising my fist in a sudden fit of rage. A habit of mine. I don‘t like it when people interrupt me while I‘m thinking.

Ah, shit. What dumbass is—

My assistant stares at me, her face a question mark. “Mr. Wen? Do you want me to organize them for you or will you take a look right now?“

Calm down.

I put on my friendliest smile and take the samples. “I shall take care of this. But before that, Sylvia— could you help me with my experiments? There‘s something I‘m a bit…. stuck on.“ My smile does not falter for a second as a brilliant plan forms in my brilliant mind.

Sylvia gives me a curious look and follows me to a separate lab which I somehow got permission to operate for. This room is to work on my Godsoup, whereas in the other lab, with my partners, I work on my cover-up. That is, vaccine for some boring disease.

“I‘ve been wanting to have a look at what you do here for some time now,“ Sylvia said.

Yes, keep talking, I think. Let her keep distracting herself so that I can make my preparations…

Done.

“Sylvia,“ I say, diluting three drops of modified Godsoup in a glass of water. I hand her the glass.

“Remember to stay hydrated.“

“But Mr. Wen, we‘re not allowed to eat or drink in the lab.“

I smile conspiratorially. “I‘m giving you permission right now. Since it‘s only the two of us.“

She takes the glass. I gaze at her, hungrily. I‘m so close…

“Thanks, I‘ve been so absorbed in work that I didn‘t drink all day.“

There we go. The soup is down.

As she realizes, her face changes. There‘s something in her eyes that tells me I won‘t see “Sylvia“ as I know her— as a human— ever again. It‘s not just the shock in her eyes.

There was a light before, kind of like a sign that she is in there. Similar to a warning vest that kids wear in the dark sometimes.

But when she took my potion, it flickered… and died.

I blink. Before I can grasp this feeling, the moment is gone.

Her body changes, legs growing longer, fangs breaking out of her mouth, and her nails become claws.

This is the moment I had waited for. The revolution I dreamed of.

Glorious! More, MORE!

A laugh reverberates in my breast, resounding in the lab as Sylvia bleeds where her limbs tore to let new ones, better ones sprout.

When the transformation is complete, I sink to my knees in reverance.

_You really made it, Jay. _

I have created perfection. I have created… a God. So I take my Godsoup and shove it down my own throat.

Bam.  I stare at the man standing in front of me, staring at the hole in his stomach with shock. I feel my eyes well up as I look at the gun in my shaking hands, pointed right at him.  He falls to his knees, clutching his stomach. He looks up at me, a betrayed look in his eyes. I stand, frozen, for longer than I should. I drop the gun on the ground and kneel in front of him. My heart shatters, seeing the pain and betrayal in his eyes. I want to say something, but once again, my voice betrays me.  He looks down at his blood-covered hand and back up at me. My breaths become faster and faster as his become shallower. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.  A tear slips out of my eye as he leans forward, leaning his forehead against mine. More follow as I feel his heart slow down. I wrap my arms around him, trying to hold my tears back. Not even a minute later, he goes limp. I pull back, setting my hands on his shoulders, shaking him, silently begging him to wake up, but nothing happens.  Tears slip down my cheeks and I squeeze my arms around him, begging his arms to return the gesture like they always do. I bury my face in his stiff shoulder, not caring about the blood or the tears. All I care about is the cold, stiff man in my arms. Sobs wrack my body until my tears are spent and my heart is empty. I pull back and turn away, not able to bear looking at his face. I gently lay him down on the ground and stand on shaking legs.  I turn, my eyes searching the room for the one responsible for this. To my disgust, she’s already left. She should consider herself lucky. The next time I see her will be the last. I swear that my face will be the last thing she sees.

Gods It’s stifling in here; you wonder why you didn’t choose a cooler climate. Droplets of sweat drip along your brow and run down the side of your face. Mentally, you start to remind yourself that this is only...

“So, who’s going to die today?” He says this as he saunters down the line-up in his industrial hydraulic exoskeleton suit. The squad lead, eyeing his new batch of recruits with the typical hint of disgust plastered across his face. You wonder if it was a requirement for the role he plays in all this. Someone ruthless enough to inevitably lead cadets to their potential death.

You maintain eye contact as he passes, eyeing with envy his new, upgraded suit. A sleek and far more slender design. The squad lead grips a clipboard behind his back as he moves past you. It’s obvious he’s looking for something—a weak link among you? Based on what you witnessed in bootcamp, that isn’t you. So you hold your head high. You are powerful, and this suit makes you lethal. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

His metallic boots clank, clank, clank against the cargo deck’s graded flooring as he makes his way back up the line. Stopping in front of you without even a sideways glance. You’ve been dispatched before; you know how this game works; it’s always a big flex of power, and yet something feels different.

He unfolds his arms and flips a page back on his clipboard, studying it for a moment. His eyes flick to his watch and then up to the flight deck. Never once glancing in your direction.

“Cadet, How would you respond to a code 32 mid-flight?” He still doesn’t make eye contact with you, as if you haven’t earned that right just yet. Still standing with his side to you, he seems content looking down at his boots, waiting for your answer.

Shit. That’s one you haven’t heard yet. You’ve read the Codex, of course, and you know the answer for a Code 32 response. But… mid-flight?

You give it your best shot. “Code 32: Indication of a failed O2 Line. Mid-flight… I should have access to a repair master, from which I could test my lines and sensors and then replace what’s necessary. Sir!”

A smile flickers across his lips. “Interesting…” He remarks, walking towards the hatch door before you. He finally turns to face you and the rest of the cadets standing in line. He raises his fist, and there’s a moment your mind pulls at the familiarity of his features, then he slams his fist into the hatch release.

Three warning alarms ring out as the hatch door begins to slide open. Then you jerk your head to the sound coming from the flight deck. Was that a code?

You are unable to finish your thought as your visor’s sight feed scrambles, impairing your vision. Then the comm in your ear screams at you, and instantly you and your fellow cadets double over. Clutching at your helms, at the disorienting chaos. It overwhelms your senses, and you feel nauseated. In glitches, you see the squad lead is talking, but only bits make it through.

"Congratulations, Cadet... Lead... to victory!” He’s smiling, making a show of it.

You blink, and suddenly he’s on you, grabbing you by your chest piece and hauling you up to stand on your feet. It’s as if you weigh nothing to him, as your body is forced upright. Then he comes in close. You struggle against his grip, but there’s no use. Your hands scramble against his arm, trying to pull him off of you. But you fall short; this suit of his is far superior in strength to the one you wear. The others around you are still struggling, clutching at the ground, trying to manually remove their helms to escape it all. Then, everything goes silent. The squad leader's voice rings in your comm, a whisper at most.

“I finally found you, cadet.” He shoves you back against the cargo deck's wall, and you see your company still struggling on the ground before you. You realise this message was meant for your ears alone; no one else can hear a thing. With his other hand, he rips the back of your neck casing away and pulls a knife from his hip. In one clean motion, he slices your exposed wiring.

Holding onto your chest, he swings you around, and let’s go. He is now standing in your spot in line. “Welcome to reality.” He says, as you stumble back from his grasp, and before you can regain your footing, he kicks you in the chest, sending you stumbling further backwards. Until there’s nothing beneath your feet and you fall through the hatch door, flipping uncontrollably towards the ground below.

“WARNING! WARNING!” Red words flash in your visual feed. “CODE 32! WARNING! CODE 32!”

Gasping for air, you claw at the helm. Trying to reach for the emergency release, trying to remove the goggles you know are there. You feel as if you can’t breathe. But you know that isn’t possible. Right?

“Let. Me. Out” You choke out the words as your oxygen levels plummet. It’s all you can do to remind yourself that this isn’t real. But why hasn’t someone unplugged you?

You know it’s too late when your body flips and you see the ground rushing towards you. A vast forest is rushing up to meet you. Red lights continue to flash as the oxygen levels get dangerously low and your vision begins to blur at the edges. His words ring through your mind once more: “Welcome to reality.”

You black out just as you are engulfed in a thicket of trees. Crashing and snapping branches as your suits takes the brunt of the damage on your way down.

When you finally open your eyes, you see that your helm lies just off to your right. The visual screen clearly cracked—inoperable. Lifting yourself up, you winch at the pain in your side, and you look down to see a branch has penetrated your suit. You see the blood leaking down, pooling around the wound. But it doesn’t frighten you as much as it should. What scares you the most is the fact that you're still here. You haven’t been unplugged, and there’s no way to remove yourself without access to your helm. You're stuck in this virtual reality...

How the fuck is that even possible?

Vines grow wild here Twisting into windows Over the rooftops And through the dreams of the city dwellers Who know nothing other than these vines That suck the air dry of its vitality And the life from their souls. For, to them, nothing is out of the ordinary To gasp for their next breath To sleep fitful nights Of stifled nightmares To live days bound in these organic chains. For this is the city that squeezes dry Every ounce of life force Until it leaves you on the precipice Of life and death.

I lay on the table. Anguish, it is all I have ever known. My eyes fixate at the creature in the mirror.

Its body is pale, sutured and stitched together like a torn apart doll from childhood. I remember those days, childhood. I remember the ponds in Říčany, wading in the water.

Its arms are no longer flesh, its mechanical and eldritch limbs reach for things that arent there. I remember climbing the tall oaks, carving my name in the soft inner bark of the tree.

Its face is contorted, demon like. The biomechanical implants make it seem like a Likho my matka always warned of.

What have I become?

I miss my home. My family.

“Pane, pomoz mi...prosím...trpím...”

I close my eyes, letting the sedatives bring me back into the grasp of unconsciousness. The cold void is far more forgiving than this hellscape.

Where are all the people who once loved me so?

I was a spirited man in my youth; spritely and full of vigour. The world was a tumbling oyster off the back of the universe that was my whale. Now, all gone. Things have tumbled to nothingness, all thanks to him. That damned juggernaut! Ploughing through my heart and bewitching the souls of everyone who looked through me to him.

Like an old tattered flag waving limply without wind. While he… he who took the life that was to be mine, the fans that were to be mine, the childen desperate for my signature, all chanting his name.

Well, at least I’m alone now. Adored from afar. Captain James Brodie lives his perfect little life on the rock of my home. While I float here, in the blackness peppered with sparkles, like a million one-way phone calls. Pressing a hundred solitary buttons hoping it will impress my nation the way he did so smirkingly well.

The only thing that remains now, while I dutifully serve my world, is the knowledge that it will come to nothing. No change, no parade, no ‘well done Captain Albert Scott of the ISS.’ Because, as I write this, trying to look at that perfect little smile, in that perfect little world, I wish I was back there too. So I could have died with the rest of my race, rather than float deftly, without a care - out of my world.

The girl exhaled, her breath condensing in a faint puff as she gazed. She imagined the countless exoplanets tucked away in each pinpoint of light.

Perhaps of all the stars her naked eye could see, not a single one held more than a puddles’ worth of microorganisms. Perhaps of all the stars beyond her view, only one held life anywhere near as complex as that on her own.

Perhaps those people looked up at the sky and imagined the same. Imagined her.

What would that planet be like?

Perhaps this planet was also close to its star. Perhaps it too was tidally locked, bathing one side in forever scorching sun and the other a constant swath of darkness. Her people lived in the terminator zone, a place of twilight. Only in the past centuries had they dared encroach upon the eternal night.

Perhaps this planet would be placed confidently in the Goldilocks zone. Perhaps it would spin, with life-bringing daylight cycles. Perhaps this planet was more diverse. Perhaps it had a dozen moons. Perhaps there were a thousand things she would never know about this marvel of a marble. Perhaps it’s people were content with themselves and didn’t see fit to think stellar thoughts.

Perhaps this planet had no war. Perhaps things were better. Or perhaps things were worse. And someone would look up at the stars, dreaming of Zira, seeing it to be paradise.

Perhaps there was nobody out there.

But Amrynn liked to think there was.

Jorge De Saláriente was everywhere. His face was plastered on every news outlet in the country.

He was Mexico’s most renowned romance writer to date with 17 published novels, 14 of which became bestsellers.

“Mira, it’s Señor De Salareinte”, people murmured to each other as he walked down the narrow, cobbled streets of the small pueblo of Costa Caliente.

In leu of admiration and praise, wariness and curiosity plagued their features when he passed by, likely attributed to rumors about him and his doña.

They wondered how la Doña de Salariente could still be married to a man who was in love with a robot.

“Cállate, mijo”, a señora standing nearby hushed her 10 year old son who was spewing nonsense about Jorge kissing ‘Eva de la película Wall-E’.

Jorge kept his face rigid and stern as he passed through the pueblo. With a towering height of 6’1, he obnoxiously stood out from the rest of the lot.

He wore a white, plaid button down shirt tucked into brown trousers with a pair of brown huaraches on his feet.

His black hair was combed to one side and gelled down. He kept his face clean shaven, with the exception of his black mustache, which was very well groomed.

As much as Jorge wished it to be different, he was used to the ignorance and close-minded behaviors of the people in the Pueblo.

The inhabitants of Mexico City were slightly more liberal than the other cities, but not by much.

The pueblito of Costa Caliente had a long winding road of progress ahead of them.

Despite it all, Jorge insisted on living here, even though he had enough fortune to move to Los Estados Unidos and buy a large property and home.

He simply wrote better here. The air was clean, the sun was warm, and the Pueblo was far enough away to keep publicists and media at bay.

No one wanted to come all the way to Costa Calienta to only ask questions.

Instead, Jorge would fly out when they requested him for interviews and book signings and he much preferred it that way.

Jorge needed his privacy. The people of Costa Caliente knew that and left him alone for the most part, aside from the occasional stares he received when he went into town.

The Doña never accompanied him, and many people had their suspicions.

Those suspicions grew when he published his newest novel, Aparato del Amor.

The people were horrified when they realized the novel was based on a man’s sexual journey with a robot named Dolores.

Dolores was a machine with a female body. The protagonist in his story was a man named Julio Cazárez, and he was a lonely man who had never known any sort of affection.

He lived in a shack in the desiertos of Mexico with his mother who had already passed away. Julio made a living by tending to the ranch and his animals.

He knew no one women other than his mamá and the mujeres from the novelas that he used to watch with her.

When Julio reached the age of 28 he built a robot and made her look like the women on the TV.

Eventually the book dives into the sexual pleasures that Julio explores with Dolores, going into explicit detail.

At the end of the book, Julio is driven by his lust and ends up creating another robot in addition to Dolores and names her Juana. The book hints at the idea that he even created dozens more after them.

Jorge won an esteemed award for Aparato del Amor.

“A gruesomely explicit and psychotic adventure” the New York Times had said.

“Deliciously disturbing and subtly alarming” another highly esteemed review stated.

The gente of Costa Caliente were a little put off by the novel. They could not help but wonder if Julio Cazares was actually Jorge De Salariente in real time.

Jorge and his Doña lived in a Spanish style white stucco home on the outskirts of the Pueblo. The home was surrounded by a large gate that fanned out more then 20 acres.

They were an isolated couple. And the people never saw la Doña unless she was far away with her black mantilla draped over her head.

Jorge was not bothered by the uproar he caused with Aparato Del Amor.

He thought it was his best work yet.

When Jorge arrived home he walked upstairs and opened the door to his large study.

He heard the shower running in the next room over.

La Doña must be showering. He placed his bags on his oak desk and went into the room adjacent to the study. It was their master bedroom.

Jorge opened the door to the bathroom and the smell of petroleum filled his nostrils. He walked to the tub and pulled back the curtains, revealing his naked wife.

“Another shower, mi Amor?” Jorge furrowed his brows in concern.

La Doña turned around and faced him. She raised her arm to caress his face but it stopped halfway, a pained expression crossing her features.

“Si, querido. My limbs are getting stiff again” she replied.

Oil poured out of the shower head, covering la Doñas stiff body and lubricating her joints.

Jorge stared at her, flames of desire igniting deep within him.

“Okay”, he rasped. “Is mi querida in the other room?” He asked.

“Si”, she answered.

Jorge nodded and leaned forward and kissed her deeply. Her lips were so similar to the real thing. He was getting better.

There was oil residue left on his lips as he closed the curtain and walked out of their room and into the hallway to the room across the hall.

He licked his lips clean.

His body was lit with desire and she would satisfy it in the mean time until his wife was ready. Dolores was his favorite, and his wife after all.

He unbuckled his belt and zipped down his zipper before he opened the door to her room.

“Juana, mi amor”, He sang as he walked in and closed the door behind him.

The cable car crunched against the molten rock, freeing small pieces from the cliff side and dropping them into the orange river below. Jacob had fallen asleep during the journey. Trips across the cavern were seldom made and terribly long - six hours long to be exact. Six hours down the natural crevasse carved by the lava river below. Even in the insulated cable car, it was unbearably hot by the end of the line. The nap was more to lower his body temperature than to rest.

Jacob jolted awake as the car made contact. After a year of making this same trip over and over again, he still couldn’t stop the adrenaline from flooding his system. As confident as he was in the craftsmanship, his brain still knew that any trip over a pool of lava could be his last.

He grabbed his bag and stepped out onto the basalt platform. The first thing he felt wasn’t the solid, welcoming ground beneath his feet. It was the thick air smacking him in the face with the acrid smell of sulfur burning into his nose.

He loathed this part of the trip. The first hundred miles were easy. As rickety as the cable car was, it was well kept. It even had air control to keep the smell and temperature at bay. That was thanks to the tribes. They all contributed to fund and maintain this one connection - the Courier’s Pass. Friends and loved ones separated by hundreds of miles of poisoned earth above and burning hell below. The Courier’s Pass gave them a chance to connect once more.

Jacob grabbed the strap of his bag more firmly. The second half of the journey would be painful, slow, and hot, but it would be worth it. The letters he carried would bring smiles to children’s faces and tears to mothers’ eyes. More than that, it would bring hope to people in a hopeless world. It would remind them that life hadn’t ended, that they weren’t alone. Humanity survived, and they were a part of it.

His sister’s face suddenly filled his mind. It had been three months since he saw her last. The people of West End didn’t have their letters ready, so he’d had to wait longer than usual to leave again. His stomach felt as hollow as a cave. Was she alright? Had she stayed home like he told her to, only leaving for kerosene if the lamps grew dim? Fear flooded in, but he quickly beat it down. No, he thought. She’s smart. She’s done this before.

With confidence he began climbing across the cliff side. He had to make it back. These letters were important. This path before him, carved into the side of the rock, was important - she was important. If he failed, more would be lost than a few love letters and a thin boy with a knack for rock climbing. The very heart of the people left on this earth would be lost with him. And she would be alone, again, crying in the darkness like the night they were forced underground.

And he wasn’t going to let that happen.

She runs, and stops at a playground. Clutching her endlessly pounding heart, she struggles to stay conscious and on her feat. Around her dulling vision, mechanical footsteps fill the frozen air; She is safe, but her security is not permanent.

She sits down on a swing and looks towards the approaching robots. In front of the buildings now leveled to pillars of ruble, their white, plastic shells reflect the partially cloudy sky, the smooth casing stained with dust and dirt.

She gives a half-hearted pump on the swing. Towards her, the dozen robots aim their guns, weapons configuring out of their arms. They click; Each gun loads.

But, none of them shoot. Normally, when a rogue unit identifies a human, it fires on the spot. she, however, knows they won’t attack, not here. Further and further, she swings; The robots only look on, awaiting to fire.

She figured out that these robots follow a strict code, remnants of their past regulations dictating how they function. By the looks of it, they cannot operate on a playground nor fire their weapons in one.

Still, she is hopeless; She sheds a few tears before pulling herself together. Sifting through her bag, she notes that there is only enough food to last a few days, only few days to take action, and only a few actions that ensure her survival.