There is no time to plan, there is no space to think. No respite. No forgiveness. There is only war.
Read books when you are free, read minds when you are'nt....but do read...
There are those who look at things the way they are, and ask why. Science fiction dreams of the things that never were and asks why not? The answer to which is often "Because it might not be very wise...
Survival is insufficient
A journey inward may end in defeatFor life as we know it was made by machines
It was the end of the October term of my sophomore year, and everything was petty normal, except for Social Studies, which was no big surprise. Mr. Dimas, who taught the class, had a reputation for un...
I made a discovery. It was cold enough to make my eyes water, and I found out that If I kept them almost closed, the moisture diffused the lights, so that everything - the Moon, the stars, the street...
So much American science fiction is parochial -- not as true now as it was years ago, but the assumption is one culture in the future, more or less like ours, and with the same ideals, the same notion...
Science Fiction: Any scientific acclaim that omits God.
[...]her mouth curved into that smile that always teased every one of his senses. Amusement. She could feel it and give him that sense of playfulness and joy that she seemed to have in abundance.
What is it in humans that makes us so eager to believe ill of one another? ... What makes us so hungry for it? Failed idealism, he suspected. We disappoint ourselves and then look around for other fai...
None were left now to unname, and yet how close I felt to them when I saw one of them swim or fly or trot or crawl across my way or over my skin, or stalk me in the night, or go along beside me for a...
Life’s more science-fictiony by the day.
If patterns of ones and zeroes were like patterns of human lives and deaths, if everything about an individual could be represented in a computer record by a long strings of ones and zeroes, then what...
I'm trying to decide if I'm having hallucinations and you're really an angel--or witch. Either one, I can't tell yet.
I don't speak, I operate a machine called language. It creaks and groans, but is mine own.
Her soft laughter slid into his mind. It wasn't laughter at him, rather an invitation to join in, to laugh at the two of them in this impossible predicament they found themselves in.
He took her breath away. He was solid, all muscle and she could see, even with the veil of gray rain, that his muscles rippled deliciously as he ran.
He pulled out of her mind abruptly. She knew because she felt bereft. Starkly alone. The feeling was raw and ugly after having him there with her. She wanted him back, and that wasn't an intelligent r...
He had to be a GhostWalker. She was looking at a legitimate GhostWalker. The real deal.