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Warning! This review contains spoilers. To answer the question on everybody’s mind: No, controversial filmmaker Manuela Riviera’s new documentary The Reunion of the Survivors of Sigrún 7 doesn’t reveal what happened during the forty-five days the spaceship went missing on its way to Mars or how mission commander Ruben Corto died.
If you’re reading this, in a self-destructing DM, on the reverse strand of a plasmid, in the recipe binder you found in a deported neighbor’s belongings dumped on the curb, you’re no longer angry. You’re hungry. Your last co-op got raided by the Department of Homeland Biosecurity, hunting for pharmaceuticals “dangerous” to those at risk of getting pregnant.
His long voice weaves itself into your dream with a promise: I’ll come for you. I know you’re not who they think you are. Your mind sharpens as you wake, the voice thinning to the howl of a lone wolf.
When I was five years old, my mother left for Europa as part of the expedition that discovered the Europan Pseudocephalopods, which have a superficial resemblance to squid. My mother wanted to call them Icypods but was overruled.
A small god once lived far out among the hidden objects that plied the stardust between galaxies. They were not a handsome god, nor an ugly god; not an intelligent god, nor an ignorant god.
Every Teshiarr metropolis, town, and hamlet had featured an agora, the community centerpiece for shopping, conversing, and joining. It was where one received their daily meals, heard news from leaders, and reported to communal soul alcoves.
Hello, there. If you are reading this, then I assume you are either a mortal who somehow stumbled upon this text or a young demigod seeking to ascend closer to Eledumare’s throne. If you are the latter, I welcome you.
The smaller creatures of the universe have called me many names: She Who Darkens the Sky, Star-Blotter, The One That Unstitches Constellations. None of them knew how right they were. They named me for my shadow.
Welcome to my seminar, Self-Care Secrets for Immortals! Few foxes make it to over nine hundred years old in this day and age, but you’ll be one of them with four of my time-tested, battle-honed secrets.
When the ship’s scanners first chirped in the dead of night, Sien figured it was another misfire: light reflecting off asteroid ice, solar radiation, space dust. But xe still slid from xir berth into the chilly, cramped cockpit, eyes bleary.
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