Tag Archives: Science fiction

by Jennifer Reed/ bookjunkiez | May 10, 2024 · 5:00 am

Writers of the Future Volume 40 Virtual Book Tour

Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror Short Stories

Date Published: May 7, 2024

Spine-tingling

Breathtaking

Mind-blowing

Experience these powerful new voices—vivid, visceral, and
visionary—as they explore uncharted worlds and reveal unlimited
possibilities.

Open the Writers of the Future and be carried away by stories—and
illustrations—that will make you think, make you laugh, and make you
see the world in ways you never imagined.

Twelve captivating tales from the best new writers of the year as selected
by Writers of the Future Contest judges accompanied by three more from L.
Ron Hubbard, Nancy Kress, S.M. Stirling. Each is accompanied by a full-color
illustration.

Plus Bonus Art and Writing Tips from Gregory Benford, Bob Eggleton,
L. Ron Hubbard, Dean Wesley Smith

“When her owner goes missing, a digital housecat must become more
than simulation to find her dearest companion through the virtual
world.—“The Edge of Where My Light Is Cast” by Sky
McKinnon, art by Carina Zhang

No one came to his brother’s funeral. Not even the spirits.
Étienne knew it was his fault.—“Son, Spirit, Snake”
by Jack Nash, art by Pedro N.

Man overboard is a nightmare scenario for any sailor, but Lieutenant Susan
Guidry is also running out of air—and the nearest help is light years
away.—“Nonzero” by Tom Vandermolen, art by Jennifer
Mellen

Mac wanted to invent a cocktail to burn itself upon the pages of
history—but this one had some unexpected side
effects.—“The Last Drop” by L. Ron Hubbard and L. Sprague
de Camp, art by Chris Arias

Dementia has landed Dan Kennedy in Graydon Manor, and what’s left of
his life ahead seems dismal, but a pair of impossible visitors bring
unexpected hope.—“The Imagalisk” by Galen Westlake, art by
Arthur Haywood

When a teenage swamp witch fears her mama will be killed, she utilizes her
wits and the magic of the bayou—no matter the cost to her own
soul.—“Life and Death and Love in the Bayou” by Stephannie
Tallent, art by Ashley Cassaday

Our exodus family awoke on the new world—a paradise inexplicably
teeming with Earth life, the Promise fulfilled. But 154 of us are
missing.…—“Five Days Until Sunset” by Lance
Robinson, art by Steve Bentley

Spirits were supposed to lurk beneath the Lake of Death, hungry and patient
and hostile to all life.—“Shaman Dreams” by S.M. Stirling,
art by Dan dos Santos

A new app lets users see through the eyes of any human in history, but
it’s not long before the secrets of the past catch up with the
present.—“The Wall Isn’t a Circle” by Rosalyn
Robilliard, art by Guelly Rivera

In the shadows of Teddy Roosevelt’s wendigo hunt, a Native American
boy resolves to turn the tables on his captors, setting his sights on the
ultimate prey—America’s Great
Chief.—“Da-ko-ta” by Amir Agoora, art by Connor
Chamberlain

When squids from outer space take over, a punk-rock P.I. must crawl out of
her own miserable existence to find her client’s daughter—and
maybe a way out.—“Squiddy” by John Eric Schleicher, art by
Tyler Vail

Another outbreak? This time it’s a virus with an eighty percent
infection rate that affects personality changes …
permanently.—“Halo” by Nancy Kress, art by Lucas
Durham

Planet K2-18b is almost dead, humanity is enslaved, and it’s
Rickard’s fault. Now in his twilight years, he’d give an arm and
a leg for redemption. Literally.—“Ashes to Ashes, Blood to
Carbonfiber” by James Davies, art by May Zheng

What if magic could undo the unthinkable, and undo Death itself? Would you
use it no matter the cost? What would you sacrifice for
love?—“Summer of Thirty Years” by Lisa Silverthorne, art
by Gigi Hooper

Joe is a prospector tasked with exploring the cosmos on behalf of an
all-powerful government. Breadna is a toaster. There have been weirder love
stories, but that’s unlikely.—“Butter Side Down” by
Kal M, art by Selena Meraki

EXCERPT

Introduction

Once again, I am proud to present to you twelve brand-new stories that will delight you, expose you to new ideas, drag you through harrowing trials, make you think, cry, and laugh. The variety of stories, from time travel to dystopia to the memory of a child’s imagination, is like a library between two covers. You have a treat waiting for you.

Every year that I have been involved in the Writers of the Future Contest, I have been impressed by the talent of up-and-coming writers. They have a vision, they explore it through the eyes of well drawn characters in a world made vivid by their words, and they bring the plot to a conclusion that satisfies the reader’s desire for adventure. It’s hard to choose the finalists because there are always more than the eight per quarter that I am allowed to select from the myriad we receive, and just as hard to pick the three winners from that group. These are the best of the best.

Another important facet is their perseverance. In some cases, the success of these twelve writers is the result of years of submitting to the Contest. When one story didn’t make the cut, they tried a fresh idea. In this year, each of them succeeded. I enjoyed each of these stories, and I am proud to have been a part of bringing the world’s attention to these new writers.

I know there are many hopeful writers who want to join the ranks of Contest winners, and I encourage you to keep trying. One thing that I have noticed over the last couple of years is that some writers keep sending me the same stories over and over again. Once in a very great while, a story will move up in rank, achieving notice as an honorable mention, to silver honorable mention, to semifinalist, or even finalist. If a story that you send me has received the same ranking for three or more quarters, it is unlikely ever to be considered for a higher prize. I beseech you to put that story aside, sell it elsewhere, and send me something else. The Writers of the Future Contest wants to help you achieve a writing career, and a career is not made on a single story. It’s like trying keys in a lock. If one key doesn’t work, try others until one of them opens the door.

What am I looking for? I want a story with a beginning, middle, and end. I want your protagonist to grow in some fashion, whether or not s/he succeeds at the goal. Speculative fiction is about extrapolating on things that already exist. Show me new ideas. Don’t retread ground that has been trampled by thousands of others. Let me hear your voice. Tickle my imagination. Introduce me to new people, new cultures. I want excellent storytelling with great characters and imaginative world-building. You can enter once a quarter, with no entrance fee, with a story that can range in length from flash fiction (yes! we accept flash fiction) up to seventeen thousand words, in any subgenre of science fiction or fantasy, even light horror. Please read the guidelines carefully, and send me your stories!

The rewards for becoming a winner of the Contest are worthwhile. The twelve writer winners are flown into Hollywood, California, from wherever they are in the world, for a grand black-tie, red-carpet gala, given beautiful trophies and checks for winning. Winners from each quarter receive US$500 for third place, US$750 for second place, and US$1,000 for first. Each of their stories has also been handed off to the winners of the Illustrators of the Future Contest to create a unique and original piece of art to accompany it in the anthology. Thousands of longtime professional writers have never had a published story of theirs illustrated in full color, so this is a great honor and a pleasure. The anthologies themselves often become national bestsellers, a terrific thing to have on your bibliography.

The next year’s Contest is already under way. Join us, and let us see your vision.

L. Ron Hubbard, Nancy Kress, S. M. Stirling, Gregory Benford, Bob Eggleton,
Dean Amir Agoora, James Davies, Kal M, Sky McKinnon, Jack Nash, Rosalyn
Robilliard, Lance Robinson, John Eric Schleicher, Lisa Silverthorne,
Stephannie Tallent, Tom Vandermolen, and Galen Westlake.

Illustrators: Dan dos Santos, Ashley Cassaday, Gigi Hooper, Jennifer
Mellen, Pedro Nascimento, Steve Bentley, Connor Chamberlain, Selena Meraki,
Guelly Rivera, Tyler Vail, Carina Zhang, May Zheng, Lucas Durham, and Chris
Arias.

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Tagged as and Horror Short Stories, Bob Eggleton, Dean Amir Agoora, Fantasy, Galen Westlake., Gregory Benford, Jack Nash, James Davies, John Eric Schleicher, Kal M, L. Ron Hubbard, Lance Robinson, Lisa Silverthorne, Nancy Kress, Rosalyn Robilliard, S. M. Stirling, Science fiction, Sky McKinnon, Stephannie Tallent, Tom Vandermolen, Writers of the Future Volume 40

by Jennifer Reed/ bookjunkiez | May 7, 2024 · 5:00 am

Writers of the Future Volume 40 Blitz

Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror Short Stories

Date Published: May 7, 2024

Spine-tingling

Breathtaking

Mind-blowing

Experience these powerful new voices—vivid, visceral, and
visionary—as they explore uncharted worlds and reveal unlimited
possibilities.

Open the Writers of the Future and be carried away by stories—and
illustrations—that will make you think, make you laugh, and make you
see the world in ways you never imagined.

Plus Bonus Art and Writing Tips from Gregory Benford, Bob Eggleton,
L. Ron Hubbard, Dean Wesley Smith

No one came to his brother’s funeral. Not even the spirits.
Étienne knew it was his fault.—“Son, Spirit, Snake”
by Jack Nash, art by Pedro N.

Spirits were supposed to lurk beneath the Lake of Death, hungry and patient
and hostile to all life.—“Shaman Dreams” by S.M. Stirling,
art by Dan dos Santos

Another outbreak? This time it’s a virus with an eighty percent
infection rate that affects personality changes …
permanently.—“Halo” by Nancy Kress, art by Lucas
Durham

Contact Links

Free Writing Workshop

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Tagged as and Galen Westlake., and Horror Short Stories, Bob Eggleton, Dean Amir Agoora, Fantasy, Gregory Benford, Jack Nash, James Davies, John Eric Schleicher, Kal M, L. Ron Hubbard, Lance Robinson, Lisa Silverthorne, Nancy Kress, Rosalyn Robilliard, S. M. Stirling, Science fiction, Sky McKinnon, Stephannie Tallent, Tom Vandermolen, Writers of the Future Volume 40

by Jennifer Reed/ bookjunkiez | April 13, 2024 · 5:00 am

Code of Reanimation Virtual Book tour

Spin-off of the Father of Contention series

Paranormal Thriller, Science Fiction, Horror

Date Published: 11-14-2023

Freedom is a state of mind.

Brigita Nowak has only ever wanted one thing—her freedom. Labelled
psychotic and committed to a mental institution at seventeen, she missed the
chance of a “normal” life. She never held a job, owned her own
place, or experienced love. Until now.

After awakening sprawled on the common room floor—the hospital in
ruins, the staff and patients missing—she realizes it’s her
chance to escape. Seeking sanctuary with her sister, she meets “the
boyfriend” Renner Scholz, a vile yet brilliant geneticist. He has
developed a bioweapon, the Code of Reanimation, destined to destroy the
world. Or so Brigita believes. She’s been seeing zombie hallucinations
as of late, a sure premonition of the highly contagious bioweapon getting
out of hand. Why the connection? Because the bioweapon reanimates dead
organisms into bloodthirsty killing machines.

Brigita has typically experienced death-based hallucinations, blamed on her
mental illness. She, however, always felt they were psychic premonitions.
Convinced that Renner intends to release the bioweapon at a public
fundraising event, she teams up with a handsome love interest to thwart the
catastrophe. But, as Brigita’s visions kick into hyperdrive and
timelines blur, she must determine which events are based on reality or
delusional constructs of her subconscious mind…

before it’s too late.

EXCERPT

Everyone is gone.

The thought was instinctual. It hung there without support, no other knowledge accompanying it. Nothing to explain why Brigita’s face hugged the floor tiles or why a nurse’s shoe with a sock still engaged lay tipped over in her view.

She supposed a chunk of time had passed since she last opened her eyes. This was metaphorically speaking, as her consciousness often slumbered while her eyes remained open. But how much time had she lost this go-round? A few days? Weeks? There were even episodes that had lasted more than a month; a sign her illness was progressively getting worse.

She stayed on the floor, body curled in a ball as she swept together her thoughts.

Am I awake?

She searched for the sounds that were missing; the unsolicited grunts and shrieks from patients, staff responding in placating tones, the steady, distant brrring of the telephone, unoiled wheelchairs squeaking as they rolled on by. Familiarity was absent. The only distinguishable sound was the continual whoosh of the ceiling fans.

This is different. Something’s off.

Commanding strength into wilted limbs, she pulled herself up into a seated position. The side of her face that had connected with the floor felt tender. A knuckle to each eye forced her vision to adjust to the dim lighting—but instead of clarity, the surroundings brought more confusion. More questions. Such as who flipped over the tables and chairs, or scattered board game and puzzle pieces everywhere like on a child’s playroom floor? Who shot the bullet that punched a hole through the wall-mounted television, leaving the screen a glass spiderweb? There was nobody to ask—the building lacking any sign of warm bodies or the usual auditory buzz of human activity. All the staff and patients… gone.

But where? What did I miss?

Brigita tried to recall her last memory. A search for clues led to the discovery of her wheelchair, the one she required only during her catatonic episodes when her body would betray her by turning rigid and doll-like as her mind slipped away to places unknown. Brigita knew the chair was hers, recognizable by the pink ribbon fastened around the right handle. It stood vigil at the bay window overlooking the flower-lined courtyard of McMillan Psychiatric Hospital, most likely where she had perched before collapsing to the floor. Early morning rays failed to penetrate the glazed window, providing a muted account of the brightness, colours, and edges of the objects beyond. It had been years since she had been outside, alone. Escorted by an orderly or her sister, Brigita would walk the Lockstone paths, still a prisoner despite the walls no longer surrounding her.

Wheels ground into motion within her drowsy mind. A plan rapidly forged based on opportunity. If nobody was there, then nobody could stop her. She had waited for a moment such as this ever since her family forced her into the hospital, kicking and screaming against her will. And here it was—an unexpected gift plopped into her lap.

A chance to escape.

Or was this some sort of trickery? The second Brigita attempted to leave, would the staff capture her mid-flight? Would they blame her for the room’s vandalized state? She was the only patient present to take the fall, and perhaps they planned it that way all along. Pinning her as the guilty one. It would give them an excuse to punish her, which seemed to give them such pleasure. They’d start with electroconvulsive therapy, as usual, each jolt sending her deeper into an abyss that held unspeakable terrors. Followed by the benzodiazepines, which rendered her mind dull, making it penetrable to the evil forces constantly trying to wriggle past her defenses.

Come on, Brigita! You can do this. Try at least, her inner cheerleader encouraged. There’s nothing left to lose at this point.

Try. Such a tiny word that required tremendous effort.

As she stood, her legs felt insubstantial, soft, and jittery from disuse. With no need for the wheelchair during awakened states, she left it behind. Managing a few steps forward, she clung onto chairbacks—the few that remained upright—for support as her muscles struggled to regain strength. Then shimmying along the wall with her hands splayed open, her fingertips skimmed along the cracked white paint, dipping at one point to avoid an amoeba-shaped splotch of blood.

Around the corner and into the hall, she continued to search for signs of life. A cart piled high with folded white towels, tissue boxes, toilet paper, and other sanitary items leaned precariously against a door frame. A roll of toilet paper had tumbled off, unspooling halfway down the hall. But no domestic staff accompanied the cart or attempted to clean the mess. No patients occupied the rooms Brigita peered into as she passed by. Just more disarray.

Locating the nursing station, she slipped behind the L-shaped desk and snatched the cherry-red handle of the rotary phone, pressing it to her ear. No dial tone. Not that she remembered any numbers to dial—locked in here far too long to have need of such things.

The desk drawers produced a ring of keys and, with shaking fingers, Brigita inserted them—first one, then two—into the filing cabinet behind the nursing station. On the fourth attempt, she heard a click, and the first drawer trundled open. She skipped to the middle section, searching the N’s (N for Nowak) until she found her chart and yanked it from the drawer. Cracking the file open, she sifted through the paperwork.

It’s got to be in here somewhere… A-ha! She grasped the emergency contact page with her sister Milena’s name and address on display. Committing the information to memory, Brigita replaced the file back in the cabinet and slipped the key ring back into the drawer where she had found it. Nobody had witnessed her snooping, and she intended to keep it that way. The goal was to make a clean break. No trail left behind. To disappear like the other patients. Although their whereabouts remained unknown, she now knew exactly where she was heading.

The front lobby looked like a tsunami had struck. Capsized wheelchairs lay like sunken ships, paper peppered with red droplets (more blood) strewn in waves across the floor. A curtain panel desperately clung to the few hooks still moored above the window, the remaining fabric pooled on the floor in a puddle of baby blue. Blue for soothing the psyche; although it did nothing of the sort. A slab of artificial lighting dangled from the ceiling, flashing and pinging simultaneously. Brigita took in the scene with cool indifference, realizing distantly she should be more alarmed. Oddly, she felt calm.

The doors beckoned. A few more steps to sweet freedom.

Brigita cast one furtive glance backward, but nobody rushed her from behind like she half expected. Everyone was still missing, and she breathed a sigh of relief. They didn’t give a shit about her here. She accepted that a long time ago. Yet, she could almost hear what the orderlies would have said had they caught her fleeing the premises. She heard it enough times. “Where do you think you’re going? Here, let me escort you back to your room, where you’ll be safe.” Their false promises of safety fell on deaf ears. She never felt safe here. No haven from her fears, her visions, only forced to be locked in with the evil that haunted her mind, real and dark and foreboding. And exceedingly powerful.

About the Author

Lanie Mores is the award-winning author of the science fiction and fantasy
book series, Father of Contention. She has an Honours Bachelor of Science
Degree, a Masters Degree in Clinical Psychology, and she is an active member
of the Canadian Authors Association. When she isn’t writing, you’ll find her
reading, binge-watching Netflix, baking, and slaughtering zombies and other
monsters on her Xbox. She lives in Ontario with her family and forever
barking fur babies, Batman and Petri.

Contact Links

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by Jennifer Reed/ bookjunkiez | March 18, 2024 · 5:00 am

Code of Reanimation Blitz

Spin-off of the Father of Contention series

Paranormal Thriller, Science Fiction, Horror

Date Published: 11-14-2023

Freedom is a state of mind.

before it’s too late.

About the Author

Contact Links

Purchase Link

a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Tagged as Code of Reanimation, Horror, Lanie Mores, Paranormal Thriller, Science fiction

by Jennifer Reed/ bookjunkiez | September 20, 2023 · 5:00 am

McMinnville Virtual Book Tour

Science Fiction

Date Published: March 24, 2022

Publisher: MindStir Media

photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

Two photographs taken on a spring evening in 1950 that seem to show the
impossible-we are not alone. A thirteen-year-old girl disappears the same
evening, but returns thirty years later without aging a day. A dying
detective on the hunt for the answers to one mystery falls afoul of a more
profound mystery that calls into question all of human history and the
science on which the universe is based. McMinnville is the story of one
man’s coming to terms with his mortality and the inconceivable, while
falling in love for a second time, something he thought was
impossible.

Ray Baker is a retired NYPD detective, dying of cancer and dealing with the
crushing loneliness after the death of his wife. He wants to make the last
few months of his life count by traveling cross country to the places where
he grew up. Along the way, he stumbles upon a cold case that took place on
May 11, 1950, a few hundred yards from his childhood farm outside of
McMinnville, Oregon. At a little past seven in the evening on that day,
Evelyn Forsyth was feeding her rabbits when she looked up to see a craft
floating soundlessly toward her. She called for her husband, Glenn, to come
with his camera. Over a span of a few seconds, he took two photographs
before the craft tipped up on edge and sped away. That was the story that
appeared in the Telephone Register, McMinnville’s local paper under the
heading “At Long Last-Authentic Photographs Of Flying Saucer[?]” A
month later, the photographs were featured in the June edition of Life
Magazine. Were they real or a clever hoax? Ray takes it upon himself to
answer this question, applying his considerable detective skills. But in
doing so, he steps through the looking glass into a world that makes him
question everything. If that was not enough, he also discovers that there is
a clock and it is ticking down.

McMinnville is the first book in a trilogy that follows Ray Baker’s pursuit
of life, love, and the truth, which is most definitely out there.

EXCERPT

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Henry pushed the car to go faster, looking in the rearview mirror. Houses sped by his window as he barreled down South Bridge Street, headlights cutting through the dusk.

“Can you see them? Oh, God. . . . please!” Debra was losing it, afraid to look around, eyes fixed on her rosary beads.

“Shut up!” Henry shouted. Then he realized his tone with his new bride. “Sorry, I don’t see anything . . .” Blackness.

What Henry Roberts remembered decades later as he sat homeless in a cardboard box in a city he did not recognize was something else.

The road was dappled with shadows and light. Trees formed a canopy above the road as he sped along in his brand new DeSoto. The setting sun threw shards of light through the passing trees. Debra sat next to him with her head on his shoulder. A warm breeze came through the window smelling of pine and juniper. Life was perfect.

The newlyweds had been on the road for nearly a week. California gave way to Oregon. The honeymoon in San Francisco now gave way to a drive through the lonely countryside outside McMinnville, Oregon.

He first saw the rabbit from nearly a hundred yards away as the road turned round the bend. It walked on hind legs and stood around five feet tall. As the car drew closer, the rabbit slowed its walk, its swinging arms coming to a stop. It turned its head toward the oncoming car and grinned a grimacing smile that revealed a mass of gnarled teeth. It appeared to snarl.

Henry slammed on the brakes, and things began to move in slow motion. Then all sound stopped, except for the radio, which had been playing “Mule Train” moments before. Now all that came out of the dashboard was static. Walking outside the car but keeping pace with the moving vehicle was Debra. She had somehow gotten out of the car. “How’d she do that?” he thought. She was outpacing the car, which had to be going fifty. Her voice split the silence and the static. “Don’t worry, Henry. They won’t hurt you.”

On May 12, 1950, the police, acting on an anonymous tip, found the black DeSoto overturned and concealed in the bushes off the side of the country road. All indications pointed to a high-speed accident. Except, strangely, there were no skid marks on the road. No scuff marks on the tires. No signs of a rollover. Just a busted top and crushed windshield. And, no bodies.

About the Author

Derrick McCartney was born in El Paso, Texas and grew up in Tennessee
before moving to the Washington, DC area. Despite a degree in Soviet and
East European studies, he made a name for himself as an expert on North
Korea. After a stint in the US Government, he has spent most of his career
in defense think tanks. He has published several books and articles on
international security affairs under his real name. This is his first work
of fiction.

Follow Derrick and McMinnville on Social Media

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