New Short Story
Either I would die in my basement or I would open the doors and fly out like Superman. And I was never going to fly.
I had spared no effort in making my subterranean space affordable. If you soak your own beans and boil your own rice, a disability check goes a long way. Cheap book shelves and superhero posters covered the cinder block walls.
There was a table, a workbench, and a comfortable old, corduroy couch. A hammock slung between two supports served as my bed. For a kitchen, I used a slop sink, a cutting board, and a modern, folding hot pad. My window on the world was 12 inch, wireless tablet that brought me all the world’s news as soon as the world knew it.
In short, at the age of 26, I had comfortably retreated from life, making my peace within a universe of only 800 square feet, bound up in a small world lit by efficient LEDs and made bearable by shelf after shelf laden with science fiction and superhero comics, a few graphic novels, and my art supplies.
Actually, I was doing OK. Enjoying the best days of my life before they came!
The aliens found Earth and immediately started bombing.
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From Essays to Book Reviews, we occasionally have things to say. This month, we ask the question, "Can Science Fiction Predict the Future?" in our essay entitles Future Blind. Read more...