Speculative Flash Fiction

You're about to launch into an adventure at AntipodeanSF, the online magazine that's devoted to the regular monthly publication of fabulous and original science-fiction, fantasy, or horror mini-stories of about 500–1000 words each, with occasional feature stories of 2000 words and beyond.

AntipodeanSF will entertain you, yet won't take hours to read.

Please spend a few moments to read this month's stories. Alternatively, listen to all of them on the AntipodeanSF Radio Show, weekly, as per the schedule.

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When I Was God

By Kevin J. Phyland

A long time ago I worked in a leper colony. Leprosy is not particularly contagious or easily communicable, but that wasn't widely known at the time. I seemed like a god for merely wearing a small mask.

While the lepers lived and died around me … some for a reasonably long time … they still thought I was somehow magical, even though all I did was feed and comfort them. Doctors can sometimes seem like that. Through technological advancement, cargo cults, and simply acts of war, some humans invariably appear as godlike to others.

Much later in my life, during my time as a military medical officer, the same psychology seemed to be at play.

Read more: When I Was God

To Serve The Master

By Zeb Carter

Terry Winstone sat back in the recliner, ignoring the big screen before him.

I'll just rest here for a minute, he thought, that's all. I deserve it after mowing the lawn, he argued. He exhaled loudly, as though to prove the point.

The inner judge was unimpressed. You won't need to reach for the remote in the arm of the chair, then, will you? it chided.

Terry hissed. Why did you have to bring that up? I told you I only want to sit for a moment, get my wind back.

Read more: To Serve The Master

The Passengers

By Botond Teklesz

The passenger sat on a transparent plexy-glass chair on a shuttle train between Manchester and Aberdeen. He was a blue-collar factory worker, and this was his daily trip towards or from the factory. The man blinked. He could see his crossed feet under the chair. His trousers barely covered his ankles.

What a vision.

Read more: The Passengers

The Master

By Robert David

Someone left the door open again. That’s the fourth person today to jump from the hovercraft and leave the hatch open. I shiver in the chilly draught from outside, my ears buzzing with anger and grudge. Maybe I am too sensitive as I have been told so many times. For the fourth time this day, I close the hatch, grumbling.

I’m tired. After a seven-hour flight, I now return to my king, the one who writes and writes even when he answers the call of nature — the one who writes so consistently, and reads nothing but his own writing.

Read more: The Master

The Game Of Lives

By George Nikolopoulos

Alex Miles perched on the ledge of a top floor window of the building that housed his company's offices. Ηis wife Cathleen hung out of the nearest window. Alex’s lawyer and a tired-looking police psychologist stood beside her.

The view from the top floor was spectacular. With a glance, Alex could see the expanse of the Silver City sprawled below, as far as the harbour. Seagulls cawed in the distance, and he caught a whiff of the sea, salty and refreshing. He once admired the view from his building, a pinnacle of glass and steel rising above the inner city, illustrating his own rise from his humble origins. Tonight, he was indifferent to it all.

Read more: The Game Of Lives

Square Musing

By Soar

He told me to write together with him, sitting next to me at an inviting distance, where I could feel his gestures without looking, while he peeped at my screen from time to time with curious smiles, his utmost charm unknown to him. My confusion was mixed with desires and prayers to the muse to take me away from his senses and from that music in the background, alluring me towards greater depths where I would relinquish symbols, as music always won over my artistry. Then, there was that place with faces, where no one stole looks or offered gallantries because socializing in cafes meant being immersed in individual activities, while pretending to belong to the same gathering, cheering drinks and on-screen messages, within the same room, a pastime trend through decades.

Read more: Square Musing

Retirement Is Not The Last Word

By Laurie Bell

It’s getting hard to breathe.

Even though I’m expecting it, it stills comes as a shock. My fingertips tingle and I’ve only just achieved escape velocity.

I’m not going to reach The Black at this rate. Chest tight, spots flirting in the corner of my eyes, I stretch out a trembling hand. I know this ship — well, ships like this one. I’ve flown all my life — raced all my life. Without clear sight, I find the switch. Cold, crisp, pure oxygen slaps my face, floods my lungs. My skin tingles for a different reason now.

Read more: Retirement Is Not The Last Word

Pandora's Smile

By Joanna Galbraith

Pandora O’Grady lost her smile on the 70E bus. She couldn’t even remember getting the silly thing out but as soon as she arrived home she knew it was missing. She checked her handbag thoroughly, tipping the contents to the floor.

‘What were you thinking, leaving it on the bus?’ snapped her mother.

Pandora frowned. (She hadn’t lost that!)

‘I mean it’s not like your father and I can just fashion you a new one!’

Read more: Pandora's Smile

A Reluctant Zombie

By Natalie J E Potts

Kait curled over as the first bolt of pain clawed at her chest. She was missing the end of Master Chef and she wanted to know if the grilled snails were as rubbery as everyone had predicted. She tried to listen to the judges, but the pain tapped into her pulse, blasting her ears with a staccato of angry blood.

And like that it was gone.

She sat back. The judges were pulling faces that could be pleasure or dislike, it was impossible to tell. The guest chef shook his head; rubbery.

Read more: A Reluctant Zombie

A Last Supper

By Philip Berrie

"Are they ready, Judas?" The old man's voice was feeble but fervent.

"Yes, Master."

Judas felt strange in the high-collared shirt and gentleman's dress suit that his master had bought him especially for tonight's event. He dug a cold finger between tie and neck to ease the tightness on his throat, only to be reminded of the noose that had left permanent indentations there. With renewed reverence, he looked down at the frail old man who was the sole reason for his existence and regretted what the night would bring.

Read more: A Last Supper