James Tiptree, Jr.’s writing style can be summed up in the following phrase: to the point. Tiptree does not waste her time with airy words and flowing descriptions, preferring to cut to the meat of the matter. Few words are wasted on figurative language; it’s merely used as a device to set up the rest of the story. Rather than spend a lot of time focusing on the descriptive language, Tiptree chooses her words carefully to depict visceral, “human” actions and emotions that really cut deep into the human experience and forces me to question the flowery writing conceptions I’ve been drilled into appreciating since a young age.

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The bell in the upper-left quadrant of the glass-and-steel door rings. I pass through the threshold. There are five life-forms inside the place of business. I identify one whom is standing up. Male, 39. All others are sitting and facing away from him. Conjecture: he must be the leader. Are they afraid of him? He wields a metal object in his hand, actively dismembering the hair on their head. Identifying: object appears to be a pair of scissors. Primary use: cutting. Human functions are quite foreign; no database entry on “hair cut.”

Greeting: “Salutations, human.”

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Brenton, the last in the line of the ancient kings, stood before the Warlock Lord, seated on his black throne, in the vast antechamber. Blade in hand, he slowly strode towards the figure clad in black, his boots clacking on the floor, stopping before the stairs leading up to his dark seat. The towering black marble pillars vaulted above them, opening to the inky sky, a sky devoid of the comfort of light. The only light source stemmed from the Warlock Lord, as he wielded a greatsword which flickered with crimson flame.

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2419 A.D., 49 years since Parallax

“One day, this chalk outline will circle this city.”
– Cedric Bixler-Zavala

۩

I was walking past the main gate of the Crafter’s District when her silken, metallic voice came over the intercom.

“Attention citizens: curfew begins in one hour. Please make your way to your residences. Any citizens found outside during curfew are in direct violation of the City’s laws. Thank you for your cooperation.”

I fucking hate her voice. The Recons are dead serious about enforcing the curfew, so, adjusting the bag I carried on my back, I picked up my pace.

The gray sky bore down on me, more than it usually did. Perhaps the Field Marshall’s reminiscence about the sun affected me more than I thought. I’ve never seen the sun, but old-timers like the Field Marshall grew up in an era before the City. What a different time that must’ve been, before the City, before the Rings, before this shit-storm of a life…

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Published 2389

We called It the Zenith, and we believed It to be godsend. No one was sure from where or when that monumental black obelisk came, but this much could be agreed upon: It was not of this Earth. It was our first confirmation, after a history spanning the course of thousands of years, of the existence of an alien species who had, at one point, traveled to our blue planet and left their impression on its surface. Much like these Visitors, I leave this account so our progeny may understand the mistakes we have made. In this way, perhaps you will become the redemption our species now seeks.

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“And change your shirt. You look like such a goy.”

“What?”

“We’re just having Shabbat at bubbie and zaide’s. You don’t need to dress like you’re going to church or something.”

“I like this shirt,” Danny said, dejectedly tugging at the tails of his collared shirt, “And besides, I wanted to look nice. This is the first time they’re meeting Claire.”

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The metal catwalk shook violently under John’s feet. Any misstep would send him cascading into a city of generators below, which lined the bottom of the Shepherd-class freighter’s engineering deck. He could hear the distant sound of crackling from the machines beneath him, transmitting energy and information via bolts of light. But he didn’t dare look, for fear of losing his footing. John kept his eyes focused on the large, round metal door at the end of his path. He took a few uneasy steps towards the airlock, his pathway continuing to convulse with every step. Just then, a monotone electronic voice beeped through his helmet. “Warning: oxygen levels critical. Oxygen at ten percent.”

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Why the fuck are you doing this? You splash your face with the cool water halfway filling the sink, letting the droplets run down your weary face. You stand there for a while, your hands gripping the sides of the porcelain bowl, staring at your reflection in the water’s surface. You’ve been standing there for quite a while. Just standing. Standing and staring. Staring and standing. Don’t you have better things to do? Shouldn’t you be getting your work done, or going out to meet that woman, Mrs. Right-but-oh-so-wrong? Isn’t there anything else you’re going to do apart from standing at that sink, wasting your goddamn time staring at the water? But you already know the answer. You know you’d rather stand there, stay in that moment, be enraptured in your own purgatorial state rather than thrust yourself out into the world. You want time to stand still, to be lost in the moment now, to fall into your reflection on the surface of the water, rippling out of focus when the droplets strike it. Drip. Drip. Drip.

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Many years ago, there lived an old man and woman on a small farm. The two had known each other since they were young, had married, and lived together for many years. It did not matter to either that they lived in poverty, owned very little, or were old and wrinkled, as long as they had each other. When the old couple went into town, onlookers would gaze at them and see only the love and patience the two had for each other. Everything was seemingly perfect.

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