Showing results by author "David Brin" in All Categories

On planets, they say, water always runs downhill…Serena had no way of knowing if it was true. She had never been on a planet. Not in the brief million or so years she had been aware. Neither had any of her acquaintances. The very idea was ridiculous. Very few Grand Voyageurs ever got a chance to see a planet. And yet, even among them, the ancient truisms were still told.

“...So you want to talk about flying saucers? I was afraid of that." This happens every damn time I’m blackmailed into babysitting you insomniacs, while Talkback Larry escapes to Bimini for a badly needed rest. I’m supposed to field call-in questions about astronomy and outer space for two weeks. You know, black holes and comets? But it seems we always have to spend the first night wrangling over puta UFOs.

I earn my living as a writer. In other words, as a magician, shaman, metaphorist. By chant and incantation—and with the active collaboration of my clients, the readers—I create images, characters, alternate realities in other minds. It is an ancient, venerable profession. All tribes have had storytellers, who wove legends round the campfire. My specialty involves epics not about long ago, but times and places yet to come.

The preceding little fable, cribbed from my novel, Earth, is an example of the super-short story, which some call a “drabble.” Collections have been published in the 100 and 750-word categories, but my favorite length is precisely 250.

In all of history, no organized system of thought has changed humanity as much as science. It's offspring technologies have brought unrivaled power and wealth to our lives, as well as unprecedented danger. Answers to countless questions that mystified our ancestors are now freely available to all.

I know, things taste better fresh, not packaged. They say hamburger clogs your arteries and hurts the rain forests. We should eat like our Stone Age ancestors, who dug roots, got plenty of exercise, and always stayed a little hungry. So they say. Still, I balked when my wife served me termites. “Come on honey, try one. They’re delicious.”

Black. As deep as night is black between the stars. Deeper than that. Night isn’t really black, but a solemn, utter shade of red. As black, then, as Tenembro Nought, which drinks all color, texture, substance from around it, giving back only its awful depth of presence.