The Sci-Fi Archive

Words to reach the stars.

Binary Star Sunset
Twin orbs—one red, one white—meet the horizon and lose their roundness. The sunset sends lines of kaleidoscopic light across the ground, and you shield your eyes at the sight. Slowly, the sky loses its hue, like blood leaving a face. You feel a loss at the dying of the light, and now this world seems twice as dark.
Loading Dock
Shipping containers form twisting labyrinthine warrens on the loading dock as cargo cranes swing overhead like mechanical behemoths. The sounds of commerce and industry are deafening: reverberating from the cold metal of the floor and crates to form a tumultuous cacophony of trade.
Battered Acoustic Guitar
It sits there in the corner chair, a relic of a lost world. The instrument is a ramshackle affair of stained wood, its strings crafted from some synthetic material now forgotten. Drops of water from the leaking roof burst upon their length. The sound produced is a haunting cry that speaks of forlorn hope.
Sloppy Alien Barfly
The insectoid alien slumps on the bar, compound eyes glazed over and pungent yellow spittle dribbling from their proboscis. Dressed in cheap, colorful attire the barfly is a sorry sight—even in this dive. With a bark, the large tattooed alien behind the bar rouses the befuddled patron, who buzzes angrily as they take their leave.
Ocean of Mercury
A fathomless quantity of glossy silver rolls in slow, heavy waves across the planet's surface. Scanners say the ocean is composed of elemental mercury, while an alarm blares warnings about the extreme toxicity of the air. What, if any, life could live on a planet like this?
Assault Pistol +2
Sleek and modern in design, this pistol is of exceptional quality. The sturdy polycarbonate housing bears a refracting geometric camouflage that shifts in the light, and a precisely calibrated sight has been affixed to the upper rail. This is the weapon of choice for the discerning executive.
Bustling Automated Factory
The clamor of fabrication is deafening inside the automated factory as machines go about their tasks with unerring efficiency. The chill air carries the clinical scent of fuel, and the stark white walls are utterly devoid of windows or personality.
Landfill for Broken Constructs
Metallic skeletons flaked with blooming, virulent rust fill the landscape in enormous heaps—like funeral pyres awaiting the torch. Titanic machines lie mired in filth, slowly rotting into oblivion as the elements strip their last vestiges of purpose away.