The Antevasin
She lives on the margin always dreaming – a non-conformist, she is no villager, yet refuses...
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Everyone Knows Humans Have Quintuple Wiggle Sticks
‘Officer!’ shouts the crystal-breasted, green-spined Gargalumf, jabbing her glittering...
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Soulsifters
Om sent a mental command to the soulsifters embedded in his eyes. The hardware, shaped like...
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IZ and the E.P.T.
Even though we’re pretty much together on everything, IZ was the one who was monitoring outer...
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Will Cyborgs Inherit the Earth?
Merging humans with technology is often thought of as something from a science fiction story, but...
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Michelangelo: Painter and Poet
Michelangelo with steel balls and a wire brush wishing he was wearing motorcycle leathers, going...
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The Parting
I had almost finished my work for the day at the market when the word reached me. By hag, as...
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Pattern Recognition
Gascoyne had half a dozen work requests loaded onto his taskbar before he reached the ‘locks...
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In Cocoon, I am Embryo
I have just turned 13 when the barber-cutters come for my hair. The barber-cutters are tiny round...
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Not Like Us?
As a boy, the thrill for me in reading science fiction was the moment of revelation of the...
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(In)Humanity
Dear Reader, Welcome to Issue #2 of Electric Athenaeum: (In)Humanity! The articles, poems,...
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Shen, at Night
When holiest Shen walks, the moon gloams red. With each stride, her right foot steps into the future; her left, into the past. Like mourners, we cling to her hem, drawn in her wake from remotest village to black-stoned shore, to ailing tower long shucked of purpose. Our footprints fill her own, and in the filling are made deeper.
But holiest Shen does not ponder her passage. Nor does she sleep.
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