NEW FICTION: TUPAC SHAKUR AND THE END OF THE WORLD by Sandra McDonald. Seems like we’re all a little culturally obsessed with impending apocalypse at the moment; a minor flurry of end-of-the-world tales a few years back has grown into an everyman’s meme, with the cinemas full of zombie hordes, desolate wastelands and rugged survivors.
That ubiquity has been a bit off-putting, to be honest… I love me a good post-apocalyptic story, but I’ve become a bit bored of them, and didn’t think we’d be publishing one here at Futurismic any time soon. But Sandra McDonald has managed to prove me wrong, by subverting the cliches and turning the end of the world on its head with some darkly post-modern humour; “Tupac Shakur and the End of the World” is a post-apocalypse yarn for people who are bored of post-apocalypse yarns. Enjoy! Tupac Shakur and the End of the World by Sandra McDonald Let’s not pretend, either, that I’m on anything but a fool’s errand. With me on this southbound hike are Lazy Lamar, Crazy Chris, Tipsy Tina and Jumping Jack. “How many to Savannah?” “No. They're Made out of Meat by Terry Bisson. "So ... what does the thinking?
" "You're not understanding, are you? You're refusing to deal with what I'm telling you. The brain does the thinking. The meat. " "Thinking meat! "Yes, thinking meat! "Omigod. "Thank you. "Omigod. "First it wants to talk to us. "We're supposed to talk to meat. " "That's the idea. "They actually do talk, then. "Oh, yes. "I thought you just told me they used radio. " "They do, but what do you think is on the radio? "Omigod. "Officially or unofficially? " "Both. " "Officially, we are required to contact, welcome and log in any and all sentient races or multibeings in this quadrant of the Universe, without prejudice, fear or favor.
"I was hoping you would say that. " "It seems harsh, but there is a limit. THE MACHINE STOPS ... E.M. Forster. Imagine, if you can, a small room, hexagonal in shape, like the cell of a bee.
It is lighted neither by window nor by lamp, yet it is filled with a soft radiance. There are no apertures for ventilation, yet the air is fresh. There are no musical instruments, and yet, at the moment that my meditation opens, this room is throbbing with melodious sounds. An armchair is in the centre, by its side a reading-desk-that is all the furniture. And in the armchair there sits a swaddled lump of flesh-a woman, about five feet high, with a face as white as a fungus. An electric bell rang. The woman touched a switch and the music was silent. "I suppose I must see who it is", she thought, and set her chair in motion.
"Who is it? " But when she listened into the receiver, her white face wrinkled into smiles, and she said: "Very well. She touched the isolation knob, so that no one else could speak to her. "Be quick! " "Kuno, how slow you are. " He smiled gravely. "I really believe you enjoy dawdling. " "Well? " Harrison Bergeron. French Translation from Avice Robitaille.
Hindi Translation by Ashwin.Urdu Translation by RealMSRussian translation THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren't only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. “All Summer in a Day”