There were several more crystal bottles with different-colored contents on ledge ledge above the tub, which had tarnished iron dragons for legs. Shemona upended one of them entirely, spattering the cool porcelain with a glutinous crimson substance. She shivered, and turned the tap on full-blast.
The bubbles foamed up on the water immediately. Shemona slid into it, feeling the scalding liquid rise up on her body. By the time Thessaly stuck her head in again, the water was high in the tub, the bubbles up around Shemona’s neck. She quickly moved her left hand under the surface.
Each day at dusk, a pillar of fire erupted over the treetops and gyrated in the air above the ruined temple that James and his team of archeologists called the Temple of the Flame. And everyday, Rachael Murray stood outside and regarded the pillar the way a jealous lover might a rival, and wondered if James would come home for dinner.
I myself would not believe it, if not for the bell. Every night it rings–and rings and rings until I open the door and find–nothing. The tight corridor between the elevator, my neighbor’s door and the door to the stairwell crouches before me with an emptiness like famine, with a blackness like a plague of night.
Pedro sat and seethed through the first half of testimony meeting. Although no one had focused unduly on death so far, he knew it was only a matter of time until someone took fifteen minutes to say “I know death is an ordained part of God’s plan” or “I’m excited to die someday and go see my grandma again” or “The scriptures say again and again that death is part of God’s intentions for us” or some other extradoctrinal bitsnbytes even though the Church has never had an official policy. Even Elder Matsasuke stopped talking about the necessity of death when his wife died.
First question: Who do you think you are? Why should we trust you to build and operate a Mormon speculative fiction e-collective?
Praise God, whose is the might. If any should read this, be it known, when I returned from evening prayer, the last of my life, I found a man standing in my room. His skin was blackened and he smelled of smoke, but when I looked closely I could see his face and stature were my own. Upon his chest he wore a flaming sword.
Journal entry 31 Aug 2126
I hate Fifth Sundays. Especially when I'm in charge. The Rennact went well, despite Bro. Tellic being an emotional mess. This is his third pregnancy and you would think he would be used to it, but I found him weeping in the baptismal font like a silly baby. He was curled up on the tiles watching bcasts to his visual cortex of his last birth. I talked him into joining us and finally he did, but I wish his wife would keep a better eye on him. We all know what he's like when he forgets his Natalex®.
Sione could tell the wind was blowing. Through his classroom window, he could see the thick band of vegetation marking the perimeter. The aspens, each exactly the same height, shape and shade, glittered and sent beads of light dancing along the manicured grass surrounding their trunks.
He slipped from the room, sliding his hand up under his shirt to detatch the tube from the medication shunt imbedded in his side between the bottom two ribs. Carefully he worked his way along the hall into the shadowy corner by the school’s sanitation facility.
In the second of three guest posts leading up to the launch of a proposed website dedicated to displaying and developing talent in Mormon speculative fiction, project instigator Mark Penny waxes analytical over the role of speculative fiction writer as disciple of Christ in the community of Zion. To participate in a discussion of the project, click here.
An Inclusive Introduction