I’ve never been much of a sci-fi person, but I can’t quite put my finger on why. I love fantasy, and the two are often lumped in together in a way that makes me feel somewhat disingenuous if I say I like SFF.
It’s not that I don’t like any sci-fi; I like things like Moon and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and most of the Philip K. Dick I’ve read, but if I’m going to pick another world to travel to it’s more likely to have magic and werewolves in it than spaceships.
I get the appeal though, I think. There’s something very hopeful about science fiction, and while the same might be true for other genres as well, so much of sci-fi is about looking forward and imagining what we might do in the future, or how we might have improved the past, or examining the courses humanity is better off avoiding. For somebody who wants to be an optimist as badly as me, that’s enticing. If only I could get into it the way I can other genres.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(Noun: Greek bolis for “missile” or “flash”)
A bright meteor or fireball.
Silas lays back, dew soaking his t-shirt. The night sky is a velvety blue with scattered stars.
They tell him that Amit’s work is important, that once he’s gone through the proper procedures he’ll be home. No, he can’t wait outside the gate. No, he can’t be there when he lands.
Up above, a brilliant white streak shoots across the sky. Silas traces it with his finger, a smile spreading over his face. That’s him, he thinks. Amit is somewhere in a hunk of metal and fire, hurtling toward earth, toward him. He will wait, if he has to.