Del Sol SFF Review

"There'll be a slight delay. Technical difficulties."  I turn to look at the mauve-haired technician. Normally, I suppose, she'd use the intercom but after all the customer criticism posted on social media about the impersonality exhibited by the TimeRafters franchise, she's making the gesture of sticking her head into the room to speak with us in person. Judging from her manner, it's not something she's had much practice with, but I appreciate the intention anyway. Technical difficulties.  My mouth twists into a grimace as I ponder the two words that you least want to hear at certain times. When you're undergoing robo-surgery, for example. When you're on a booster-jet headed for the moon. Or when, as in my case, you're waiting to make the time-jump into the current of an alternate history. The technician glances back over her shoulder, then turns to us again. "It'll take about fifteen minutes," she says. "You can cancel, if

The bird in the wall is dying. I can hear it. Brief spurts of frustrated noise lead me to believe it is pinned somewhere inside the panel. I'm on my second drink, venturing into the depths of my mind to draw blood on a blank white page. This will be my second novel, if I ever start typing: if this bird ever stops dying. It only cries when I move, as if it challenges me to relieve its song. This bird has become a mirror as we sing in turn. My reflection is staring back but accompanied with sounds of the inhumane. The clicking of keys and the squawk of a bird isn’t so different when they mean the same. We are both in search of resolve to our story. We are both living things, one dying on the inside, one dying on the out. Today I feel like a captor and yet truthfully I am the hostage, blinded from this being by a mirrored wall. I ponder its appearance: black with jagged feathers, a long thin beak, and forlorn eyes calling to me.  My imagination is fueling. I am headed down a path, but

Brian Koldek sat on a stool at Somnambula Bar, almost as far downtown as you could go in New Hyperion. Modern dating had only grown stranger by the year 2040. When people filled out online profiles, under race, they checked human or synthetic. If they were open-minded, they would put  “ no preference, ” and dating sites didn't tell who was who. The first meeting involved dancing around the subject, as it was considered rude to just come out and ask. Koldek stared at the exotic Dalia Jansen, who swiveled on her bar stool to face him.  I'd like to get under her skin.  On the surface, she looked to be an Asian-styled domestic mod, with a little distressing to age her, but Dalia spoke like a human. “ Who knows how long I'll last in New Hyperion,” she said.  “ I mean, it's dog eat dog. Really unhealthy mentally, but this is where the good jobs are. Where the excitement is.” She leaned closer.  “ None of us knows how much time we have, right? So we have to have fun, live in t