Science Fiction, Horror, and Fantasy Stories

NOTE: No submissions will be accepted until the current anthology is published.

Science fiction stories. Fantasy stories. Horror stories. All for adults, but of the family-friendly persuasion.

T. Gene Davis’s Speculative Blog posts free science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories–mostly by guest authors. Subscribe (on the left) for the free sci-fi, horror and fantasy stories newsletter delivered when new stories post. The stories accepted are for adults (sometimes with mature themes), but safe to leave open on a tablet at the kitchen table where kids can get ahold of it. I currently pay $100 (US) for the right to publish your story on the blog and in the anthology. Check out the submission guidelines for more information.

Here are a few stories chosen at random to read, or check out the archives for more.

  • Troubleshooting Your Doomsday Device
    Welcome to the Doomsday Device Helpdesk! My name is Damien. What seems to be the problem? Yes sir, I apologize for the hold times. They're— Yes, sixteen years is a long time to—
  • Mesmerist
    He leaned in, intruding on her personal space in a familiar way she only allowed her mentor. Lucy felt his words as heated breath on one ear more than she heard them. "Be evasive." His lips and breath withdrew, leaving her questioning his intensions. They stood on an empty tube platform. No cars. Above, concrete and countless feet of dirt. Below, rails in a six-foot deep pit. She put a hand on her stomach to settle it.
  • Sponsored
    If it's sold, the Man chips it. HDTV? Chipped. Shoes? Chipped. Cats and dogs? Chipped. Underwear? Chipped. That's life. Who cares? Everything has chips. When the student loan bubble burst, average folk like me needed new tuition sources. I decided to go with sponsorship. The Man pays my tuition, books, and rent until I get my diploma. In return, I became a walking chip-activated billboard.
  • A Way Out
    The corridor mimicked the Martian landscape; linoleum flecked with rusty reds and dusky pinks, and the color on the walls a dull yellow like the alien sky. Mikhail’s boots, gray like the studded metal doors flanking him on either side, sent echoes ahead of him as he marched. Tiny green lights blinked at him from the security cameras in the ceiling, and his breathing shuddered loud in his ears. Beneath a wool jacket and nylon shirt, his back prickled with sweat. Not because of the ever-watchful green-eyed guardians; he was used to those. It was the uncertainty of whether or not they’d believe his performance.
  • Fiddler’s Tale
    Ivy clung to thick stone walls surrounding the cottage entry. Shade from the castle’s high turreted tower gave some relief from the summer sun. An herb patch rested to the left of the entry providing a scent to the thick muggy air. Smoke curled from the cobblestone chimney defying the summer morning’s warmth. Entertaining a fire in the cottage was unpleasant, but the baker lived in the castle. Letal and Mary lived outside the castle. Taking their cooking to the baker took a lot of time. On days when Letal entertained the king with his music, Mary took the bread out to the baker. However, with Letal home she chose to endure the heat of the fire. He was glad for it. They were still sappy newly weds, and felt near physical pain at separation. “Letal,” Mary called from the fire’s hearth laying thick her best damsel in distress tone of voice. “Yes, my wife?” Letal responded, enjoying the playful attitude of his wife. “When are you going to stop adding, ‘my wife,’ to everything you say?” “I like the sound of it. So, never, … my wife.” He smiled at her as he spoke, showing imperfect yellow teeth. However, he had all of his teeth and was proud of it. He showed his teeth whenever he smiled. “Do you have a tune in that fiddle of yours for getting rid of flies from the kitchen?” She teased Letal, knowing he hated anyone calling his viola a fiddle. “My viola? …
  • Tiny Dolls
    "Wasn't your Aunt Elda just a little touched in the head?" Mrs. Casey asked, tapping her forehead. Mary Beth Quincy's eyebrows shot up. "A little? Oh no. A lot, I'd say! Always talking about curses and such." The two women snickered. Mary Beth's husband, Andy, joined in the laughter. Their daughter, Kimmie, looked around Great-Aunt Elda's living room. So many grown-ups but no one cared now if her brother, Jack, put his wet glass directly on the table. No one cared if someone sat in her great-aunt's favorite chair or spilled coffee on the rug. Kimmie remembered: Great-Aunt Elda had told her that everyone considered her to be a strange old lady. She even said that they couldn't wait 'til she, Elda Warren, died. "Then they'll see," she said. "They will see." Well, now she did die and Kimmie thought that maybe her great aunt truly was off her rocker; she had never let anyone--not even her, her only great niece (who really was very careful), go near the dollhouse that stood by itself at the top of the attic stairs. Kimmie pulled on her mother's sleeve. "The dollhouse," she said. "The one in the attic. Can I have it?"
  • Where the Demon Lives
    I noticed the demon living in my right index fingernail because that nail grew ten times faster than any of the others.
  • To: Grove Lake HOA
    To: Grove Lake HOA From: Katie Kennedy, Secretary Re: Holiday Preparations
  • New Speculative Fiction Website
    I have just finished moving my Speculative Fiction Blog to it’s new home at freesciencefiction.com. I will start phasing out the old site at tgenedavis.com, that address should start forwarding to the new one any time. If you have links to stories on the old site, you’ll want to update those links for the new site. The weekly reminder for new stories will have an updated look, and links to classic stories as well as the new story of the week. I’m sure there will be a few kinks to work out. Feel free to give constructive feedback @TGeneDavis on Twitter. Also, please let me know if you find any typos or bugs on the new site, so I can fix them. Best regards, T. Gene Davis
  • Moon Road
    My mother taught me how to walk the moon road. We find it with the tips of our toes, sliding them along the slick bottom of the river. If I close my eyes, I can feel the slightest edge. I ease the ball joint, the sole, the heel up out of the water. The foot that emerges is not human with its short dark nails and tufts of fur. My nose elongates, protrudes. Whiskers tickle my cheeks. My ears swivel, seeking the sounds of night. It is a gentle transformation. Mother and I walk the moon road, swishing our tails. We bound over the water, chase meteors, pounce on constellations. We grin at each other the way dogs do—it’s said they learned that from people. Maybe they learned it from people like us.