Welcome to Orion’s Belt

Orion’s Belt is a literary speculative fiction online magazine. We specialize in the strange and poignant and awe-inspiring, stories that have a cosmic scale and intimate personal stakes. Currently, we publish fiction only, one story per month. All stories must be twelve hundred words or less.

Speculative fiction for us encompasses a wide range of fiction that includes non-realist elements. While we focus on science-fiction and fantasy, we’re open to slipstream, horror, magic realism, myth retellings, surrealism, superhero stories, and all other fantastical genres and subgenres.

The “literary” qualifier simply means we like stories focusing on internal and interpersonal conflicts. Don’t give us people saving the world unless you can make us care about the people doing the saving. It also means we want stories that are sharply, intelligently written. We highly prize the craft of writing. This doesn’t mean you have to be Faulkner or Shakespeare, and it certainly doesn’t mean we want stories peppered with purple prose and thesaurus-words. It does mean that we care as much about form as we do about content. How a story is told is as important to us as what it is about.

Speculative fiction gives us the opportunity to imagine other worlds, but we can also use it to help us better understand our own little blue marble floating through the depths of space. We follow in the tradition of science-fiction pioneer Darko Suvin and his concept of “cognitive estrangement,” in which the strangeness of different worlds provides readers with a lens through which to observe the strangeness in our own worlds. This is more than mere allegory. It’s an awakening to a higher level of awareness. In our view, the best speculative fiction does more than offer escapism. It facilitates a better understanding of the self and the other.

Our founder and editor-in-chief is Joshua Fagan, who founded the magazine in 2021 while at Columbia University. Contact him at joshuafagan14@gmail.com or on Twitter using @TheJoshuaAFagan.

All photos used in Orion’s Belt, other than our logo, are from NASA. We follow NASA’s use guidelines.

We hope the stories in this magazine delight and inspire and challenge you. If you’re a writer, please send us stories that will delight and inspire and challenge us.

If you would like to see examples of the kind of speculative flash fiction Orion’s Belt wants, look at the below stories, written by the editor-in-chief:

Robots Gone Wild

The whirring of the newspaper press disrupted the tranquil morning twilight. Emerging from the murky, shadowed corners of the building, Kelvin extended his metallic arms until his fingers could wrap around a fresh paper. He searched through it. Sports, politics, letters to the editor. No problems there.

On page six, he saw it: “Abandoned Mansion to be Torn Down.” He hurried back to the hilltop after reading the article. Two days—that’s all they had before their home would be gone forever. Though the mansion’s lightbulbs long ago stopped functioning, he turned on a battery-powered lamp and flicked a switch.

The warning bells chimed. Around Kelvin lay the bodies of a half-dozen of his fellow robots. They were all that was left of this place after their creators, a family of tech millionaires, left the country for tax reasons. “Wake up,” he shouted at his fellow robots, but they did not stir. Their robotic minds still worked, but they could hardly move, as their limbs had rusted. They gasped as Kelvin revealed the truth. What would they do if they couldn’t stay in the mansion? “I’ll think of something,” Kelvin said as he stared out the window at the bulldozers gathered at the base of the hill, flanked by the cranes with their wrecking balls. The demolition team drank and sang and partied as they prepared for what was to come.

Persuasion and logical arguments had failed to convince the team. Its foreman, Harrick Harleson, had merely smirked at Kelvin and said, “The developers own the rights. We have a job to do. If you think we’ll refuse to do it in order to accommodate a pile of old rustbuckets, I’d say you’ve got a few screws loose.”

There had to be another option, something drastic enough to change what they would write in the newspapers.

Sneaking around the drunk demolitionists, Kelvin sabotaged their machines. Current no longer flowed. Engines exploded. No one was hurt, but Kelvin’s message was decisive—or so he thought. Dismissing the damage as a random act of nature, they refused to halt their plans. “I’ll do it again,” Kelvin said, confronting the demolitionists.

Lightning crackled through the azure sky. Streams of rainwater rushed down the slope of the hill, turning the dirt to mud. Kelvin’s rusty limbs struggled to keep him upright, but he glared at Harleson even as the foreman scoffed. “We have high explosives, and you’re only one robot. We know all the other robots in that fancy house are as good as dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t play mind games with me, kid. Leave, unless you want to argue with the law.”

Returning to the mansion, Kelvin slipped in the mud. His leg slipped from its socket and skidded down the slope until he grabbed it. Harleson broke into rowdy laughter before turning away. He did not see Kelvin reattach his leg and glance at his shadow. It was not that different from a human shadow. Their creators built them to resemble humans; only a few exposed bolts and rivets stopped them from looking identical. A little makeup, cautiously applied, could obscure these differences.

Without permission, he had chosen a human name. What could stop him from taking on a human form? Rising to his feet and returning to his mansion, he asked his fellow robots where he could find a gallon of red food coloring.

*

“Robots Gone Wild! Man Found Dead Outside Warehouse”

Such was the headline the next day, printed in the largest font the newspaper had. Under grey skies that hardly brightened even as the autumn sun rose above the horizon, fifty thousand copies rolled off the newspaper press---twice as many as usual. Commuting townsfolk reeled as they noticed the headline on every newspaper stand.

Demolitionists snatched papers from the stands and brought them to work, a dozen voices overlapping in crazed cacophony until they realized they were all saying the same thing. A dreadful quiet followed. They shuddered as lightning struck the manor. “Did you know him?” one of the demolitionists asked.

“A little,” another responded. “I think I met him once or twice. What about you?”

“I think I saw him at some old shindig. Did he have a wife? Any kids? I’d hate to be his family right now.”

“I’m pretty sure I met his wife once. But maybe that was someone else.”

Climbing atop a crane, Harleson screamed at his demolitionists. Plans had not changed, he swore, but the workers were despondent. He launched into a stream of profanities, pledging to fire every demolitionist who didn’t work, but his words fell flat. As gray pellets of morning rain soaked the suitcoat he’d worn for the occasion, he slid down and sulked. “We’ll do this tomorrow,” he said.

“What’ll be different then?” one of the demolitionists asked.

Harleson fired that worker, but the sentiment was widespread. For a week, he searched for a team willing to tear down the mansion, but to no avail. No one would risk becoming a newspaper headline. Staring in the mirror at his glassy eyes and puffy face, he resigned from his position and moved back to New York.

When the nurses left Kelvin’s bedside, he raced out of the hospital and toward the mansion. He had no vital signs, so they’d believed him dead. They would later discover the food coloring wasn’t blood. They would later realize a robot hadn’t ripped his leg from his body; he had simply detached it himself. By then, though, he had returned home, having cemented the legend of the killer robots. No amount of money could convince a demolition crew to approach the mansion.

Kelvin wiped the human makeup from his face and changed out of his “bloody” shirt. As the sky cleared and meadowlarks flew toward the blue horizon, he lay on a creaky bed and rested his rusty limbs. “At least,” he said, “they’ll care about a human.”

Ballad of a Healer

You were the only one who didn’t bully me at the Academy when I said I wanted to be a Healer. The other boys wanted to be Firsts, so called because they were the first to charge into battle, the first to explore other galaxies, the first to be promoted, and the first to receive glory. A few wanted to be Brains, the tacticians who stayed at Galactic Headquarters to orchestrate battle plans. No one wanted to be a Healer. That job was for those who weren’t considered brave enough to be Firsts or smart enough to be Brains. There was no glory in it.

“Lay off him,” you said. “The Galaxy Defense Force needs all kinds.” After the Initiation Ceremony, you chose me to be your Healer. They never mocked me again, at least not to my face. Behind our backs, they called us cruel names and laughed at stories they told about us. I asked if you knew what they said about us. Your dark eyes flashed like fire from flint, and you said it didn’t matter, that during our missions, the others would be gone, and we would be together beside a fire on a dark plain, beneath a field of endless stars.

On one of those missions, you asked what a Healer is supposed to do. “What they told us,” I said, “is that it’s not just about healing injuries. That’s a major part of it, but it’s also about support. It’s about helping Firsts prepare for missions and ensuring they haven’t forgotten anything important. It’s also about helping Firsts after the mission. We create these soothing fields that modulate the First’s brainwaves.”

“So it’s magic? Or is it science?” you asked.

“The fields are science. But the other part of the job is talking Firsts through their traumas. We listen, and we understand. The fields aren’t the hard part. The hard part is convincing the Firsts that they’re not alone, even when they’re surrounded by rogue robots, and there’s no one else between them and headquarters. And that’s like magic, I think.” You called me silly, but you smiled when I said that. I loved watching you smile, and I said I would always follow your lead.

*

You became famous not long after that. They dressed you up in a royal-blue suit with gold sequins, pinning medals to your chest as they crowned your head with a diamond-studded laurel wreath. Even though your grades at the Academy were exemplary, even though your professors said you were the brightest student they’d ever taught, no one expected your dizzyingly rapid ascent to the highest ranks of the Force. Except me. I always knew you were special, even when you didn’t think so, even when you broke down when you thought no one was watching.

Five years after we met, they promoted you to Golden First, the highest position in the Force. You would have the honor of leading the Force into the most dangerous front of the war against the robots. In one of your interviews, you tried to give me credit, but they laughed. That’s okay though. I didn’t want credit or fame or laurels. All I wanted was to keep you safe.

I asked if you could make peace between humans and robots, but you said that wasn’t possible. Though I didn’t agree, I came with you to Europa. Swarms of robots filled the jet-black sky. Crimson fire and black smoke swirled through the thin atmosphere, remnants of the burning city behind us. “We can trust in the Brains,” you said, even as I saw you tremble. They never understood that about you: that you didn’t always project confidence, that your skin was soft to the touch, that you loved romance movies and soft folk ballads.

You asked for help, so I sang you an old tune, hoping it would stop your trembling, and it did, but you advanced into the swarm, carrying only your blaster as I watched helplessly. The robots shot your leg, and you fell to the rocks, blood staining your spacesuit. Your eyes told me you wanted to keep fighting, even if you died, but for the first time, I couldn’t follow your lead.

Cradling your body, I sang to you as I carried you back to the spaceship, and I didn’t leave your side until we had returned to Headquarters. Until you were safe. Please forgive me for being selfish, but I couldn’t stand to lose you. You deserve to live.

Your duty is to protect the world, but mine is to protect you.

Generation Delta is Killing Mars Colonization

Since the establishment of the first Martian colony a hundred years ago, traveling to Mars has been a valued tradition, even a rite of passage. In 2145, fifty-two percent of people worldwide believed traveling to the colonies was a worthwhile voyage, but according to a poll released last week by the IAP, that number has dwindled to thirty-one percent. Reports swirl that Crimson Spaceflight, once considered the foremost innovator in Earth-Mars travel due to its patented plutonium-powered propulsion system, will soon file for bankruptcy.

Why has Generation Delta turned its back on what was only fifty years ago considered the forefront in technological advancement? Is it just sheer laziness? Is a generation raised on the comforts of VR movies and transcontinental teleportation just too complacent to survive in the Martian wilds?

Observers say the perception that Martian travel is no longer “cool” might be driving the reluctance to visit the colonies. Steven Erickson, CEO of Crimson Spaceflight, told our magazine, “When I was a kid, the idea of going to Mars was enough to make our hearts race. Sure, a third of the rockets exploded during takeoff or landing. Sure, a design flaw led to streams of carbon dioxide from the Martian atmosphere entering a few spacesuits. But what’s all that compared to the thrill of exploring Mars? We’re rolling out a new line of Mars-themed stickers and pogo sticks. That’s what Generation Delta likes, right? It’s what our market research suggested.”

Other analysts, however, believe judging the tastes of the younger generation is not so simple. Andi Anders, founder of WDKL Consulting (during our meeting, she emphasized that the name of her firm was an acronym for “What Do Kids Like?”), argued that it’s difficult to square the decline of the Martian colonization project with other major trends in Generation Delta consumption. “Space shows are more popular than ever. Toy astronauts are big holiday gifts. There doesn’t seem to be any logical reason why Mars colonization is so unpopular. I’m stumped.”

The troubling IAP poll dropped just days after the tragic death of Anthos Garoppolo, the last of the Mars Nine, the first astronauts to set foot on the Red Planet. Sadly, the other eight passed away decades earlier from radiation poisoning. As per their wishes, later astronauts scattered their ashes throughout the Martian terrain. Mr. Garoppolo, however, requested to be buried in his hometown. When we asked his widow why, she responded, “He loved Mars, but he said he didn’t want another astronaut going there to deposit his ashes. The most lucid he was this last year was when he told me the average human life expectancy had decreased by ten years since humanity started regularly going to Mars.”

Could this be related to Generation Delta’s growing indifference to the Martian colonies? Mr. Erickson believes it is unlikely. “The number of spaceships that crash before reaching Mars has decreased by five percent in the last fifty years. Last year, there were only twelve hundred crashes, and seven hundred of those had at least one survivor. Generation Delta is too soft. My generation was one of service and sacrifice, but you hardly see that level of dedication among youths these days. There are days when I wonder whether it’s even possible to persuade Generation Delta. What if the stickers and pogo sticks don’t work? What if they’re too consumed by their new technology?”

This is not an isolated viewpoint. A 2182 poll by the IAP found that fifty-two percent of those over the age of fifty found the popularity of VR movies disconcerting and fifty-eight percent of the same age group believed VR movies would decrease the amount of time family members spend talking to each other.

Others disagree. Emilia Orleans, a junior researcher at Crimson Spaceflight, argues that the company needs a more drastic shift in approach than just creating a new line of stickers. “I’m not anti-Mars. As a kid, I dreamed of going there. But we’re a generation who’s seen our parents and grandparents develop these horrific, radiation-related diseases just from their extended time near the plutonium. And for what? We’re not using our Mars base to expand our understanding of space or launch new spaceships so we can explore the outer solar system. We’re just doing it because our parents did it. This needs to change.”

We attempted to ask Ms. Orleans more questions, but her boss, Dr. Hayden, interrupted our conversation and asked to speak with us himself. Recent reports allege Crimson Spaceflight later fired Ms. Orleans for her comments, though Mr. Erickson denies this vehemently.

“What you have to understand about this generation,” said Dr. Hayden, “is that they’ve been slow to get on their feet. Whether you think they’ve been coddled or just have different priorities than my generation, the truth is they’ve been slower to hit traditional benchmarks of adulthood, like taking a journey to Mars. But don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll reach those benchmarks someday. We just have to wait. There’s nothing else we can do. You never know what young people want. It’s impossible to see inside their heads.”

Perhaps Dr. Hayden is right. Is Generation Delta suffering from the trauma of seeing their ancestors afflicted with radiation poisoning after placing blind trust in companies and governments that systematically refused to implement proper safety protocols, or are they just too busy playing with VR movies?

It’s impossible to know.