Hope all is well on your patch of Earth, human (or whatever you are).
Early in the COVID pandemic, HIFI Press committed to help combat the virus by giving away our only commodity… laughs. Through our Spread Books Not Germs campaign we’ve given away thousands of copies of our comedy sci-fi ebooks and audiobooks to readers all over the world.
A wise human once said, “Laughter is the best medicine”. I’m not qualified to argue, although I’ll still cover all my bases by taking antibiotics the next time I get a sinus infection. What I will argue is this: after…
Greetings, fellow humans. I’m Tom Sadira, founder of HIFI Press, a small indie publisher of the finest (and most foolish) fiction this side of the galaxy. I have an important announcement to make, but first, let’s take a quick peek at how things are going on Spaceship Earth.
In case you haven’t heard (yeah, right), there’s a friggin’ viral pandemic sweeping the globe. Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with the same sinister factoids everyone keeps repeating. I’m sure you have the score by now:
COVID-19 IS HOMO SAPIENS’ #1 ENEMY (if we don’t count homo sapiens 👋 ).
Earlier today, Elon Musk tweeted “The coronavirus panic is dumb”. Here’s the evidence:
NOTE TO READERS: The editorial staff at HIFI Press received the following email from an anonymous source at WhizTech Inc. Our attempts at obtaining a comment from WhizTech have gone unanswered.
Subject: WhizTech All-Employee Bulletin Regarding the Coronavirus
Sent: March 2nd, 2020
As you know, WhizTech is committed to the happiness and well-being of each and every one of its employees. Unlike our competitors, who only claim they care about their employees, we’re so incredibly committed to our commitment that we put it in our company charter. (Take that, HR team at SmartSoft!) Our charter is…
Greetings and salutations, fellow Earthers (or whatever).
Let’s talk nerd to nerd, shall we?
OBVIOUSLY, the 50-year-old Star Trek media franchise is pretty damn good.
Disagree? Then write your own article. In the meantime, even a highly illogical halfwit (I’m looking at you, middle-aged Star Wars clingers) would acknowledge that, wherever you stand on the Trekkie-to-muggle continuum, Star Trek has become a significant part of 21st-century pop culture. (I mean, for Q’s sake, the US government just ripped off the Starfleet logo!)
As Editor-in-Chief at HIFI Press, I understand better than most (most = you) that liberty hangs on the laundry line of a free and unfettered press.
While journalists are the ones who reluctantly drag the hamper through the house, load the washer with society’s dirty laundry, then dump in two scoops of objectivity, it’s on us publishers to hang the results out to dry for the global neighborhood to see.
As 2019 comes to an end, so too does a decade filled with stories we never thought possible: the proliferation of mobile computing; the tumultuous impact of climate change; the…
“We almost there yet, or what?” Chuck whined, kicking a rusted can down the sun-bleached ballast. “I’m gettin’ hungry, guys, and my mom said to be home before — ”
“Shut your trap, fat ass,” the boy in front hollered over his shoulder.
“Don’t call him that,” Bobby said, holding his arms out either side to keep himself balanced on the rail.
“Yeah, don’t call me that, dickweed!”
“Whatever.” Mack sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “It’s right up there, hidden under that old sycamore.”
Bobby hopped off the railroad tie and bolted. …
For the hundredth time that afternoon, Claire pushed aside the curtains and scanned the northern pasture. Calling it a pasture was mighty generous, considering it consisted of mostly dirt, rocks, and cacti. When she and Earle had first claimed the plot, he had big plans to build a farm and start raising some cattle. Their own little ramshackle paradise, just three miles outside Oatman, Arizona.
She shoved the curtains closed, pushing away thoughts of the last seven years.
If today went as planned, her dreams might finally have a chance to thrive. A garden, a home, a family. …
You’re stumbling through a dim corridor. Alone. Lights flicker above.
No one else is in sight, but you can feel a malicious gaze.
You hear footsteps dragging behind you, moving more slowly than your own — but somehow they’re drawing closer.
Then, suddenly, you feel a gust of foul breath on your neck.
You panic. You scream. You run.
No one comes to your rescue.
What were you thinking coming here in the first place?
Will you make it out alive? You don’t see how.
Just as you’re about to give up, you see a glimmer of light up ahead.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s been great working with you. You show up, do your job, and you don’t bring that cat piss smell to the office like some of the other Bruce Lee wannabees we work with. (I’m looking at you and your moldy sports bag, Justin in Finance).
And sure, during team-building happy hours, as we slam shots and chat about sports or babes, it even starts to feel like we were becoming work bros.
But let’s get one thing straight. …
Tom Sadira writes from the intense solar radiation of Arizona alongside his lovely wife and three children (all human, probably).