Hurricane Season?? McKay leaned back in his chair, boots resting on the edge of the weather control console, one hand cradling a mug of coffee with so much sugar it could cause diabetes... If it were still a thing. In the other, he held what the station's fabricator optimistically called a maple donut. It tasted like sweetened insulation foam. "You know," McKay said around a bite, crumbs falling on his 'I'm the Genius' T-shirt. "I keep telling them if they're going to fake a donut, they should at least fake the regret afterwards." A long, theatrical sigh drifted across the control room. The alien shuffled into view carrying an industrial-sized coffee carafe nearly as large as he was. Barely a metre tall, with slate-blue skin and oversized amber eyes, he moved with the sluggish pace of someone convinced the universe existed solely to inconvenience him. McKay had long since given up trying to pronounce his real name. "Morning, Philpot." Another sigh. Then the alien topped off McKay's mug without a word. "You know why I call you Philpot?" Another sigh. "'Cause every time I see you, I ask you to fill the pot." Philpot closed his eyes. Another sigh. "I'm beginning to think," McKay continued, "that your species evolved the sigh before language." Philpot slowly looked up. "It was our second greatest achievement." McKay grinned. "What was the first?" "We nearly became extinct." McKay snorted coffee through his nose. Before he could recover, every screen in the control room flashed crimson. A deafening alarm shattered the morning quiet. EMERGENCY WEATHER OVERRIDE - HURRICANE PROTOCOL INITIATED McKay dropped his donut on the floor and didn't bother wiping away the crumbs. Outside the panoramic window, sunlight bathed the city in a cloudless blue sky. He frowned at the alert, then back at the sky. "No hurricane." Philpot followed his gaze. "No." McKay frowned harder. "That's... odd. Because we don't even fabricate hurricanes. " Philpot studied the warning for another moment. Sighed. Then, in the same flat tone he used for everything from coffee shortages to asteroid strikes, said, "That seems... unfortunate."

Rodger bounced in his leather seat as the rover bucked across the harsh lunar terrain. Beneath a dark red glow, his cab stank of hydraulic fluid and rattled like a maraca. He sawed at the steering wheel, sending the rover sideways. It skipped across the moon’s surface with chunks of lunar rock thuding against its titanium hull. It was dark. Only a narrow corona of headlights illuminated the lunar surface in front of him. He glanced down at the instrument panel which blinked in a rainbow of switches, toggles, and buttons controlling the eight-ton beast. The navigation HUD to his left showed IPM045—the inhospitable, atmosphere-less speck of rock he was rattling over. His eyes drifted up to the massive planet he was orbiting—Ithaca Prime. A cauldron of red-orange radioactive storms churned across its barren surface. “One more month, then its—” Wham. The Rover slammed to one side, bucking Rodger, and knocking a tool bag from the storage rack behind him, sending wrenches clattering across the confined cab. “Fucking hell.” His grip tightened over the worn steering wheel as a klaxon wailed and a Christmas tree of lights blinked above. Damn rock. Rodger flicked toggles one by one, silencing the Rover’s telemetry warning. “End of season can’t get here soon enough.” “What was that, Rodger?” The silky yet spunky voice of his Mine Boss echoed through the confined cab. “Nothing. All good.” Rodger fiddled with the comms switch, turning the volume lower. “Didn’t seem like nothing. Did you wreck my rover already?” “Don’t worry about it, Daph. I’m almost to the dig site.” “Yeah. Yeah. Just don’t bring it back like last time or you’ll owe me another pint of Greymurk.” “Maybe I’d like that.” “And maybe you’d learn a better way to fancy a woman than breaking her toys, huh?” “Well—” “Keep me posted. Kilo 2-1 out.” Rodger kicked the hi-beams, sending another warning light across his face. The Rover’s headlights cast a dull glow through a cloud of silt like ghostly fingers. He tucked his chin and laid into the accelerator, sending an electronic groan across the cab like a wounded animal. Three and a half weeks, then planet—

Welcome to the challenge deck. The Mostly Harmless Writing Challenges are free to all tiers. And can be found in the Classroom. Every week you'll find three different science fiction writing challenges designed to sharpen your storytelling skills and push your imagination into deep space. These aren't random prompts. They're exercises focused on: Scene Engineering Worldbuilding Architecture Science Fiction Concept Design Each challenge includes a Basic Prompt and an Advanced Prompt. There are no grades. No word-count police. No perfect answers. Just opportunities to experiment, practice, and build stronger stories. Share your responses, discuss your ideas, and encourage your fellow Space Authors. Write boldly. Break things. Discover something unexpected. And remember: Science fiction deserves its own space.