300-word Writing Challenge #34 (July 2019) -- VICTORY TO CAT'S CRADLE!

[scarpelius]

The day when Earth stopped


You do not know how death smells until it's going to circle you like a bird of prey. Sure thing, you've seen it depicted a thousand times, you even drop a tear or two, regardless how though you thought you are. But... that's not the real deal. It was just a story in cinema or in a book. A well crafted emotional rollercoaster, which you forget it ten minutes after you left the cinema or put the book back on the shelf.

It's been several years since the sun won't rise past the horizon line more than a finger or two. Today is colder and harder to breathe than yesterday. I feel the change accelerating and I don't care anymore. Town people left chasing the sun for a glimpse of hope, leaving behind the carcases of their life, soulless houses and metal contraptions creaking in the wind.

A ghost of a wind.

Death is everywhere. In the leafless trees, in the empty train station, in the cars abandoned mid street, in the dangling corpses of those which weren't brave enough to wait for the end. Or maybe they were the brave ones, to make the leap before death reach them. I know I am going to die, but I can't follow their example. There's a wall of ancestors who fought tooth and claw to survive, angrily screaming in the back of my head when I think of the easy road. But... there's nothing left to fight for. Loved ones, gone. Enemies, dead too.

I am going to put down the pencil now. We've tried, but failed. Soon all will be frozen or burned. Maybe one day the planet will spin again and maybe life will spring back.

 

[Peter V]

History Assignment

Alice looked at her grandad’s lined face as he considered her question. Rheumy grey eyes returned her gaze, a lifetime of memories looking out at her. He sighed, as if coming to a decision.

“Aye, the strikes of eighty-four were bad but they were nothing compared to what 'appened in seventy-nine.” The old man drew himself up straighter. “But if I tell the truth of it, I doubt you’ll be getting a good grade and ‘appen I’ll be carted’t loony bin.” The smile on his lips did not reach his eyes.

“The mine were getting inefficient and there'd been talk of it closing when we ‘appened across a rich seam and money were found to drop a new shaft. Deepest in’t world, though that won’t be in no record books." Trembling slightly, the old man shook his head. "Too deep it turned out.”

Alice scribbled a note; Google.

“It got mighty warm down there but we just went on digging, leastwise ‘til one of them came through the coal face and ripped young Davy Earnshaw's arm off. That were scary as ‘ell.” He laughed hollowly. “Of course it were, for it were ‘ell itself we’d opened up.”

Frowning, Alice stopped writing.

“Three days girl. Your old nan would back me up, if she were still ‘ere. Three days we were stuck down there as we battled demons; with drills, picks, shovels. Anything we could get our ‘ands on. We beat them back, showed them what Yorkshiremen are made of. Afterwards those damn authorities made out it were a mine accident and sealed the shaft good and proper. Told us no pension if we said a word.”

A tear trickled down his cheek.

"As well as Davy, I lost five other mates and we couldn’t even bury them."

 

[Perpetual Man]

Reading Reid

It was said he had the soul of a poet, which did not mean he was a poet.

In fact, Reid was considered a bit of a throwback, perhaps even a simpleton. He had shipped out to the colonies because he had no place on Earth and becoming a miner was something that he could do. He was of big build and strong and whatever learning difficulties he might have had were not an impediment to his working in the mines. Perhaps they were even a benefit.

But it was at the end of the day that he became something more.

His shift would end, and Reid would rise with his crew from the depths, face coal-stained. Shoulders stooped and weary. Heavy-footed he would make his way to the far side of the colliery, slump onto the same rock and look back over the buildings as night began to fall.

The atmosphere was unusual, a standard but heavier oxygen – nitrogen mix, that was hard to breathe to start with, while the upper levels became lighter but more oxygen rich, with a generous amount of some hydrogen compound. It gave the most stunning sunsets, as for a brief few seconds the upper level would ignite.

Reid would sit and watch. His big brown eyes wide, a smile on his face.

Those who watched said you could see the wonder of creation spread outwards from those dark pupils, as though you were looking inward at the universe, fire and glory reflected back. It was as though a harmony of colour detonated within the obsidian depths spreading out across his faces in a smile of beatific magnificence, God written upon innocence, the majesty of creation, a thousand words on a single canvas; the soul of a poet made flesh.

 

[johnnyjet]

Down Among the Dead Time Travelers

We go down into the abandoned coal mine to gather more dead time travelers. If all goes according to plan, this should be my last gathering. No more looking into their blank eyes as we carry them to the surface.

No one knows why so many end up there. We just do our job as we've been directed so many years ago by a mysterious company with a small office space in Astley. The pay is excellent. No one questions the secrecy of our unseen employer.

How many years? Over fifty. My father was among the first of the gatherers.

The first Sunday of every month—when the site is closed to visitors—we go down. We find them everywhere, scattered throughout the tunnels. Their bodies are always undamaged yet lifeless, clothed in the garb of many eras—Bronze Age, Mayan, Victorian, early American, roaring Twenties, swinging Sixties, and on and on into a strange futuristic time.

We collect between ten to twenty at each gathering.

Then we burn them.

What error in judgment or fickle time anomaly brings so many to this singular location? We often shared our wildest theories among ourselves.

My father once said before he retired and went off to a remote island paradise, "Time has its ways of keeping the timeline intact."

I came to believe he was speaking the literal truth. I believe Time hates time travelers. They muddy up the timeline. When they get too close to upsetting the timeline cart…

Well, it's something to think about. What can you do about it anyway?

I'll be retiring soon. I've already given my notice. I'll be looking for my own remote island paradise.

But now I must go and see who's been pounding at my door with such urgency.

 

[Parson]

The Power of Myth​

Mike looked at the picture of the old mine. Then he looked at his dad in the way only a son or daughter can. “Tell me a story Daddy; one with mines, and dragons, and heroes.” Although Captain Voerhees was busy, he loved his son and began.

“In the time of dragons and heroes, when the mists of Chaladon obscured the mountains. Hallium was born and grew up in the shadow of the great mine called hades. Hallium heard wonderful stories about the mine. Great honor, great riches, and great dangers lurked in hades.

Hallium believed himself to be a hero of legend, a great leader. The one who could enter hades, slay the monsters, and gain a great reward.

By promises of a wonderful future, Hallium brought together a band of loyal followers. On the fateful day by flickering torch light Hallium and his band entered hades. Before long the dangers of the place became very real. The great hades dragon breathed a mighty fire. Fire billowed up to meet Hallium and his band. The mine walls themselves caught fire. There was no escape. Everyone died in that fire. But Mike, Hallium became the hero he had hoped to be. He had discovered coal. Soon the age of coal begat the age of industry, and the age of industry begat the age of science.

And dear Mike, that is why we are here today. The age of science has brought us to this spaceship in which we are slowly headed to the stars for a better life.”

Mike grew thoughtful “Has nothing changed than Dad. We are on a great quest riding on a plume of fire.”

“Nothing really changes Mike. Each generation calls for a hero’s sacrifice from the next. One day it will call for you too.”

 

[Garfunkel]

A Type of Bird

They lay on the grass and watched the sunset together.

“Papa!” She pointed at a shape above them. “What's that?”

“It's a raven, Sophie. A type of bird.”

Transfixed, her eyes followed it until the last embers of the day faded.

#

“Papa, when I grow up, can I be a bird?”

“A bird, eh?” He tousled her hair. “Eat all your greens and you never know…”

#

“Papa?”

“I'm busy, Sophie. Why don't you play outside for a while?”

#

Sophie whooped with delight as she chased after a flock of birds and begged them to come back when they flew out of reach. If only she could fly, then she could join them high in the sky.

Her eyes lingered on the trees beside the house. One of them wasn’t so far from the roof...

#

“Sophie? It's time for tea.”

“Papa!”

He looked up, eyes wide.

“Watch me fly!”

“Sophie-”

She launched herself from the roof, arms flapping frantically by her side. For a second, she almost seemed suspended in the air, her grin nearly as wide as her eyes.

But only for a second.

Her face shattered first, sending gears and bits of plastic in every direction, and smothering the grass with oil. The rest of her body didn't fare much better.

“Papa…”

He stared at the broken, twitching machine, until the power stopped and all functions ceased.

“Computer.”

“Yes, professor?”

“Reboot Sophie Protocol.”

“Any modifications, professor?”

#

They lay on the grass and watched the sunset together.

“Papa!” She pointed at a shape above them. “What's that?”

“It's a raven, Sophie. A type of bird.”

She closed her eyes and clutched his hand tight.

“It’s scary!”

“It's okay, Sophie. I'm here. I'll always be here.”

“I love you, papa.”

“I love you too.”

 

[M. Robert Gibson]

The Mine Of Furmia

'Twas the day after the fiercest snow storm the land had seen for decades. The old clock tower had taken a terrible pounding, but remained standing. The five week reign of terror by the Sphinx of Kribuzy was over; the creature literally petrified. So too the Hydra in the Forest of Skotoom lay defeated; many times beheaded; now lignified.

What a day that was, reflected our hero, Kajar. Two quests completed and still made it home for supper.
And now, as the sun rose, setting the clouds on fire, he wondered where his next quest might take him. Perhaps over the Great Azas Sea to the land of giant wyrms. Perhaps to the mountain lair of Tondo the Troll king.
His mind wandered the earth until Kwakwa the soothsaying raven, landing on a nearby tree, interrupted his thoughts.

"Kwa! Seek ye the Mine of Furmia," spoke the raven. "Riches and power untold await thee there. Kwa!"

The Mine of Furmia, mused Kajar, that mystical place rumoured to appear once every hundred years for but a single day.

"And where may I find this mythical mine?"

"Kwa! Look ye to the clouds. Where they be darkest, there be the mine. Kwa!" And with a nod and a squawk, Kwakwa took flight.

Kajar scanned the skies and noted the clouds were darkest over the mountains of Medesh, looming from the plains of the Yaggat Desert like a hungry man over a ham sandwich.

Eager to start this new quest, Kajar began preparations. He stepped into the enchanted Boots of Borgis; buckled on the magical Belt of Ostrawl; strapped on the mighty Sword of Drowsos; picked up the cumbersome Shield of Crodvod and pulled on the comfortable Loincloth of Slig.

...and I'm going to have to finish now because I'm running out of...

 

[Hugh]

Cultural Exchange​

The spirit-catcher was almost finished. Aari spat again and rubbed yet more spittle into the contours of the mask. His essence energy, and, through him, that of his ancestors, had to become deeply absorbed into the Kevaari wood to begin to activate the spirit-catcher. A new spirit-catcher mask was needed to protect the village of his people, the Kepaari, from the wandering spirits that cause death and illness.

“Hey Bud, how much for this one?”

Aari became aware of the large Terran tourist leaning over him, blocking the sunlight.

Aari knew Terrans were strange and untrustworthy. A Kepaari had one voice and one spirit, both of which were deeply rooted in each other and in the ancestors. In contrast, the Elders said, Terrans had dangerously fragmented spirits with many voices competing for control, and no clear link to their forebears. Even more worryingly, they did not seem to realize this.

“Not finished” answered Aari, then added almost as an afterthought “You want a closer look?”, holding the mask out.

The Terran, turned the mask over and over, “This is really something! You guys are fantastic!”

Aari watched carefully for that certain subtle shift in manner. In order to empower the spirit-catcher an actual spirit needed to be trapped inside it, and of course the more spirits that were trapped, the more powerful the spirit-catcher. This used to be a difficult, often lengthy process, but the arrival of Terrans had made this much much easier. They loved to handle these creations while being totally unaware that significant elements of their spirit-beings were becoming ensnared by the mask.

“Wow!” gasped the Terran swaying slightly.

Aari gently took the mask away from him.

The spirit-catcher was now ready to take its place guarding the village.

 

[mosaix]

No Trouble.

It was that hot summer of '47. He just wandered in from the desert.

We'd had strangers visit before but the Elders didn't like 'em much and none stayed for long.

This one was different from the others. Most had a horse or a truck of some sort, this one just wandered in. On foot. He looked different too. Dark eyes wide apart, funny hair, walked strange. Strange clothes too.

That night some of us kids was out late. Later than the Elders allowed. It was just coming dusk and we'd sneaked out for some scary night time fun over by the pit. It was more of a cave, but a few yards in the floor sloped steeply and then just disappeared. We called it the pit. Sounded scarier. We'd been told to stay away, but we was kids.

Anyway, we heard voices and hid pretty quick. Didn't want no trouble. We waited and saw Elders Gabe and Nathan holding the stranger real tight and walking him into the cave.

We waited a bit more and soon someone comes out. Alone. It was the stranger, wearing Nathan's clothes. He just turned and walked off into the desert. We watched him go then crept back to our beds. We weren't going near that pit now.

Next day there was lots of comings and goings around the cave and lots of talk about Gabe and Nathan. We said nothing. Didn't want no trouble.

A day or two later a whole load of strangers arrived. Most in uniform. And those helicopter things were all over the place. No one said anything. No one wanted no trouble.

After a few days, when things quietened down a bit, Pa walked the few miles down into town. But no one said much. Roswell was like that.

 

[Phyrebrat]

Suffer the Children

Pigger pulled on his clothes like a zombie. These days he didn’t care what he wore; not since Ne—, not since the accident.

That day, he’d walked through the chill five o’clock darkness to the abyssal yawn of Ollerenshaw’s No.8 as Chalky wittered on about Beeching’s Axe. Pigger didn’t care; he was more occupied trying to locate that wet rumble whilst replaying that morning’s conversation with the bairn:

Nellie pointed a foot - clad in patent size elevens. “I did my own laces!” She set her other shoe on the table.
“Divvent dee that! Only shoes of dead fowk go on the table.”
“Superstitious ol’ miner!” Janet had scoffed before giving him his bait and kissing him goodbye.

That kiss had warmed his lips as he’d cut through Nellie’s school, the quickest route to Ollerenshaw’s. Ahead, spoil tip No. 8 loomed through the fog like a giant, sleeping dog. As mizzle marinated them, Pigger looked heavenwards wishing for days when the calligraphy of cirrus clouds signed their names across summer skies.

Wait a minute… He stopped, looking around. ‘Where are they?’
Three bairns, black as sin, said the same thing to them everyday:
Careful of the black choke.
Today there was no sign of them.

Rumble.​

‘We’ll be safe today,’ He assured Chalky, ’Nae bairns!’
‘Bairns?’ Chalky said.

Rumble​

The rumbling continued when, just after noon - even deep down in No.8 - he felt the rumble instead.
‘All out!’ the foreman screamed.

He, black as the tongue of slurry that slouched down the valley below, was relieved to see the spoil tip had spared the town.

Then he saw the mudslide had taken the most direct route.

That night he put a pair of size elevens on the table whilst his wife, a shape of grief in human form, sobbed.

 

[The Judge]

Mine

The rock glimmered under the light of their torches. She reached a hand to it. Warmth seeped into her fingers, whispered words flowed through her skin. Ask. Ask for anything. It shall be yours.

The lure that had brought them to the mine. That brought everyone.

“Well, General?” The Kurjan ambassador. “Do you hear it?”

“No,” she lied, the promise filling her mind.

He turned to the Cevian Patriarch. “Your Holiness?”

The Patriarch’s grief-stricken gaze remained fixed on the rock – his people had held out longest against the peace treaty terms.

“Your Holiness?” repeated the ambassador. “This is why the four of us are here.”

Four representatives of four warring nations, there to experience the mine’s magical bounty for themselves. But the Patriarch wouldn’t touch the rock, wouldn’t open the veins of his God for the final time.

The whispering pulsed through her again, calling, tempting, as the Verrick counsellor touched the rock.

“It speaks to me,” said the Verrick. “For what should I ask?”

“Whatever you wish,” said the ambassador. “Gold? Silver?”

Or tin, copper, coal, diamonds, lead, uranium… All had been harvested there in the past. Whatever could be mined. Whatever was wanted. The gift of their God, the Cevians claimed.

Or a demon’s enchanted, enticing, poisoned chalice.

“Lion jade,” said the Verrick. Rock melted. A passage formed, seamed with precious green gold. Wealth beyond avarice. Calling, seducing.

Around them, a few square metres of glimmering dark, and a thousand years of greed. Above them, a thousand years of conflict, a hundred thousand kilometres of devastation.

“Mine. War,” she whispered.

The ambassador nodded. “The mine breeds contention. Now it ends. It will be destroyed.”

“You mistake me.” She drew her firearm, touched the rock again.

And the world continued to harvest what the demon always wanted.

War.

 

[Ursa major]

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Garrick Jefferson, Omega Man​

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There’d been many imagined “better futures”, some desired for their beauty or utility, others required to replace a present that could not safely last.​

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The best futures don’t – can’t – exist in real life. Fusion was always decades away from being economic. Matter anti-matter generation couldn’t be made to work.​

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In Garrick’s present, untold centuries later, few energy sources exist. Fossil fuels, large-scale hydro and nuclear are too dangerous to the environment. Wind power needs too-scarce resources for the batteries required to smooth out its fickleness.​

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Way back in the past, when power could be easily obtained, the world became addicted to machines that used it. Those trying – failing – to find new sources of power found themselves in a race against those inventing new ways to use all of it.​

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Commercially available LFMT, lubricant-free mechanical nanotechnology, provided the breakthrough. All it requires is a source of captured motion. Clockwork, for want of a better word. LFMT uses what are still called springs, arranged in a hierarchy from human- down to quantum scale.​

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What supplies the power held in these “springs”? (Not the owner. A lifetime of effort couldn’t power a single “winding”.) Garrick and his tens of thousands of colleagues, that’s who. Each carries a TP, a Torque Pack, that delivers the necessary spin, input at mindboggling rotational speeds; each tours an assigned area, visiting its dozens of villages once a week.​

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What powers the TPs? Where does it come from? Garrick has no idea. “Quantum magic,” his boss once told him, winking. “Miraculous!” She’s a genuine wind-up merchant, that one.​

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All Garrick knows is that when he’s exhausted the power of one TP, he must exchange it for a replenished one before setting out again.​

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If there’s one thing in perpetual motion, it’s him.​

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[Ursa major]

This challenge is now closed, and so the voting is now open.

To cast your THREE votes, use the link below.

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Please vote for your top THREE choices; note that all three votes must be cast AT THE SAME TIME to count.​

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