300-Word Writing Challenge #39 -- VICTORY TO PHYREBRAT!

[The Judge]

​

The inspiration image for Challenge #39 is:

Image credit: Mister_Oy


THE CHALLENGE:

To write a story in 300 words or fewer
INSPIRED by the image provided above, in the genre of
Science Fiction, Fantasy, or other Speculative Fiction


THE RULES:

Only one entry per person

All stories Copyright 2020 by their respective authors,
who grant the Chronicles Network the non-exclusive right to publish them here


This thread will be CLOSED until October 10th 2020
As soon as the thread is unlocked, you may post your story


Entries must be posted no later than October 31st 2020,
at 11:59 pm GMT


Voting will close November 15th 2020 at 11:59 pm GMT
(unless moderators choose to make an extension based on the number of stories)


You do not have to enter a story to vote -- in fact, we encourage ALL Chronicles members
to read the stories and vote for their favourites

You may cast THREE votes


NO links, commentary or extraneous material in the posts, please --
the stories must stand on their own


PLEASE REMEMBER THIS IS A FAMILY-FRIENDLY FORUM


For a further explanation of the rules see Rules for the Writing Challenges


This thread to be used for entries only. Please keep all comments to the DISCUSSION THREAD



** Please do not use the "Like" button in this thread! **​

 

[Wayne Mack]

My Mommy’s a Mermaid​

She tapped out the three letter she knew. Then it was off to bed and the swaying of the sailboat rocked her to sleep.

The sun rose. Lieutenant Adams scanned the calm blue water and squinted at an object on the lake.

“Ensign, change heading in this direction. That looks like our target.”

“Aye, aye, sir,”

Ensign Bowers turned the patrol boat to starboard and many minutes later pulled alongside the small sailboat. A young girl came out to greet them.

“My Mommy’s a mermaid,” she told them.

“Where is your Mommy now?” the Lieutenant asked.

“She is playing with our friend,” the girl replied and then shifted to a whisper. “Adulty games.”

The girl sat down on the railing of the boat then added, “Sometimes other men come to play. Did you come to play, too?”

The Lieutenant closed his eyes and sighed. The Ensign walked over towards the girl.

“Look! My Mommy’s a mermaid!”

The Ensign looked into the water and ashen faced, waved the Lieutenant over. Below the surface of the water, eyes stared up from a pale white face swollen with lake water.

The water exploded.

The little girl clapped her hands and jumped up and down. “Play, play, play, play,” she sang.

A gray tentacle wrapped around the Ensign’s neck. The Lieutenant grabbed him by the waist, but a second tentacle pulled his left leg. A third rose. A fourth. Grasping at the deck, the railing, the two were pulled overboard into the water. Screams subsided into silence.

Later that day, the anchor chain on the patrol boat tightened and the boat moved away and disappeared from sight. The sun set and the little girl sat down in front of a telegraph key. She tapped out the three letters she knew.

S. O. S.

 

[Rafellin]

Clearance

Emotional isn’t something we’re meant to be. Since losing the team, hiding in duty let me get by. Until I came here: this place makes it impossible to remain detached.
“How does it look, Baker Leader?”
This mission sickens me.
“I’m sitting on a half-kilometre jetty that’s older than my grandmother, watching the lonely light of a moored yacht reflecting on waters so tranquil you’d think somebody painted them in.”
“Don’t go poetic on us, Baker Leader. Shalshelix is a resource world for humankind. It has to be neutralised.”
“Boil the seas, salt the earth?”
“We’re only going to ignite the atmosphere. There’s no need to commit war crimes.”
Good to know we’re not going to be breaking any rules of engagement.
My team comm blinks. That’s not right: my next mission is to build another Baker team. I switch channels.
“Baker Leader, receiving. Who is this?”
“Baker Seven.”
Sendra‽
“You’re dead.”
“The Hierarchs are wrong, Jastal. Humanity is worthy, just not completely martial. In that, they represent a huge threat. The danger of showing we Roekuld that there is another way.”
“You’re dead!”
“No. The human survivors of that ambush saved me. We spent eleven months holding half a corvette together before rescue found us.”
“You always were more metalworker than warrior.”
“Proud of it, too.”
“Why now?”
“I don’t want to see another world sterilised. Besides, I live here.”
Carry on, betray, lose again? Decisions in the twilight. The water laps at my boots. I hear laughter coming from the yacht.
“How?”
“I need your vessel clearance code. The fireship is incoming. Nobody dies if we detonate it in the outer system.”
The aftereffects would make it impossible for the fleet to remain… I smile. Choice made.
“KZXM2137FD401AC4.”

 

[Astro Pen]

Last Frame

Death came quickly. Dak had been expecting an assassin’s bullet for some time, but not here.

He had always considered the island to be safe, a retreat guarded by his own men. His killer was probably one of them.

His mistake? Employing family men, vulnerable to their children being taken hostage by the Kalinas. Men would do anything to save their kids, who wouldn't?

Being an atheist he had imagined death would be a simple switching off.

At first he thought he was still alive. Looking out over this bay on new Venus. But nothing moved, ripples solid like obscuring glass, the ropes on the mast of the boat holding a steady curve as if under a hard frost.

He had heard tales of last moments, frozen for eternity, but now here it was, proven.

It could have been worse. Most people’s probably were. A truck fender smashing through a windscreen or the reptilian face of a Kalina assassin, drooling as its claw pierced your rib cage.

At first the view was tolerable but as days passed into weeks even this serene scene became a torment. After a few years insanity would be almost assured. No handle on the world to change anything, ever, not even eyelids to close. Just turquoise-blue hell. A sterile, static eternity.

He began to wish he had suffered some awful traumatic death. At least, then, there would be texture, sensation, extreme emotion. Some paradoxically life affirming visceral experience, all sensory cylinders firing. But this anodyne vision? Forever? Unbearable.

Then one day it came, a voiced question.
“Swap?”

“Dear Lord yes, yes, yes, anything but this.”

He saw the airlock door spiralling away into space as his leg flew past his head and the cold vacuum ripped the air from his lungs.

 

[Ashleyne]

CAP’N PATCHBEARD’S NON-EXISTANT SHIP



Patchbeard set down anchor. “Get a move on, lads. That boat down thar’ll keep us in rum for a year.”

Cutter’s the first down the ladder, named for his ability to neatly trim beards, or so he tells his kids when he visits them. He’s the first to fall through the boat, followed by three others. Nary the slightest bit ‘o’ damage to the boat, yet he can see Cutter’s head bobbing through the deck like through stained glass. Patchbeard yells, “Get back on board.” He runs to the helm and half strains his wrist, winding the anchor back up.

“What’s wrong, Cap’n.”

“It’s a bleedin’ ghost ship, so it is. We don’t need no stinkin’ curse.” His onboard crew tug the ladder to get their friends up faster.

The brightest light he’s ever seen makes his eyes feel doused in vinegar. “Oh Christ. This is the end, lads.”

The light dies down. There appears a man with his son. The clothes they wear… aristocrats? Here, in the middle of the ocean?

“The pirate lure worked”, says the man. “This time travel malarkey’s a doddle.”

“Daddy, do I get to steer it?” The boy asks.

“Absolutely. Only the best for my son. Stand down”, says the man when Patchbeard’s crew reach for weapons, weapons that have somehow vanished.

Patchbeard feels thin air instead of his own cutlass. “The illusion,” he says, “the banishing of weapons. These men are angels.” He falls to his knee and begs: “Please, I’m sorry for everything I’ve done.”

“Aww,” says the man, “that’s not true. I’m sure you’ve done many wonderful things, and here’s you’re chance to do one more. I told my son he could be anything he wanted, and he said he wanted to be a pirate. So… can he steer your ship?”

 

[paranoid marvin]

A Sailor's Story


February13th

Such excitement, my first sea voyage! Captain Hancock says I will make a fine deckhand, and should quickly become accustomed to life aboard ship. Victoria my dearest, I shall keep a journal of my adventures that I might better relate them to you upon my return.

February14th

First Mate Jonas has shown me my duties. The work is hard and very tiring, but no doubt I shall soon grow accustomed to it. I have yet to find my sea legs!

March 3rd

Jonas says we are heading into stormy waters. When I suggested we had already encountered such hazards, he shook his head and laughed. "Squalls my lad, you ain't seen nothing yet".

March 5th

My dearest, Jonas was most assuredly correct! I have today witnessed the power of the sea in all it's majesty. Several hands have been washed overboard, whilst others have implored the captain to turn back; "Lily-livered cowards" Jonas calls them.

March 6th

Disaster! Our ship sank in the storm and I escaped thanks only to the quick thinking of Jonas. The two of us are cast adrift in a small craft; we have a plentiful supply of water, but food for just two days. The only possessions I retain are this journal and the locket you presented to me upon our parting. Victoria, I am resolved to survive this ordeal and return to your loving arms!

March10th

The food has all been eaten. We are very hungry.

March 12th

We are starving.

March 13th

We have decided to draw lots. The winner... eats.

March 14th

My dearest Victoria, you will rejoice to know that I feel much better today. I also discovered that Jonas wasn't lily-livered, he had plenty of heart.

 

[Guttersnipe]

And Not a Drop to Drink

Sunlight flooded his vision, making him cringe. His memory returned to him. His sense of his inexorable destiny
was as excruciating as the sun was on his sores. He lay adrift on a broken small boat, surrounded by a sparkling
blue ocean. Anerithmon gelasma, an idea read as it flitted by.

Another piece of poetry came to him: Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink. He had tried to drink the
water. Of course, it was salty, but it also had an acidic aftertaste, one that made him retch at the daintiest sip. He
remembered not how he got here. All he knew was that he was going to die here (Unmourned? Unloved); he
would die here of thirst, and of hunger a second time over.

He did entertain the idea that maybe someone--or something--had contrived this fate for him, and was, perhaps,
watching him endure it. Perhaps this being, this unseen, nigh-omnipotent power, was enjoying watching him suffer.

His vision began to blur. Everything came to take on the texture of an oily van Gogh painting. The sun bled gold.
The waves took on a semisolid shape, a slime that oozed slow and ugly. He screamed, only to realize he could no
longer form coherent words. In the unbearable heat, he jumped into the ocean and did not resurface.

Outside of the man's world, two people were talking.

"How's our poet?" asked one.

"Cleared," said the other, "Died a few minutes ago. So sad."

He removed the VR headset from the prisoner.

"Call Disposal. Bring in the cartoonist next. Give Execution a while to think of a good simulation."

 

[BT Jones]

10 Degrees

“See that, dead ahead?“ asked Don. “Just those 10 degrees. Ignore the rest. Project it. Imagine… cool summer twilight; an ocean of pure cobalt blue. Tranquility.”

Zac flinched, but only to spy an empty yacht bobbing past their boat. Then the teenager’s gloomy gaze returned to the object in his lap.

“What’s tranquility for you?” asked Don, coughing.
Zac ignored him.

Don sipped his single malt and forced a smile. “How about I guess. Cape Elizabeth, summer of ’40? Mom, me, and you – five-years old; rock-hopping, paddling… What was that song you couldn’t stop singing? Jam Hop Pop?”
“Jam Top Hop,” said Zac, wriggling in his deckchair.
“There he is,” said Don, grinning.

Zac’s eyes darted to another passing vessel; this one blood-splattered and smoldering. His face crumpled. Don grabbed his hand.

“Look, I know you didn’t want to come – that you didn’t want to wait,” he said, voice wavering. “I just wanted it to be somewhere beautiful.”
Don stood up, downed the last of his whiskey, then leaned down and kissed Zac on the forehead.
“…and I couldn’t watch you go first.”

Grabbing the iron anchor, Don hopped onto the rim of the boat.
“Dad, wait!”

Zac leapt up. The gun in his lap fell to the deck beside the photo album as he joined Don on the side-rail.
“Tranquility will be you, me, and mom together again,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “Together?”
Don gave Zac his free hand, eyes welling.
“Together.”

Father and son touched foreheads, then looked southwest, to the colossal mushroom cloud dwarfing Chicago, and the inferno licking virtually every inch of Lake Michigan’s perimeter.
And after one last glance north toward those 10 degrees of pure cobalt blue, Don and Zac stepped off the boat.

 

[Matchu]

Honeymoon Horror

Jol and Chitea wrapped arms on the shoreline. Jol raised the I-phone high in his palm, he snapped their final selfie.

“My gosh, Chitea, the vehicle on the water looks amazing.”

He flicked through his portfolio with a thumb.

“The light shining on the top of that sail stick?”

“Teeth from a shot before,” he said, soothing the natural curiosity.

“An inspiration,” she said to his eyes, “so exhausting, our photographers’ journey.”

“I don’t know about you, I’m ready for smoothies,” he slapped her ass. “Sorry,” he said.

Jol regretted this moment. He violated the zone.

“May I?” he said. He slapped her ass the second time.

“And may I?” she retorted.

Jol upended at his rear.

Chitea swung her fist and smashed the underside of his jeanos.

The I-phone spilled from fingers, flipped from the sand, submerged into soft foam of this Adriatic ocean.

“You dumb pr*ck!” cried Jol.

“I’m not dumb,” said Chitea.

He gasped, the entire world washed into waters; the cool night breeze became the coldest wind.

Perhaps the phone lay among sea grasses at the water’s edge?

“Ask the guy on his ship for the waterproof bucket...?” said Chitea.

Jol gathered wits. “The guy?”

“In his car, in his golf buggy, and in the air, at sea, they are all the same surfboard!”

She sniffed, she missed mother. Incisors bared under moonlight, Chitea crossed her arms.

“I’ll message him,” she said.

“No,” said Jol, “this is a job for me.”

He unbuttoned the shirt, abdominals flexed, he inhaled.

“Excuse me, sir,” he hollered. “Hey you, mister Nemo,” he cried.

They waved and they whistled from the sand.

Terror recalled to hotel reception.

And they spread upon the double bed, googled laptops, sought identity of the mysterious man housed in a vessel.

 

[Provincial]

Boaty McBoatface and the Legend of the Blue Lagoon
(or, why villains shouldn’t monologue).


As Bo-T chilled out on the cusp of the tide,
Along came an alien, hitching a ride.
“Gotta get moving, got my brothers to save;
They’ve been swept under by a Mexican wave.”
“Where’s your ship Spaceman, and just why are you here?”
Said McBoatface, who deftly swung into gear.
“We’re from Deneb 7 and we come in peace,
But we’ve been shot down by the human police.
We fought back, but crashed near the Blue Lagoon coast,
Then a freak wave engulfed us - our vessel’s toast.”

“That’s a sad tale to hear; I’d like to help out,
But your explanation leaves some room for doubt.
If your ship was swept under, how’d you get away?
If you’re bringing peace, why were weapons in play?”


“Sorry you doubt me, it’d save so much time
If you’d grant my ride to the US coastline.
But since you’re suspicious I’ll cut to the chase:
We plan to take over the whole human race.
We can cause huge novas, block heat from your star -
We could freeze, crush or fry you, all from afar;
I’ll gather my crew, then take over your sun
And offer you peace at the point of a gun.”

The spaceman swept Bo-T with alien rays
To disable his comms’ antenna arrays,
But Blue Lagoon ghosts - pirates, sailors, and slaves -
Rose up from the depths to fight back from their graves;
While Bo-T’s defences fired salvos of lead,
They joined in and took off the alien’s head.
Then the ghosts raised the ship and slaughtered the crew,
So when the Feds came there was nothing to do -
While the ghosts drunk spirits in the Blue Lagoon,
And danced demonic jigs to a hellish tune.

 

[Danny McG]

Ocean night haiku

The lonesome lights shine

No people can be seen here

All around is dark

 

[Bren G]

First Contact


Zlurg raced upon the hilltop, seconds ahead of the other two children.

“I am first!” she cried. “I get to make the wish!”

“Enjoy it. You’ll be first too - when we receive the sacrificial knife when the moon’s turn,” said Zorn.

Zlurg muttered a curse - If only they would all die. She'd be free! But she was Chosen and that was that.

“Look” Fery’l said, pointing into the bay. They stared in horror at a floating ship. It was bigger than their largest canoe and featured a fire atop a long pole that projected from its center. Stranger too were its occupants, with skin of earthy tones, not blue like theirs, nor had they scaly heads, but seemed to be covered in sprouting grass. They spoke like barking zymphloids, and drank from cups that were quickly refilled. One of them raised a fist and howled into the night before hurling something into the ocean. Startled, the children ran home.

Zlurg woke early and snuck out to the shore. The boat was gone.

Clink!

She picked up the object lapping against the rocks. Cylindrical in shape, smooth and translucent, just shorter than her forearm, it tapered upward to a little round opening. The stranger had thrown it! She must tell the elders.

Elder Mor’zltx gently poured the steaming liquid into the mysterious object. He said, “A gift from the Gods! I will drink from their vessel and they will show me the future!” The villagers waited as the man sat, trancelike. In moments, he vomited before coughing uncontrollably upon the crowd. The cough passed through them like wildfire, their eyeballs bulged, veins popped, breath rasped, until finally, silence overtook the village.

Zlurg regarded the lifeless heap in utter shock before howling into the sky. “No…not this. I didn’t mean…!”

 

[Cat's Cradle]

The Panacea or the Grey

“Superbugs love solar radiation. As we spread throughout Sol System, drug-resistant bacteria became invulnerable – 6% of humanity dies annually.
“We’re recruiting and training individuals to travel via fast-as-light spaceship to distant worlds. You’ll explore undepleted microbiomes, seeking alien genes inimical to these relentless microbes.
“Whether they’re returned home in 100 years, or 500, new antibiotics will deliver us.”

After this spiel I volunteered, exchanging incarceration on Ganymede for the hope of pardon and pension.
Sixty years of hibersleep followed, till I was squirted onto this miserable fungus ball.
~

I return home after travelling days in the rover, seeking divergent fungus strains and squinting unceasingly. I’d destroyed my anti-glare goggles months ago in that first insensate rage; I’d regretted it ever since. This damn world – always aglow with blue bioluminescence from the globe-enveloping fungi.
I take my samples inside the enviropod, my grey, windowless sanctuary. I remove one envirosuit and put on another, purify samples, then inject the solution into Petri dishes on multiple tabletops; I’m careful – the dishes contain drug-proof bacteria.
When I finish my head pounds – my terrible, sapphire-tinged migraines.
Everything’s blue now, even pain.
~

I’m awakened by erupting blue dawn – the dishes are alight, the bacteria consumed.
I check computer projections – this strain seems stunningly potent against Sol bacteria, with minimal toxicity.
I’ve found our panacea.
It’ll be years after I transmit results before they can return here; that’ll allow time to purify tons of fungus needed to synthesize antibiotics for testing at Sol.
And that purifying, performed within my sanctuary...
Years without even grey.

The agar for the dishes is also my food supply. It’ll last many years.
I destroy the transmitter and burn the samples.
The room goes grey.
They’ll forget me – they don’t retrieve failures.
I lay on my cot and read.

 

[Capricorn42]

The Importance of Commas

Arthur, adrift on the blue swell, heard the doctor talking.

“And… activate.”

But Arthur didn’t hear what came next. He was distracted by a head that popped out of the water.

“Hi,” the head greeted him. “How are we today?”

Arthur, floating on his back, continued gazing at the dark blue arc of the heavens. Stars shone fat and bright. “Fine,” he said.

“I would like to ask you a question?”

Those stars, Arthur thought, have been gradually changing position and perspective for a long time now.

The head continued: “So, I was wondering if you had thought about the course correction?”

“Arcturus is drifting,” Arthur said. “That is odd.”

A fragment of him heard the doctor say “I just got a spike in activity.”

“Yes, it’s drifting,” the head agreed. “Do you think you can compute a course correction to fix this problem?”

With warm water caressing his toes and the tips of his ears, Arthur sighed and relaxed. “Not now,” he said.

In the control cabin, Doctor Chandra scowled.

“Your software worm failed?” Captain Nilson asked.

“Arthur’s stuck in that loop. It’s not his fault, you’re the one who told him to relax!”

Nilsson didn’t like that. “I said ‘relax’, not sit back and do bugger all for the rest of the voyage!”

“He’s programmed to do whatever the Captain tells him!”

“Alright.” Nilsson activated the mike. “Arthur, this is Nilsson. I am ordering you to stop whatever you’re doing right now and get back online!”

“Don’t say that!” Chandra shrieked.

Arthur glanced at the head, which raised its eyebrows. “Logical anomaly. Cannot stop what is not in progress.”

“I agree,” Arthur said, and continued not doing anything. For ever.

They never did find the ship.

 

[JJewel]

Muninn

He lay in the bath, an old porcelain one with clawed feet. A bottle of Jacks in his hand, he drank from the bottle and watched the light from the Paris sky dance across the wall.

He smiled and spoke aloud The Subject says “I see first lots of things which dance … then everything becomes gradually connected.”

The bottle fell to the floor, its contents spilling out across the tiles.

A voice in the distance called “Jim, wake up, don’t do this to me, please!”.

-0-
​

Moonlight shone down, the Nightmist Blue Shelby travelled along the dusty road, one hand on the steering, the other lightly caressed the dash, his gravelly voice spoke: “This will be our last trip, my beautiful blue lady”.

He parked the Mustang upon the brow, above the still Lake and stepped out. Dressed only in trousers of leather, he discarded them. Naked he walked down the hill, through the trees. With each step, he heard the call from the Lake, calling him home to where he belonged.

As he left the trees and stepped upon the sand, he left his skin behind, the Lizard King returning home. Hearing a flapping of wings above him he held out his arm and a great Raven perched.

“Well met Cousin, and how fares Raven kind?”, the Raven watched him for a moment then opening its beak laughing spoke on “I have just passed Coyote, he ran to greet you, I **** on the trickster god, just as I **** out the world for Noah”.

They laughed together at Raven's jest and slowly they walked into the Lake, behind them Coyote ran as fast as he could to catch up, cursing the Raven God.

And the great Lake called Memory welcomed the returning.

 

[MikeAnderson]

Mahamudra
​

"Westerners have this misconception that we strive to master enlightenment. That is something we cannot force nor manipulate; Mahamudra."

Jeff hadn't paid much attention to yogi Naspir; with wide eyes, he kept running his hands over and under the monks suspended in the air. He was sure there was some sort of trickery; wires, an air jet...something. But, as Naspir grinned, all Jeff's hands caught were palms full of air as they waved about.

"As I was saying," Naspir said, putting an arm around Jeff. "Enlightenment is a raging river. If one tries to swim against the current, thrash about too violently and give in to fear, one tends to drown. They sink because they've exhausted themselves with weight. Burdens of failed expectations, regret, and loss."

"To reach prabodhan, (enlightenment) one must surrender to the current. Relax, let the current take you, flow through you.”

Yogini Mashey continued to levitate well above his acolytes. His body emitted steam as he elevated, and his form was blurred by shimmers and his form vibrating at unearthly speed.

“Fight the current, struggle too hard in your endeavors, all one can do is drown. But, when one surrenders to prabodhan…”

“One becomes even lighter than the air we breathe.” Mashey, with his eyes still closed and his lotus pose intact, chimed, as he floated to the top of the angled monastery roof.

“And when we are lighter than air, there is no force that can stop us from rising. Our spirits are already in flight. The shell we reside in merely follows suit.”

​

 

[Victoria Silverwolf]

Storm Warnings

Peering through an antique spyglass from the deck of Dolce Vita, Roberto watched the bell tower of Serenissima dance in time with the gentle movements of the Adriatic.

"You look like a pirate," said Gabriella. In an ivory caftan, her auburn tresses worn loose, she seemed like a goddess. No longer Aphrodite, perhaps, but a wise Hera.

Next to her stood Lucia, her little sister. The petite young woman was a study in monochrome, her untanned skin nearly white in contrast to her black swimsuit and raven hair.

Alfredo emerged from below with a shortwave radio. With his golden curls, white shorts, and eternal grin, he might have been a depraved cherub. He tuned the radio to an American station, playing a version of the latest dance craze. Lucia waved her arms in the air and swayed her boyish hips.

The monotonous rhythm of drum and guitar and the baritone crooning of the singer ended suddenly, replaced by a man speaking rapidly. None of them knew English well enough to understand everything he was saying, but they recognized the names Kennedy and Khrushchev.

Lucia pouted. "Find another station, lover."

Alfredo twisted the dial, locating only a Babel of excited foreign tongues. He was about to give up the search when the radio let out a loud screech, then went silent.

The sky exploded, pale blue transformed into blazing scarlet and yellow. A roaring wind sent waves crashing into Dolce Vita, rocking the yacht and sending her passengers to their knees. The storm ended as suddenly as it began, followed by an eerie calm.

Roberto stood and looked through the spyglass. The bell tower collapsed into the sea slowly, without a sound, like a silent film projected at the wrong speed.

"There will be many beautiful sunsets," Gabriella said.

 

[Marvin]

Post Apocalyptic Wonderland

Bare foot and threadbare little Jimmy rummaged amongst the rubble.
Always on the lookout for a prize find - today he knew exactly what he needed.
With a yelp of joy, he snatched up the small, flat, wooden stick and scampered happily ‘home’.
He had no idea what the sticks were used for in the time before, but he sure was putting them to good use now.
His model boat was exquisite, it had taken him an age to find all the bits. Now it looked almost exactly like the picture.
Tomorrow at dawn he would launch.

The light hadn’t really taken hold as Jimmy set off. The world, forever gloomy, was bathed in blue. Perfect launching conditions, dead calm, still and silent. Through a hole in the next fence was the ‘ocean,’ waiting peacefully to receive his pride and joy.
Dragging a piece of old door into position, he had his jetty. Taking much care, Jimmy offered a helpful shove, this water was not to be touched! The surface, an oily reflection of the brooding sky, welcomed the little vessel.
With unlikely poise and balance the craft floated away.

Heading back, Jimmy had a huge grin on his face; a skip in his step.
He could picture the little boat sitting proudly, he did that!
There was no real way of knowing what life was like in times before, but how could anything beat this?
Now he was off to help the family score some food.
Life was good.

 

[Daysman]

Mr Blue

"See? Just there!" Stilgoe traced a drunken line through the iridescent volume of the display.

Cavenah stepped closer to peer at the twisted ribbon of light. She frowned and rubbed her eyes. "Why's it so blue out there? I can barely see any stars."

"After twenty years," he explained, "the drive's emitters have degraded, so much so a fraction of the timelike exhaust collects in the ship's EM field."

Cavenah bit her lip and grinned. "You don't usually brief press officers, do you?" She leaned in. "It's okay, I was an engineer too, in another life. So, what sustains this... thing?"

"The ship's infrastructure, it… um, sheds plasma eddies as it rotates. They drift up past the forward shield wall and, given time, coalesce with the vortex."

"And who's aware of this… maelstrom?"

Stilgoe waved away the display. "It's become a touchstone for students, a lucky charm for graduates. We even manufacture helical pendants as graduation gifts."

"Good god," she whispered.

"It's just a hobby," he insisted. "Now interest's spread beyond engineering. Three hundred people accessed this view yesterday."

Cavenah nodded. "You'd be surprised how many people search for sigils. This thing, it's like a rainbow above a desert. I'm glad you brought this to us. Right now, anything that gets our people to look beyond this ship is useful, even your will-o'-the-wisp. Can we find a student, d'you think, to post an article, something non-technical?"

"I know someone."

"Another thing: we'll pass midpoint in a few months... what'll happen when we direct the engines forward?"

"It'll reform in the ship's wake," Stilgoe replied. "And it'll grow too, become more complex... a real lightshow."

Cavenah grinned. "That's wonderful! We'll mention that too. And your students, what do they call it, this phenomena? Does it have a name?"

 

[Luiglin]

Long past

The ocean retained the vestiges of the setting sun, an infused glow that would soon dissipate.

Her body lay face down, hair given life of its own by the almost imperceptible swell. A trail of blood tainted the pristine water, leading back to where he stood on the yacht, an accusing finger of blame.

Time became immaterial to his vigil. Long past the point where she had disappeared into the depths. Long past the point where darkness enveloped him and the remnants of his world.



Long past.



The odour of burnt lunch permeated below decks, seeking escape to the fresh air through hatches opened in dramatic haste.

He remained on deck. Did not move to help. Did not offer advice. That had never been his role, never his part. His position offered no flexibility or alternative. Likewise, she did not need anything. Her role as clear as his. She knew her part and played it well. Always had.

Society demanded it of them.

She appeared on deck. Offered a nervous smile and a plate containing only half of what had been promised with such sincerity only a short time before. Long past the point of when it had been edible. Long past the point of his hunger.



Long past.



He eased himself out of bed, the other side vacant and cold. Even in an empty room, he still crept to the bathroom. The mirror begged for his attention and he didn’t have the heart to deny it.

The face that stared back, still his own and yet not. One eye, swollen, the bruising blossoming like a ripe rotten apple across his cheek. Blood flaked from the corner of his mouth to reveal a fresh dribble as the split opened again.

She entered, “I’m so sorry, darling. Never again.”



Long past.