300 Word Writing Challenge #41 -- VICTORY TO LUIGLIN!

[The Judge]

​

The inspiration image for Challenge #41 is:

Image credit: Paul Williams


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 2021 by their respective authors,
who grant the Chronicles Network the non-exclusive right to publish them here


This thread will be CLOSED until April 10th 2021
As soon as the thread is unlocked, you may post your story


Entries must be posted no later than April 30th 2021
at 11:59 pm GMT


Voting will close May 15th 2021 at 11:59 pm GMT
(unless moderators choose to make an extension based on the number of stories)


We ask all entrants to do their best to vote when the time comes
but you do not have to enter a story to vote
as we encourage ALL Chronicles members
to read the stories and take part in choosing the winning entry!

You may cast THREE votes



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The stories must stand on their own


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[Perpetual Man]

A Challenge Answers; A Challenge Made

Behold, the wonder of raw dream-stuff, the unused chaos of the imagination in its untapped form. The swirling morass of the id, waiting to be given shape and form by those brave enough to sail its unexplored depths.

Look! An alien world with shifting clouds of sulphuric acid, with pure mercury flows descending from the poles.

A squid of broken obsidian bone slides through a nebula of madness chasing the cosmic rift on which it feeds.

Strands of palsied skin separate and suppurate as flesh is torn apart.

A distorted face strains against a film of plastic trying to escape the torment of a twisted reality.

The world is seen through an array of filters that distort it beyond recognition.

Ares faces off against Mars, each determined to enforce the domination of their own pantheon.

Oils catch the grim light as they spread across purity, tainting and poisoning the waters as they are carried by murderous tides.

It is the nothingness becoming something, gathered into the hands of a god ready to be released in an explosion of everything. In the beginning…

This then is the palate of an artist, of all artists, lying in wait for the moment when the muse strikes snake like into the heart of creativity. Madness waiting to be taken in the hands of a creator and woven upon a weave of passion into something unique and wonderful; a song, an opera, a painting, a poem, a story.

Let it be released into the inventive hearts and souls of the innovators, instil restrictions to distil the ingenuity into a purity of artistic invention. Let synapses spark and neurons ignite, detonate with the expanding genesis of imaginative narrative, the spark of creation that becomes a universe forming explosion.

 

[Astro Pen]

Blue

The purpose of the blue planet had long been misunderstood.

It had been thought, by some, that the selection process of organisms occurring on it's surface had a teleology that would, ultimately, lead to the emergence of god like creatures. Super primates who would answer all questions, using a blend of science and philosophy.

Others believed that it was already the work of a god. That it was simply a testing place of souls. An evaluation of the individual morality of the people that were placed upon its surface and subjected to the turmoil of a fiercely competitive, yet transient, existence.

Others again, considered only the opportunities for pleasure that it afforded. Sun soaked beaches, sexuality and good food swallowed with copious fermented fruit.

The true purpose of the world was never stated, but it was successful in achieving its end.

It would surprise its occupants to discover that the reason for the creation of their planet, indeed part of the motive for the formation of the whole universe, was to create and provide the complete works of William Shakespeare.

That literary summit had now been scaled, penned, dried and locked eternal.

Its mission complete, the wondrous blue-green orb that birthed the Bard was, henceforth, left entirely to its own devices.

The gradual but inexorable desertification of both its surface and its culture followed.

Over in Andromeda, on planet K17, a world currently in its Triassic era, the Petrovian Octology, is gestating over the eons. A work that will have words so exquisitely crafted that they will induce tears or war by the reading aloud of a single line. The gods will wait.

You see, true gods have both unlimited resources and equally unlimited time to realise even their most whimsical wishes.

 

[Cat's Cradle]

CONTROL

The heft of his head feels especially wrong today. He shakes it hoping the violent disorientation will excite a ghost of sensation from that area of his brain on which the government had operated.
Nothing – the prefrontal reservoir’s gone, the weight of alien oil it held will never be felt there again.
A toddler wailing in the seat opposite infuriates him. The young mother texting beside it does nothing to stop the noise. He lowers his sunglasses and concentrates on the child.
The residue of oil trapped in his retinas glows as his brow furrows. The toddler’s eyes go wide and she quietens, but for a moment only then the wailing resumes.
This failure crushes him – the obsession to dominate others that even small amounts of oil instill is overwhelming, and he’s desperate for a fix.
The mother stares at him, and he reseats the glasses.
“Controller,” she whispers to the subway car. She screams, “You were a Controller!”
He grabs his backpack and hurries to the doors, praying the next station’s near. He wants to be home.

He’d been lucky, he knows. In much of the world the human agents the invaders had commanded through their nanite-dense oil had been killed, some burned alive; in other places the alien-implanted reservoirs had been excised, and in some few the subjects’ eyes had also been removed.
In this more-progressive land they’d left his sight, and those weak traces of oil, and a shade of the abilities they had imparted.

He opens the door to his tiny flat and calls “Pepper!”
She comes running and licks his hand. He concentrates and she sits… gives her paw for a shake, stands on her rear legs then falls over, playing dead. He moans – here’s something he controls.
“C’mon cat, let’s get you fed.”

 

[JS Wiig]

Leaving Squid Nebula

Cassandra the space pirate sat at her favorite table overlooking the multicolored glory of the Squid Nebula. Her body tingled with anticipation; she hadn’t seen Alex in two months. He’d arrived at the secluded space station a short time ago and messaged Cassandra he would make his way to the cafe post-haste. He had something important to tell her.

She slid silverware back and forth across the table and took sips from a glass of ice water. They’d been together for a while and had discussed taking the next step in their relationship. Could this be it? Shortly, Alex slid into the chair across. A charming smile lit his face. Cassandra smiled back and met his gaze.

“I have great news,” he said after taking a long drink.

“I’m waiting,” she said, butterflies ready to explode from her chest.

“I made a business deal that will set us up for life.”

“Oh.” She grabbed her drink. After a long pause she asked, “With who?”

Alex glanced around and lowered his head. “The Kuiper Mafia,” he said, hushed.

Cassandra nearly choked on her drink. “What!”

“Look, I know you have a history with them but-“

“A history? They murdered my family!”

Alex gestured with his hands. “Ok, alright, just calm down-“

“Are you serious?” She could feel the red in her face.

“Look, it’s kinda a done deal at this point. I got prepaid.”

Cassandra took several deep breaths, then said, “You got prepaid. I will have nothing to do with this.” She stood.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving. You dealt with the only people I asked you not to. Don’t you ever listen?”

“I-“

But it was too late. Cassandra stopped briefly at the door to consider what might have been, then vamoosed.

 

[Rafellin]

Forge

As my old man used to say: "You want to see what a man’s made of? Set him alight and watch the colour of the flames.”

The day he told me that, he was holding a medal for ‘valour on Mars’ in the prosthetic hand that valour left him with. As he’d been through two world wars before then, a certain jaded view was only to be expected. However, the underlying wisdom remains on point: you’ll never get the measure of anyone until they’re under pressure.

“What’s that mustard-coloured sh*te?”

A little more Dijon than English, but valid.

“All the local dwellings the aliens burrowed under. Not sure if it’ll vitrify or form some weird flow sculptures, but we’ll be here long enough to find out. Hope you’ve got a decent camera app on that swanky phone of yours. Networks back home give good credit for exotic war art.”

He snorts. Money is hardly a problem for this fast-track officer.

“The blue liquid?”

“Is what the white stuff becomes when it melts.”

“The white stuff?”

“Something like snow crossed with salt, the boffins tell me. Looks lovely, stinks like ammonia, will burn your skin off.”

“What about the black stuff?”

“It’s the slag of melted alien lairs. Means we got what we were after.”

“We made a right mess of their bases. Awesome!”

He wanders off, curiosity satisfied. I make note of his ID, because he needs to go down there and see the bodies embedded in the ‘mustard-coloured sh*te’. Needs to hear and help those burned almost beyond recognition by the rivers of blue acid. Our next generation of leaders need to feel the pressure of revulsion, so they’ll emerge tough enough to force change in this despicable strategy.

 

[BT Jones]

An End to End​

Esteemed Prime Procurator,

I beg you read this. It has taken – will take – months to write.

The conditions are crippling here, as you know… although, given the distance and time elapsed, perhaps you don’t. You mightn’t know me either – you could be the 112th or 113th Prime Procurator by now.

You will know of me, however…
As such, perhaps this communique is already atoms.

Regardless, writing it has been – is – cathartic… because now, after however many decades it has been – centuries, even – I finally understand remorse.

‘Just words,’ you may say; hollow sentiment from a fearful, godless man – nay, a monster – for whom truth was always a tool.
Given my crimes, I couldn’t fault you for thinking so, nor perceiving me unworthy of salvation. No one was more deserving of this punishment.

Exile on Cernunnos, a barren, scorched rock twenty thousand miles from its sun, with just a hyper-graphene telecommunicator, was justified and ingenious.
It took years of unspeakable agony to crawl, aflame, exsanguinated, to its dark side; many more to find this cavern, scorching at its rear, black and frigid at its mouth.

The pain is constant – hunger, thirst, asphyxiation… I can no longer tell them apart.
But at least I am not alone: I have the aurora.

It is for this that I humbly thank you… for I know true beauty now. The gold, the azure, the violet – I’ve christened, then forgotten, countless new shades… Its constant glow, its silent song, is a blessing.

And I’ve started seeing them within it; the fathers, the mothers, the children; the casualties of my obsession.
I watch their souls dance in the light… and realise they are the true immortals.

I enclose my co-ordinates, to which I humbly ask you dispatch a neutronic warhead.

Yours in perpetual penance,

Nameless

 

[reddishbird]

Phoenix

Out of the turmoil, erupts a tantalising flash of vermilion, of cinnabar, winnowing the glacial ochre fogs, long neck stretched forward as though to pierce the densest airs. The eye can see colour but not shapes in this murk, and the thing shoots forward, now here, now abruptly lost in the thickened greasy roils.

And here it is again, a form so sleek and so elegant, dispersing the nauseous tan mists with fiery exhalations, cutting through to the purpled, ink-stained heart of the cloud where darkness lurks, enveloping the land in frigid, foul excretions.

The winds of its passing provoke the ochre clouds into turbulently foldings and spinnings, twisting the turbid amber clag. A tantalising glimpse of clear unsullied ether is caught, blue, white, blue. Wings seemingly fragile as bubble-skins beat strongly as it loops and soars, fighting to halt the dissolution of its nest . Scarlet and alizarin wings lift and curve, as its inner radiance brilliantly illuminates it’s path through the soup of gasses that hides the desert lands below.

If only this being will prevail: if only it can clear the queasy atmosphere enough to let its offspring hatch and survive? If only this may be enough?

The creature dives headlong, a rose-violet lance, a bloody dart into the darkness.

A heart-beat, pause, then victory!

The sickly cloud roils, thinning as the furnace blast cleaves it once, twice, again and again, until blue on white prevails, the sickly haze dispersed. The crimson being swoops and plummets playfully, its long task done. Then, as the cold dark poison leaches the last of its strength, the beautiful being cries out once in triumph, folds it’s wings and dies.

Far below, a tapping, a cracking, and with a final heft, in golden brilliance, it is reborn.

 

[Dan Jones]

The Travels of Sir Reginald Rigmarole, Part 94!

So! After the FCO cherrypicked me for my urbane diplomacy to settle the intractable vaccine war with Brussels, I found myself pursued along Avenue Louise by the insane, naked, Belgian warlord Leopold Zwerverjager, cradling my underpants, which bulged with vaccines. Zwerverjager, weighed down by his necklace comprising the Astrazeneca vaccinations of his fallen foes, knew he couldn’t catch me, so hollered, “Vlieg, mijn schoonheden, en rits de broek van het beest open!”

Uproariously, eighteen Belgian pastry chefs armed with pallet knives emerged from his gut and took flight, divebombing my crotch, using their utensils to try and unzip my trousers!

“Not today, Juan!” I condescended, shooting one chef from the sky with a piece of Scottish finance regulation. I was almost overwhelmed when I noticed a honking great brothel across the street (one learns to spot these things in the Civil Service). I entered and sexily slammed down the entry fee. Zwerverjager, unable to spend a centime more on lap dances than Commission regulations allowed, was denied entry and left frustratedly rotating his hips outside.

Inside, the disease-addled Madam disclosed she was the establishment’s proprietor, so I immediately initiated seduction! As a lithe strumpet did something unprintable with sports equipment on stage, I grabbed the mic and announced I’d sing.

Being a metropolitan sort, I knew how to impress. I consulted Sir Kier’s Big Book Of Politically Correct Love Songs and selected You’re So BAME (I Bet You Think This Song Is About You). As I warbled, I noticed the item emerging from the performer’s overworked noonoo was not a basketball but the balding, vaccinated head of Leopold Zwerverjager!

Using his pallet knife he skilfully unzipped my fly, whereupon the vaccines tumbled out! “Er is meer dan één manier om in je broek te kruipen!” he screamed.

Foiled again!

 

[Ian Fortytwo]

Recipe for Bread.

Flour.
Water.
Yeast.
Salt.

"What are you doing," said Zed.
"I'm making bread," replied Kapra.
"Its been over a millenia since we have produced natural food," said Zed. "Where did you get the recipe and the ingredients?"
"I found it through some research," replied Kapra. "The ingredients are synthetic not natural."
Kapra started putting the ingredients together. Mixing flour with water, adding yeast and salt. Kapra kneading in a regular motion, following the instructions carefully. Kapra put the dough into a large tin.
Kapra put the tin in the oven, putting the heat onto the required temperature.
Kapra and Zed retired to the lounge waiting for the bread to cook.
After a couple of hours they tried to enter the kitchen and couldn't. The door was jammed shut. So they exited the building only to find that the bread had risen out of all proportion.
The bread was creeping over the land.
What had happened, Kapra was sure he had added the correct amount of each ingredient.

And now as I write this down the planet is being destroyed by the ever rising bread.

People were being suffocated.

What went wrong...

 

[Luiglin]

There is a damp patch on my wall

There is a damp patch on my wall.

As I rest my head on the pillow, I can see it, halfway up, a dark stain that absorbs the light. The green shoots on my wallpaper twist and turn to escape its reach, their buds closed tight. Yet, within, they burst into mildewed flowers of a colour that I cannot conceive.

Even in the small hours of the night, when the moon hides and the gas lamp outside flickers from the draught through the cracked pane, I can see it.

It flourishes.

I spoke to my neighbour, a lady of indiscernible years, her face a pristine mask. I asked; did she have a damp patch on the wall which we shared? She replied, no, in an indignant tone that I had even dared to suggest such.

I tried the surrounding wall, dry. I checked for pipes, none. I tapped for cavities and heard only the lady dancing alone to a scratchy record.

In the night, I hear it drip.

The lightest of patters, to be heard within a held breath. Silence… pat pat… silence… pat… silence… on and on, erratic, from sunset to dawn.

Night after night after night.

I asked the lady through the crack of my door; did she hear the drip? She dismissed me with a solitary raised eyebrow, a sharp pencilled slash of disdain.

Tonight, I traced the outline of the damp patch. At first tentative, a clumsy virginal attempt to address the boundary blur, and then, tender, a lover’s caress of something beautiful.

Cold and wet it felt, all warm and cosy.

A drip of meaningless welcoming whispers from a dreaming mind. An ancient, mouth-watering scent of promise. A glimpse of infinity and the thing at its edge.

There is a damp patch on my wall.

 

[paranoid marvin]

A Hollywood Ending



"So, this swirling maelstrom of... stuff... is all that remains?"

"Yes sir, the planet has been totally destroyed."

"I see. And the cause?"

"Unknown, although a few items have been recovered from the debris that may provide clues."

"Such as?"

"Well, we found this tinfoil-covered aperitif holder."

"Ooh, nibbles!"

"Sir, that is a valuable artefact!"

"Sorry. What else?"

"Well, we think that this small rectangular device may provide us with the answers we need. It appears to be an audio-visual archive of the planet's recent history."

"Can we view it?"

"Oh yes sir, jolly interesting it is too! The planet seems to have been attacked numerous times."

"For example?"

"Well, on one occasion the ruler of another world attempted to mercilessly destroy them with a powerful weapon. Fortunately a hero called Gordon foiled his evil plans."

"Gordon's alive?"

"No sir, he appears to have perished with the rest of the population."

"A pity. And you mentioned other attacks?"

"Yes sir. Unsuccessful invasion attempts by various hostile alien races, and several instances of asteroids on collision courses with their world. Somehow they managed to find a way to avert disaster every time."

"They certainly were resourceful people. But eventually...?"

"It appears that their planet was demolished to make way for a hyperspacial bypass."

"Ahh, even they could not stand in the path of progress. But I see that there is writing on the archive device... 'Steve's Movies'?"

"Yes, we're unsure about that. Maybe Steve was an elder of their race and 'movies' was their name for archived recordings."

"Perhaps Steve was a friend of Gordon?"

"Possibly."

"Steve's alive?"

"Doubt it."

"Regardless, he is to be honoured. Hail Steve!"

"Err... hail Steve, sir."

"He shall never be forgotten. Anyway, I'm famished; where did you put those nibbles?"

 

[johnnyjet]

Van Gogh's Jupiter Collection

Helene, Ship's Navigator, whispered in Vincent's good ear.

"May I show you something?"

Ship's Artist Vincent Van Gogh turned and squinted at her. His eyes were not good today. He blamed it on the ship's hyper space drives. He hadn't expected to be so discomfited from this journey—the headaches, dizzy spells, hearing loss, and now this vision thing, whatever that was. What was next?

He took her hand gently in his. "Maybe later, darling. I wish to spend more time watching glorious Jupiter and its moons. They brought an Artist on this mission and I need to fulfill my obligation. I need inspiration."

She frowned. "But Vinnie, I can provide all the inspiration you would ever need."

He smiled. "I'm sure you could. Please, though. Later."

Pouting, she swiveled and left him. He turned back to the large viewscreen with the vast planet at its center. He studied its violent swirls of color, its mad rushes of beauty, the quietly circling moons. He was particularly fascinated by the mysterious red spot which stood out like a hypnotist's eye.

The longer he watched, the more his vision began to blur. The moons and stars around Jupiter began to swirl and merge with the swirls on the planet's surface.

Perhaps he should lie down and rest his eyes.

Yet as he continued to gaze at the wondrous changing shapes—unwilling to take leave for fear of missing something astounding—an inspired vision occurred to him for his Jupiter Collection. Everything would become swirls of colors. The beauty of the art would come from the interpretations of those swirls. Indeed, each viewer might see something different, something meaningful to them alone.

Excited, he called out to his friend.

"Rorschach, come let me tell you of my greatest inspiration!"

 

[Victoria Silverwolf]

Chiaroscuro

The guns of the Great War grew silent, and many of those who trembled at their roars drifted through Europe, escaping nightmares. They were artists, hedonists, lunatics.

Two Americans drank Pernod in a café in a shabbily bohemian section of Serenissima. They had seen men shattered into bone and blood, shrieking as clouds of yellow death devoured their lungs, hung from barbed wire like scarecrows. They did not speak of these things.

"There cannot be a new color." Philip was a poet, who kept body and soul together by translating dreary English textbooks into Italian.

"Scientists tell us there is light below red and above violet." Richard was a painter who survived on the remnants of a modest inheritance.

"If one cannot perceive them, they are not colors."

"But if it were possible to learn to see . . ."

They argued joyfully, as only close friends can.

#

​

Richard ground titanium white powder in mortar and pestle until it was so fine it was nearly liquid. To this he added a miniscule amount of cerulean blue; so little that it vanished completely, to the untrained eye. Then he watched, and waited.

#

​

Philip climbed up a narrow stairway to the tiny room that served his friend as home and studio. He held a sheet of paper bearing his latest sonnet. He valued Richard's opinion, although pride kept him from admitting this. He entered without knocking, as always, and saw Richard applying white paint to a canvas that was already covered with multiple brush strokes of the same shade. His friend turned to greet him. The paper fell from Philip's hand and glided to the floor like a dying bird. He stood frozen. Richard's eyes were featureless orbs, without iris or pupil, and of a color he could not name.

 

[Daysman]

writing on glass

Among the city's aged concrete shells, a single tower retains a covering of glass. A fibrous moss wraps these fractured panes, a foxfire chimera that, in the rainy season, fills the grimmy vertical with luminous lines and circles.

It's there that she meets with her Offworlder client, in the plaza at the tower's base.

An exoskeleton supports his fragile frame. He barely turns to greet her. "I'm told you interpret 22nd century emoji? Tell me, what does all this say?"

The historian sighs. "Very little… a brief message, repeated."

The Offworlder taps the augment port at the side of his head. "An expert I know claims it's just a joke."

She smiles. "Emoji aren't always humorous… this meant something to the politician that lived here. Neither he nor his regime would suffer criticism. So, a very capable Tech, seeking his attention and embarrassment, engineered a tiny climbing plant to write glowing emoji beneath his penthouse balcony."

"Clever," the Offworlder murmurs.

"The city council burned it off every year, but some spores always survived. In time, it colonised the entire face of the building."

He glances at the tower. "Is there something about poison?"

She almost claps. "No fruit from the poison tree."

"That's the message?"

"Meaning they'd never have children… that she's leaving him… leaving Earth."

The Offworlder nods. "But he chased after her."

"You knew them?"

"I like to think I did," he calls out, returning to the waiting passenger drone. "Avoid the plaza tonight… there'll be unexpected satellite debris… it'll be heavy…"

As the Offworlder's vehicle merges with the dwindling sky, the historian alerts every Peacekeeper she knows. Later, safely distanced, she sees the building run through by hypersonic volleys.

She fully anticipates the outcome, of course.

By dawn, she's left the city.

The spores… they're everywhere.

 

[Peter V]

Three months.

Edith tears off yesterday from the calendar. May 1st stares mutely back at her. Three months until she is due to be murdered.

Three months to save her life. Three months to free humanity.

And maybe damn it at the same time.

When the portal was opened to Kepler-186f and the Miasma first observed, it was already too late; one glimpse was all it took. Part of the alien was brought back by those first pioneers and within days, virtually everyone on Earth had seen it. It cured blindness too; millions of grateful people, millions more enslaved.

Then everyone over thirty disappeared.

The Miasma declared they had been granted immortality in The Beyond. Everyone would get thirty years of life, before painless dissolution of their physical body and sublimation to an eternity of paradise in a shared consciousness. Edith did not believe it.

She does not know why she is unaffected and knowing what August and turning thirty will bring, part of her wishes she could happily accept her fate in blind ignorance. Only a small part though, for she still relishes her humanity. Of course, she accepts that an end to crime is a good thing, as is the end of poverty, famine and disease. How could she not? Except this fettering of the human spirit is not living.

Is Edith the last free thinker? She will be if her plan does not work. A virologist by profession, she had been working on a bug to kill the Miasma. As she nears her goal, she wonders what will happen if the virus works? How will people react when they wake up to the realisation that billions have died? Will society collapse without the false benevolence of its alien conqueror?

Possibly. Quite probably even.

Three months to find out.

 

[sule]

Brief Dispatch Regarding the Viscid Border (2nd Edition)

*Publisher's note: This Government memorandum was originally published in newspapers on 5 November 1951. The original text has not been revised. Updated commentaries are inserted where necessary*

The Border that recently[1] surrounded our country has baffled many. Although we don't know what happened to the people outside the Border, scientists are already working to uncover its mysteries. Until they finish their study, experts recommend the following temporary safety measures:

Avoid physical contact with the Border until it has been studied in more depth[2]. Preliminary reports compare the texture of the Border to an extremely viscous liquid. Studies show it resists pressure but is apparently harmless[3]. Those who have had contact with it are in quarantine. They report experiencing nausea among other light side effects[4].

Do not attempt to penetrate the Border[5].

Refrain from contacting friends and family members outside the Border[6].

We ask that everyone exercise caution in these uncertain times. Rational conduct, guided by our Government[7], will see us through. If everyone does their part, we are confident experts[8] will discover the solution to our current dilemma.

Everything will soon return to normal.

---

[1] Official timeline states the VB appeared 18 October 1951.
[2] DO NOT TOUCH THE VB. DO NOT THINK ABOUT TOUCHING THE VB.
[3] Studies recently called into question. See: "'They Are Not Themselves': A Study of VB Contact Cases", The Economist, 7 January 1952.
[4] Other side effects include changes in personality, amnesia, and megalomania.
[5] See footnote [2].
[6] Despite recent (disputed) claims, there is no proof that anyone outside will contact you. See: "Is Anyone Outside?", The Economist, 14 April 1952.
[7] Emphasis added. See: "Prime Minister's Abrupt Policy Shift Confounds Many", Evening News, 18 August 1952.
[8] See: "VB Experts Change Stance; Encourage Contact", Evening News, 20 August 1952. See footnote [5].

 

[Wayne Mack]

Cassie

Cassie could see them, the black shapes in the aura emerging into our world. There was a wolf-hound. It was followed by a specter. Other shapes were still less formed as they started to enter this realm. She turned to her mother.

“Yes, dear, I see them, too.”

“What is to happen?”

“The demons, they will bring pestilence and disease. Tides will rise, droughts will occur. Famine will arise, as will anger, demonstrations, and war. Death in its many forms.”

“Like the four horsemen?” asked Cassie.

“If only it was merely four.”

“Should we not warn people of our visions?”

“This is our family’s curse. Our reality does not comply with their science.”

“But can’t they see what is happening?”

“Yes, but they try to analyze and find physical causes and logical sounding rationale. They try to deduce and hypothesize and find psychological profiles. They cannot accept evil manifest.”

“We must do something, Mother. I must do something.”

“It has been thus since ancient times, Cassandra. We warn, we predict, we foretell. None will listen. At best, we are ignored. Other times ridiculed. Sometimes even put to death as witches.”

Cassandra looked again at the visions that haunted her. She typed into her computer and entered and broadcast warnings wherever she could. The responses she received were dispiriting; the silence, though, was devastating. If only they would listen. If only they would turn away hate and evil. If only they would choose good.

 

[Laura R Hepworth]

The Soul of an Artist

For years he'd striven for recognition, fighting the critics that said his work was empty, devoid of anything meaningful, and good only for hanging on a wall and looking decorative. It was the worst insult imaginable for an artist and one that he had heard over and over again until the words echoed on a constant loop in his head.

Meaningless? Empty? He would show them just how wrong their words were.

This would be his greatest work yet! Yes, they wouldn't be able to toss about any words other than the highest of praise! He would show them, he would show them all!

So he ground his pigments, mixing them with the binding agent, and he poured himself out onto the canvas. He held nothing back. Every heartache, every dream, it was all there for everyone to see on the canvas. Tears ran down his cheeks with every powerful stroke, every splash of paint and it seemed as if the paint wept with him the way that it dripped and ran down the canvas.

Fixated, he painted. For hours he painted, never once stopping to take a break. Not even as he felt his body weakening did he drop the paintbrush in his hand. It wasn't finished yet, and there would be time enough for rest later after he had poured out all that he had to give.

They found his body the next day – pale and empty. Devoid of life, just as they'd always claimed of his work. His face was stained with tears, but the corners of his lips were turned up into ever so faint of a smile, and, in his hand, he still grasped the paintbrush as it had made its final stroke.

In pursuit of a masterpiece, he had poured out too much.

 

[Phyrebrat]

Down There

Another night of poor sleep. Ever since lockdown started it gets harder.

We went to bed around eleven, and within five minutes she’d fallen into a deep slumber (if the soft pop-popping of not-quite snoring was anything to go by). It was a small mercy - at least I wouldn’t have to lie still.

The awful curtains reminded me of an infection. I was astounded as to why she’d chosen that pattern which seemed designed to catalyse fevered thoughts within me. Under the outside glare of actinic streetlights, the dim swirl of purples and oranges mutated over the course of the night into a vivid sickness at dawn.

But then, our eyes are the most dishonest organs of our bodies.

I lay there, the cheap under-bed drawer digging into my back, time dragging so much that I could discern the pauses of night birds’ inhalations before and after their hoots and peeps.

And what of those interstitial moments? Where do they go after we’ve used those minutes up? Of course, I knew: they go on, into the liminal cracks and fissures of reality, slipping through to unspace.

Just like me.

I’m what happens to a man who swallows all his pain and despair without chewing it first. Is that a drawback or an advantage?

Luckily, with all these thoughts came the comfort of knowing we’re most invisible in the darkest hours; that whilst death may walk just a few steps behind us, I was exceptional.

But what if I want to be caught, for someone to find me down here? The peace I get listening to her sleep-sounds from the mattress above me comfort me in a way talking to her on the street when we pass does not.

And this under-bed drawer is awfully cramped.