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

[Parson]

“It’s Clear, Once You Are Educated”​

“I still can’t see it.”

“Of course, you can. It’s there, if you look closely and understand this unusual pattern.”

First Mate Shylor rubs his nose, contemplates, and decides he’s ready to hear the rookie sonar tech explain her logic. “It is not plain to me at all. You say that we are looking at nascent Krakens?”

“Absolutely, you see those purple pulses in grid slide X3-Y5?”

“Yes. Are those Krakens?”

“No, those are not Krakens. Those are the Caszii.”

“Caszii are the Kraken companions who clean their skin. Right?”

“Yes, and they are never far from their food and their protectors. Now, do you see the abyss on grid slides X5 and X6 between lines Y4 and Y5?”

“That dark cave-like opening?”

“Yes! That’s where the nascent Krakens will appear. Probably in the next cycle or two.”

“Sonar Specialist Kim, I want to say that you’ve totally impressed me with your persistence and your insight in explaining what you see in what looks like a paint blob to me.”

“Thank you, sir. What are you going to tell the captain?”

“I’m going to tell him what I always tell him on a rookie sonar tech’s first cruise.”

“Sir??”

“I’m going to tell him that the old paint blob gag has claimed another victim.”

 

[Guttersnipe]

The Painter of Souls

The man appeared in Lille seemingly out of thin air. He looked strangely impish, with
a small stature and large, pointed ears. But it was his paintings that really attracted
attention. The stranger claimed to have the power to reveal, via painting, the soul
of anyone who gave him a bar of chocolate, indicating no desire for money.

A crowd gathered around a park, watching excitedly as the stranger painted his
subjects' inner being. He showed people to have ugly souls, beautiful souls,
ones that didn't resemble them, and even some that were non-human. Every
customer went home happy knowing what their soul resembled, believing in
mystical claims because they offered food for thought.

There was a wealthy widow who, though not one to believe in the supernatural,
was intrigued nonetheless. She visited the stranger one day, carrying with her the
grimalkin that was her only companion. She introduced herself and gave him a
chocolate. He sat her down and she waited, stroking the fat cat.

When he was done, he presented his piece to the widow. She screamed. For,
in the painting, sitting in a painted crone's lap was not a cat, but her late
husband.

 

[Edoc'sil]

Verdant Grass

“There’s nothing down there,” I scoffed, shutting off the screen.

“I know what I saw,” said Henry.

“You know what you think you saw. Computer play back the last 5 minutes of scan, quadruple speed.”

My screen flashed back into existence, in front of where I sat in my body formed captains’ seat. The screen showed a sped-up view of the planet below us. I sat looking at a boiling gas storm, twisters miles wide raging across the surface.

Henry gasped, “Stop. Right there,” He lifted up his desk console, stood, and walked over to my viewer screen. He jabbed his finger at a stationary white swirl in the top right of the twisting maelstrom.

“That’s it. That’s what we’ve been searching for.”

“This is the sixth time you’ve led me on this wild goose chase, Henry. You’ve a good track record but four more misfires, and I might start getting angry,” I said smiling.

“That’s it. I’m sure of it.”

“Guess we’ll see. Strap in.”

I angled the console downwards, the ship nose-dived towards the planet’s surface. Our screens flickered to show us the view directly outside. Fire licked the body of the ship as the outer atmosphere burned. I brought the vessel into a lazy glide, still above the frenzied vortex below. As we got closer, I noticed that the gas seemed calmer closer to the white splodge, it almost bended around it. A few more seconds and we were hovering above. Looking down, we had a direct view to planet’s surface.

There below us was a patch of green grass, bordered by a white picket fence. Outside the fence the storm raged, a massive wall of thundering gases that stretched into the sky. Upon the verdant grass stood a perfect, small, white house.

“We found it.”

 

[Sinergio]

Kolebaniya



We had only gone fifty meters when the landscape began to fluctuate once again.

“What do you see, Martin?”

“Don't waste time describing the spectacle”, said Lucy. “It changes again”.

It was our fifth day in Kolebaniya and the first outing Liu Chan had authorized. The name of the planet, despite having been proposed by the physical genius of our expedition, Ivor Borisov, was still redundant. The landscape never remained stable for more than eight or ten minutes.

“I don't know what we're doing out here”, said Martin, annoyed. The suit was a real nuisance, but the surface measurements, which sometimes indicated adequate temperatures and oxygen levels, at other times became signs of drastic lethality.

“A surveying, partner”, I replied. “We're trying to determine...”

“Garbage!”, Lucy stammered. “Typical arrogance of the human species. We're not going to determine anything; we'll never know what those blue spots in the snowdrift are, or if the dark pools are cenotes of water or sulfuric acid. And we won't know because they'll mutate before we can get close enough...”

Lucy's voice trailed off abruptly, and when I turned heavily on myself to make eye contact, I saw only her gloved hand waving before being swallowed by a saffron colored tide.

“Lucy!” Martin's shout echoed in my helmet, but I failed to move an inch. Something was gripping me tightly and pulling me down.

“I'm trapped too!” I managed to shout. “Control! Send Castillo with the extractor.

“It's too late, Herman”, said my partner. “We misread the information”.

“We misread...?

“It's not landscape, scene, territory”, he added as a violet tongue enveloped him. And he got to say a few more words before he was swallowed whole. “They are the owners of this...”

 

[therapist]

Potion Boy

His dad always said, “if you can’t make friends, travel alone.” Jonas forced a smile and sat next to his camp-mates around the fire.
Freya carved an apple with her dagger, Myles nursed his flask; neither acknowledged him, but Jonas wasn’t easily defeated.
‘Cool dagger,’ Jonas said.
‘Mind your business, potion boy,’ she sneered.
His smile faltered. A tad rude. But making friends takes patience. He turned to Myles instead, ‘what you drinking?’
Myles took a swig and belched. ‘Whiskey. Not enough to share.’
He’s just being honest, Jonas rationalized. Good friendships are built on honesty. They may not be best buds yet, but it was a solid start. His smile returned—Myles passed the flask to Freya—and it disappeared completely.
He was done socializing. Jonas laid down for an early sleep, rummaging through his potions for a sleeping-aid.

He woke first. Making friends had been a failure; only one option remained. He flinted fresh kindling, boiled some porridge, and—making sure no-one was watching—selected a potion and swirled it through the simmering oats. He snatched Myle’s flask, adding a nip to mask the taste. He won’t be in any state to complain, Jonas cackled in his mind.

His camp-mates awoke, stretched, and gathered by the fire, helping themselves to breakfast. Jonas became nervous as they ate, did I add enough? He fiddled with his pack, trying to look normal as he waited for the potion to hit.
Freya was first.
‘Cheers for breakfast Jonas,’ she said with a friendly nod.
‘No worries,’ he waved it away.
‘This is tasty,’ Myles said. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Cinnamon, apples, honey,’—a dash of friendship potion—‘oh, and some of your whiskey. Hope that’s ok?’
‘Of course,’ Myles said. ‘Anytime.’
Jonas smiled at his new traveling-friends.

 

[Starbeast]

The Splotch​

I'm George Newman. This is a Channel 62 News, Special Report.
Yesterday, Professor Herbert West, of Massachusetts Miskatonic University, created a gelatinous mutation which escaped from his laboratory and proceeded to devour every living creature within its grasp. So far the monster, nicknamed, "The Splotch", has eaten millions of people, hundreds of livestock, and one disgruntled lemur. Batman, was notified.

This just in.......the Splotch, has crossed the Atlantic Ocean. It's now rampaging in the United Kingdom. We go now live with reporter, Polly Purebred, at the scene.

"Hi. Polly Purebred here. Behind me, the ginormous Splotch is devouring citizens. Excuse me, Mr Batman. What do you plan to do?"

"Pardon me miss. I'm checking my utility belt for an anti-amoeba spray."

Caped crusader's partner, Robin, interjected, "Batman, LOOK. That man wearing a trench coat, has defeated the Splotch."

"I'm Inspector Clouseau. I slayed the monster, with a simple boomp."

Robin queried, "What's a boomp?"

"I pushed it into the Thames River."

Batman asked, "But how? The Splotch was an amoeba. How did you touch it?"

"I used hand sanitizer. You see, the Splotch was a filthy blob. Therefore, I concluded that this creature should be treated like a common stain."

"Wholly Grimy Goose, Batman. The Splotch dissolved like slime in bleach."

Batman nodded, "Nice work, Inspector. Robin. To the Bat-mobile!"

SCEEEEEECH! VROOM!

A constable marched up to Clouseau, "Sir. I'm placing you under arrest, for violating Law 3826-3827. Dumping filth, in the Thames."

"But, I have permission from the Royal Family."

"Tell it to the judge."

"Unhand me!"

"Resisting arrest, eh? POW! BONK! POW!"

"What are you doing?"

"Left my night stick at home, so I'm pretending to club you."

Clouseau stares at reader, "He's an unfair cop."

"Don't speak to the reader. WHACK! THWACK!"

 

[G.T.]

Oil on Sand

They will come again.

We stand above the beach, thousands strong, as the metal boxes ride the breakers towards the shore. Already, I can see the water, stained black with their filth. Beside me, my clan has gathered, coarse tartan draped across shoulder, around waist. For miles along the shore, I see other clans, all of their warriors have come.

My sword waits patiently by my side. I can feel its hunger, its desire to protect our land. But I only imagine my sword doing this. It is just metal, beaten into shape over hot forge, to serve my purpose. These things that come to our shore are weapons too. Beaten out in some great forge beyond the sea, we know not where. Each generation they come, our forefathers' deaths a testament to the slaughter. I see the worn white bones sunken in the sand before me. Each time, we throw them back, break them until they move no more. The great metal boxes retreating into the sea, disappearing to the east.

The mouths open now, and they disgorge the weapons towards our shores. I raise my sword and charge. Around me, the clans pour down the gentle slope, but there is nothing gentle in their roars. We pound and hack, crush and destroy. The smell of death and war is the smell of oil and sand. Thousands die.

At the last, I stand, their strange purple-black ichor dripping from my sword. Metal has met metal and flesh has won. Across the shoreline, others stand. Too few to call this a victory, but a victory it is. The great metal boxes retreat.

I stare at the water swirling between my feet. The purple-black ichor mixing with the sand swirls and clumps. The sea roils around me.

They will come again.

 

[M. Robert Gibson]

Hypersplat!

"Daddy, what's that mess on the view screen?" Jenny turned to her father, Space Captain Bobby Starshine.

"We're in hyperspace. It always looks like that," he answered, without looking up from the control panel.

Jenny wrinkled her nose in disgust, "Well I think it looks like alien vomit or loads of squished insects."

"Well it might do, but it's not. Let me explain. As you should know, when we switch on the hyperdrive we enter hyperspace, and in hyperspace we are effectively outside normal time and space travelling at superluminal - that means faster than light - speed. At these kinds of speeds the normal laws of physics don't apply. We actually catch up with and overtake light waves. What you are seeing is the result of a sort of cosmic soup consisting of superfast particles, known as tachyons, all colliding and bouncing off each other. Every time there's a collision some energy is emitted in a flash of colour. And that's what you can see on the screen. A sort of super asymmetrical kaleidoscope consisting of all the colours of the rainbow."

Starshine looked at the control panel's readout display. "We're about to come out of hyperspace. Look at the screen and watch the view magically change into normal space with lots of stars and hopefully granny's planet." The control panel emitted a loud beeping, indicating they had reached the end of their hyperspace journey and entry into normal space. "There. See the difference?"

Jenny studied the screen again. "Nope. No stars or planets. It still looks like squished insects."

"What? Let me see." Starshine looked at the view screen for the first time since entering hyperspace. "Oh! You'd better turn on the windscreen wipers, Jenny. Damn space bugs."

 

[Elckerlyc]

Culture Shock

Chaos ruled from the moment Musée du Louvre pompously presented their unique acquisition; a Work of Art of alien origin.
A disastrous premier. Twitter went nova, while dead-threats accumulated for Le Louvre (basically a building) and the alien artist (an oblivious symbiotic entity, long since dead and bottled at a place 34 light-years beyond human reach.)

The acquisition actually concerned an exchange of art that had been expected ever since the Encounter and the Interspecific Cultural Initiative. Admirable. But an exchange which left the Mona Lisa in the clammy tentacles of aliens? Unbearable! Sacrilege!
Also, the alien artwork - a painting titled Propagation (see image) - looked insultingly mundane. No alienating, jaw-dropping imagery. No mind-boggling form of art or brilliant use of material. It was just a painting of colorful swirls.

While some wondered if the swirls meant that Vincent van Gogh had been an alien (and furiously started scrutinizing his works for clues), others – like the Denialists, who amongst many other things deny that space is real - claimed that it accidentally had been created by an human artist with severe headaches. SpaceX declared unasked that they had not facilitated this ‘unbalanced’ exchange.
Countries worldwide accused France of appropriating the alien artwork as a national treasure whereas the ICI was based on international covenants! France sniffed and stressed their prerogative to seek compensation for the absent Mona Lisa.
Oh, lamentable Mona Lisa! Charlie Hebdo released a cartoon showing how the Lady, betwixt lewdly grinning aliens, had lost her smile.

Meanwhile millions of enthusiasts flocked to Paris to see the Propagation in real. Chaos climaxed when they, weeks after viewing, started producing exact copies and randomly gifted these to others who, weeks later, compulsively started making perfect copies and...
More cultural exchanges are currently forthcoming.

 

[farntfar]

What colour do you call that? Puke Green?​

With a decent level of disgust, Forester regarded the swirling pattern as the Trathalmadorian’s yellow blood mixed with petrol and engine oil, to spread liberally across the tarmac.
It looked like any of the dozen cases he’d seen near the spaceport in the last few months, thanks to that damned re-release of an old 20th century video film.

Trathalmadorian adolescents were really no brighter than Earth kids, if far better engineers. And the popularity of the rereleased holo, “American Graffiti” with the kids of both races meant now “Trallies” too were buying up any old speedster motor cars they could find and rebuilding them.

And then a lot of them died.

Trathalmadorians are the most humanoid of the aliens that started to visit earth after the peace accord of 2140, and consequently the most common settlers. They are of course green, and have that peculiar deformation whereby their left leg is shorter than their right, so that they prefer to live on a hill. They also walk rarely, having individual personnel carriers.

But back to the accident. All the cases were the same.
There’d be an earth boy who would say that the trally won the race and then drove straight into a tree. Trathalmadorian built engines just outperformed earth maintained V8s every time. They just always forgot that the brake pedal was going to be just out of reach for an emergency stop.

”OK Detective! SOCOs are done. You can see the body now.”

He didn’t expect to learn anything new, until he saw a movement in the Trallies abdomen.
“Hey! Quick! Medic!” He shouted.

“This one was pregnant. And it’s still kicking? Can you perform a caesarean?”

Not long before the child squealed and posed a new question.
At birth Trathalmadorian legs were both the same length.

 

[mosaix]

Professional Interest.

The shrill whine of the cranial saw ceased as android neuro-surgeon Number One put it to one side.

“Take care,” said android neuro-surgeon Number Two.

Number One took pride in his work and felt slightly irritated at, what he felt was an unnecessary comment. He said nothing.

Wiping away the inevitable traces of blood he carefully removed the excised section of skull revealing the brain beneath. He couldn’t help but detect a slight intake of breath from Number Two.

“Number Two,” he said, “my neurological skills and patient empathy emotions have been downloaded from the most skilled of human practitioners in this field. Rest assured that the brain of patient Henry Roberts is entirely safe in my hands.”

Number Two shuffled nervously from foot to foot.

“Now let’s see,” continued Number One examining a scan. “According to this, the tumour is in the left precentral gyrus region affecting the use of the right hand and arm. Most unfortunate.” He positioned the electrode. “I think just here is correct.”

Number Two cleared his throat. “Maybe just a little to the left?” he suggested.

“It appears to me that you somehow doubt my ability to perform this procedure to your satisfaction. Perhaps you think you could do better? Please do enlighten me, Number Two, from whom were your neurological and patient empathy skills downloaded?” he asked with scarcely concealed sarcasm and heavy emphasis on the ‘your’.

“Neuro-surgeon, and patient, Henry Roberts,” replied Number Two.

 

[The Judge]

Blood​

​

​

Blood. The land bathed in blood.​

​

She’s no stranger to blood and death. Forty years she’s been King’s Scryer, interpreting the coiling swirls of colour upon the waters of her scrying basin, deciphering the movements of leaf and pumice, flakes of iron and bone. Forty years of Seeing fire and earthquake, disease, disaffection, famine, flood.​

​

But always her warnings heeded, the dead counted in tens, not tens of thousands; the blood, mere drops, not rivers of gore.​

​

She’s no stranger, either, to succession. For the old King was dying before she’d passed a twelvemonth in his service and she had to scry all the royal family and a dozen nominees proposed by the barons and church and commons.​

​

She Saw blood then, Saw war and insurrection, but the best of men succeeded to the old King, begetting peace. Now he’s the old King in his turn, dying in his turn, and she’s scrying everyone again. But now it’s all blood, nothing but blood.​

​

The nominated, beholden to their proposers; the outer family, fallen prey to rivalries, ambition; the inner family, kind but lacking strength of will. With each, amid the swirl and movement upon the waters, she’s Seen conflict, riots, civil war, foreign domination. With each a single word. Reckless. Rapacious. Intolerant. Weak.​

​

Now, last of all, the Queen. The clever, spirited girl the King wed just a year ago after his long widowerhood; the girl she scryed then, Seeing hope. But all she Sees in the basin now is blood. Nothing but blood.​

​

She’s close to despair. Then comes the word. No, two words. Crowned. Crowning.​

​

She looks up, puzzled, then sees the Queen’s smile, the slight swell of her belly.​

​

She’s Scrying two lives, not one. A Queen crowned, a baby crowning.​

​

Blood.​

​

The land saved, by blood.​

 

[Jo Zebedee]

THE WASTELAND




Below. My eyes track the rivers through the desert, all the places life might be, but she’s missing.

I’ve tried everything. Contour mapping, heat seeking, drone-searches.

Damn her. Gone, like a witch.

‘Empty land,’ says Sam-6, beside me, obedient house-bot that he is. ‘Return to base?’

We’ve been over and over this.

‘Keep looking, you metallic bag of crap.’

He glances at me, dead eyes flat. If he was human, I’d see something. As it is, nothing more than boredom. Sam-6 turns back to the job.

She must be down there. There is nowhere else she can be. Our house was surrounded by the dead lands. No trees - I removed them years ago. No shelter. Nowhere to hide.

So where the hell is the witch; the bitch?

‘Lower,’ I say. ‘Take us down.’

We swoop. I can make out our ship’s shadow. A wolf pack running, long-toothed. Lower again, and I can see the stunted cactus.

At last, as we skirt the cliffs, a shadow is out of place. I point. Sam-6 nods, agrees, accepts it is her. Takes us down. And down.

‘Pull up,’ I yell. Not this low, I want to say, but Sam-6 is humming as we drop. The tune she used when I couldn’t reach her, no matter how I yelled, or locked her up, or beat her.

‘Shut up,’ I say. He’s a house-bot, he’ll obey.

Except he smiles, stares at the ground, and we plummet.

‘Salvation lies in the shadow of the red rock,’ he says.

She used to recite that line to me, knowing it was wrong. I’d put her right, and right, and right again -

Reprogrammed, I realise. The shadow engulfs me, red, red, death, and nothing more.

 

[Bren G]

Of Soap and Solitude

Driver sat back in his seat, mesmerized by the soap that covered the outside of the car’s windshield in medley of mutlicoloured spatter. Hues of blue ran through masses of greens and browns, like azure rivers wounding through verdant valleys, stopping here and there in tributaries and lakes. Though spontaneous and wholly artificial, Driver was nonetheless entranced by nature’s beauty, and it took little more than the hum of the car wash to lull him to sleep. He dreamed.

Children skipped to a game he couldn’t recall the name of, scattering like pigeons at the last moment as he drove by them and parked in front of the house on 20 Main Street. Shortly thereafter, a woman with a worried face, and a small child, bewildered and frightened, darted across the driveway and hurried into the backseat.

“Please place your seatbelts on.” Driver said.

The woman’s reply came swiftly and with harsh bite. “An accident is the least of our worries now. Please. Hurry. Get us to the bomb shelter.” She glanced out through the window, “Before the rest find out.”

Driver’s programming told him to insist but the mushroom cloud that exploded far in the distance put all end to his dithering. He drove away without a word.

The roar of the drying machines woke Driver with a start. That memory. Indelibly flashed into his ROM. Just ten years ago.

Driver exited the car wash to a bright sun, clear skies and open road ahead. His circuits surged with glee. Car, now clean of harmful radiation, and battery full of electricity, he would continue the search for a human. He would not give up hope. If there was just one who needed a ride somewhere, then Driver would find them. Tiling his cap, Driver turned out onto the highway.

 

[Marvin]

The final ingredient

The first response team were put down by chopper well inside Zone 5. Nothing above a cockroach could survive back in Zone 1 so this was certainly no fun!
Lead scientist Natasha Franks waited for the drowning noise of the beating blades to fade.

‘Everyone on me. Start your timers. 90 minutes. Set. Let’s move team. Russell?’

Russell’s gloved right arm jabbed out, no nonsense, that direction.
The team of five heavily suited bodies moved off. Weeks of training, making the harsh conditions look easy - it wasn’t.

Their direction took them into the outskirts of what used to be a city. They quickly weaved through and around the crumbling buildings.
Franks glanced at her wrist monitor, all the readings were off the scale. Every toxic mixture you could think of. We really did a number on this place she thought. But these readings were expected, it was the other readings that made no sense. She glanced over at Russell, who nodded in the direction of a sports arena ahead.

They climbed out of a stairwell that led into the seating of the stadium. Looking out, the ‘playing field’ was one huge soup of swirling shapes and colour. No sense of depth. Hard to focus.
It felt to Franks like there was a clamp ever tightening around the base of her skull.

‘What the ...?’ Russell grunted through the stunned silence.

The primal instinct was to run, get far away. Franks went to give the order, but wait. The panic was fading, maybe they should take a closer look. Without speaking, as one, the team moved toward the mass.
Welcoming tendrils snaked out to greet them.

There was consciousness now. The spark of new born life. Ready for evolution.

 

[Ursa major]

​

Inventing the Uninventable​

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​

We all imagine what something unknown might be like. We’re sometimes correct; more often we’re not.​

​

Take hyperspace, a crutch that’s been supporting generations of SF authors. Even with “borrowings”, there are many wildly different versions… which is a problem for me.​

​

The thing is, there’s no such thing as hyperspace… but there needs to be: the solar system is dying, but we’ve: no wormholes; no faster-than-light ships; no “sleep pods”; no way of transporting billions of people; nowhere safe to send them.​

​

Politicians won’t take no for an answer… so we’re creating an imaginary solution (one that works, after a fashion) and are trying to convince everyone it’s real.​

​

What we’re actually doing is uploading minds (after a fashion) into self-sufficient spacecraft and sending them to orbit stars more stable than Sol now is. But as no one must know, we’ve invented “hyperspace drives” and have been “testing” them, with (temporarily uploaded) witnesses.​

​

My job was to create a believable hyperspace, one that someone else hasn’t already imagined. (Nerds would inevitably shout: “That’s just like in Babylon Umpteen!” or something similar.)​

​

There were bigger jobs: creating virtual destinations to which the “travellers” would “travel” – we’ve “discovered” dozens – but such worlds had to be Earth-like to some extent, so they’re currently being “mildly terraformed” while the “passenger ships” are being built.​

​

Of course, under such huge pressure, I may have overdone it. No empty “hyperspace” for me. No creating an analogue of something known in normal space. My hyperspace couldn’t be less dark or featureless. Its very fabric is coloured. Luridly so.​

​

You could say – cue the fanfare – that I'm putting the hype into hyperspace. (Luckily, people will believe anything… if it’s ridiculous enough….)​

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[Ursa major]

​

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

To cast your THREE votes, use the link below.

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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[The Judge]

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