Paula’s
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(group member since Oct 28, 2015)
Paula’s
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from the Science Fiction Microstory Contest group.
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Congratulations to Marianne G. Petrino, Four Time Champion of the Science Fiction Microstory Contest
(11 new)
Apr 29, 2018 06:12AM

Apr 19, 2018 10:17PM

Feb 26, 2018 01:53PM

---Btw, people, my apologies for missing the voting; I've been feeling sick since my fun-ski day a few days ago and just couldn't stay at he computer, this weekend (feeling much better today(. For what it's worth, I especially liked Chris's and Tom's and Jot's stories, as well as Karl's and . . . really, a month of good stories.




Congratulations to C. Lloyd Preville, Second Time Champion of the Science Fiction Microstory Contest
(18 new)
Jan 29, 2018 08:32PM

Copyright © 2018 by Paula Friedman. All rights reserved.
Because Garmann’s revolt, leading our 20,000 (or fewer) folk against the massive half-metal invaders who, three harsh generations back, had stripped our Earth (except this narrow strip, 90 miles across, where all remaining indigenous persons, creatures, plants now reside), clearly now would fail, I marched through Garmann’s guarded door and said “Now we must cease our lost ‘Ca ira!’ and instead treat, by every means of diplomatic skill, with the invaders.”
He said, “They’ll think you’re asking, would they take away the rest of the water, please? Or, can we be hors d’oeuvres instead of another meat course? Or whatever.”
“I shall explain,” I replied, my eyes on Risha, Garmann’s pretty wife. She looked down, head tilted, and I saw her lips smile.
“Yes, do that.” Garmann’s lips didn’t smile; they laughed. He pushed me toward the small—the other, outer—door.
I knew I’d made a big mistake.
“They’ll judge your offer, doubtless, for what it’s worth,” he added. “By their own lights.”
I tried, though knowing it futile, to grab and hold to doorframe or lintel. Then slid out and down, then further down, and fell.
•
The light here is pale, directionless. The walls are slippery, as of plasticene, completely white. They glow, a sort of bowl. There is no top; only, something moves above.
“When will you treat with me?” I cry, voice struggling toward those who surely listen, somewhere above. “When will you treat with us?” I step, again, around the gleaming inside of this bowl. "You have won. Fair judgment is all we ask."
It moves, above—like a mountain-wide hand. Holding an object, something like a cylinder, from which fall golden flakes, sprinkling down. Smelling like cinnamon, like cloves, parsley, garlic.
“Yes, one of the tiny, two-handed delicacies,” says a voice; "it wishes to be tonight's treat.” The voice comes from ‘outside’, above the bowl. “No pepper, Melisande, just a smidgeon of salt.”

Dec 27, 2017 09:55PM
Congratulations to Tom Olbert, four-time Champion of the Science Fiction Microstory Contest
(10 new)
Nov 26, 2017 12:24PM

Justin, congratulations! That is super to hear! And good for you, too, Marianne, doing the audio.
Greg, what a solid and beautiful story! Could well be lengthened , even to a novella!

--I'm still too swamped with editing work to get a story in, this month, either way. Hope you've time to!
--Have a good Thanksgiving, everyone.