Science Fiction Microstory Contest discussion
Congrats to Paula Friedman, Three-time Champion of the Science Fiction Microstory Contest
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Jot wrote: "Nice job Paula. Always so eloquent in your words."Jot, thank you so much. It is always such an honor to win one of these competitions. And, to be honest, I'm rather fond of how this story came out.
Thanks again for your kind words.
Jeremy wrote: "Congrats Paula!"Jeremy, thank you. I do very much appreciate your opinion and your praise--honored.
Tom wrote: "Congratulations, Paula. Very well done."Thanks, Tom. This is so kind of you--appreciated.
Yea Paula! Another great story from you as always!!
Justin, thank you. I liked your beautiful story this month, too!---Okay, now I have to figure out a theme for next month. Something fun and a bit . . . stretchy, in a sense . . . I think.
Congratulations, Paula! Wonderfully evocative writing!
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Jot wrote: "Just let me know when you post a new set of threads Paula, and I'll move them to the top."They're up, Jot. I posted them really, really, really late last night! Hoping people enjoy these.
Chris wrote: "Congrats Paula! :)"Chris, thank you so very much. Glad you liked this tale.
J.F. wrote: "Congratulations, Paula! Wonderfully evocative writing!"Joseph, how great to hear from you! And I am so glad you like my story--much appreciative.
C. wrote: "Congrats Paula! Great job."Thank you so much, C. I really appreciate your good opinion.
Copyright 2020 by Paula Friedman
All around him, the frozen wastes of Urda-3, its pink-red sun the tiniest circle sharp above the “skylight” port in the ship Leandra’s shielded metalli-skins. Under his feet, the faint—now barely felt—throbbings of Leandra’s fading engines.
This was—now, with lives at stake!—the third engine failure on this run! Something about Leandra’s aging systems, was it, her chips and links too oft-replaced? Or Urda-3’s sine-model gravity? No matter; “repair” was beyond his knowledge of co-linked ectratronics, but if the vacs could not reach the sickened port of Nimradov, isolate upon its far peninsula, before the virii overran that town’s sparse systems, there would be, on this chill planet, solely death—death and the Hurim, those vicious distant cousins of the wolflike Hars (the once-killer creatures who’d near-destroyed Earth’s settlers of far Harl, until a human child’s help to a Har-pup led to the two species’ friendship). Hurim, however, unlike Hars still regarded people as tasty prey, and if Urda-3’s virii turned Nimradov’s humans to corpses, happily would Hurim feast.
Thus either he could bring the vacs to Nimradov while—if—time remained, or Urda-3 would become Death Planet. "Be Ware: Here DANGER!" He could envision that all-points Spacer Alert, flashing through Frontiers Empyr.
And who would history call this failure’s cause? Rodney ducked his head as if to hide—but the issue was other. His mind’s eye saw the writhing bodies, the sufferers struggling in gasping desperation, lives and destinies falling to dust, in separate sorrows and pain. Unless—
Forcing hope, Rodney strode toward the prep room, suited up, readied to exit safe Leandra, to march onto Urda-3’s slippery surface. One thousand kilometers to sickened Nimradov, that lonesome spaceport colony, and only his four frisking, friendly Harimas to express-drag-bring him there.
Like storied “dogs” of elder Earth they were, leaping now to greet him! Pretty, sleek-“furred”, joyous at his thick-gloved touch. He kissed their stiff-uplifted “ears,” watched them frisk about him. Yet he knew this trip might ask of them—even more than of himself—full sacrifice. Unlike Hurim, which could “sniff” out the mouse-like Wanri, Harimas could not live by hunting; the freeze-world cold would kill them if they lay outdoors through Urda-3’s long nights. “Come, me lovies,” Rod said—meaning the warmth and knowing also that the phrase “me lovies” was key, the very password, when spoken with caring, to his dear Harimas’ hearts—courageous hearts that would risk all, once touched.
Taking the vials of vacs from storage, he enwrapped them in translucent NFpackaging and plunged the packets deep within his pack. “Come, beauties; now we Trek!”
And so into the Hurim-haunted night.
*
Near dawn of the third day, they reached the great ocean, Thalla, that engirdles Urda-3. Only this day’s travel more now—by evening, they should reach Nimradov. For the first time, Rodney let himself remember the deepest, most potent reason for his urgency—Jeannnie and their sweet daughter Miranna waited there, trapped with the others. His arms reached out, embraced the “sledge-dash” as if to embrace his small Miranna, Jeanne his most beloved. “On, me lovies,” he cried to his small Harimas, watching their eyes beg “Help us!” though all food was gone. “I'm sorry, me friends, but we must.” Stifling whimpers, they pulled bravely on.
*
Only Florina, the eldest, remained when they came down into Nimradov. At high noon, a coven of Humri had plunged upon them—flashing, lashing, in that fashion of all Har or Humri, even of Harima—and torn apart his gentle team. Voice hoarse, “Me dear,” Rodney whispered, and shivered, “me poor dears”—then saw, as Florina pulled his sledge into Nirmradov’s frozen square, the forty-four human survivors of the virii rush toward him.
“My Jeannie! My Miranna!” His voice broke; his hands reached out to offer everyone the lifesaving vacs. The people of fair Nimradov crowded close, laughed, cried. And the first vaccine he gave was to Florina, even before the elders or the babies or Miranna or Jeanne.
*
So, you see, it is Rod and his dear Harima friends we celebrate—in their desperate run to bring, in full self-sacrifice and hope, the urgently needed vacs that saved our sickened Nimradov; it is both humans and Harima we celebrate each year when our Harimas-human teams reach their long commemorative trek’s finish and we chant aloud, voicing with Rodney true inter-species love, “Florina, me lovie, brave soul! You too, you too, me dears!”