Science Fiction Microstory Contest discussion
Congrats to Chris Nance and Justin Sewall, tied champions of the Science Fiction Microstory Contest
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Woo-hoo! Thank you all and Chris! Here's to a better 2021 for everyone!
Interesting stories, guys. I'd like to see more of the old-timer's story in yours, Justin--he'd make a good novella prtotagonist--lots more to be said of/from him--intriguing.
Fascinating--and frightening--concept, Chris!
Thanks so much Paula! I would love to see him travelling through time and space somehow.
Chris Nance
The streets of the French Quarter were empty, the hint of lazy jazz drifting on a winter’s gale. It was cold and Natasha squeezed my hand, wrapping her scarf tightly.
“Another one closed,” I realized, arriving at Central Grocery, home of the ‘World’s First Muffaletta,’ though it was little good now, locked up tight. “Where is everyone?” The quiet sidewalks were particularly odd because, rain or shine, the streets of New Orleans never rested, even at night.
“I’m freezing,” Natasha pulled me closer. “Let’s just head back.”
“C’mon, we gotta eat,” I said, fighting the wind. “We’ll follow the music. Something has to be open.”
A whining saxophone drew us deeper into the Quarter, past countless shuttered restaurants and shops, though our haunting melody eluded us.
Then ahead, a hulking shadow crossed our path – an elephant trudging its reluctant owner quietly along by a leash – a sad clown with faded paint. “Hey!” I called, but neither acknowledged me. I kissed Natasha’s forehead, “Wait here,” then bolted after them. But as I reached their mysterious corner, I discovered them gone without a trace. “Weird.”
My skull ached, so I headed back, not realizing I’d become lost, my surroundings distorted and unfamiliar. “Natasha!” I shouted desperately.
No response.
“End of the world’s comin’.” A grandfatherly gentleman on a tall porch eased back into his rocking chair, puffing a cob pipe though a toothless grin. “Best get ready,” he said.
“Please, have you seen my girlfriend?” I pleaded, struggling against my throbbing brain. “About this tall, dark hair, long overcoat.”
“Never you mind,” he laughed, then suddenly disappeared, his crooked pipe hitting his seat.
Bolting away down the street, I shouted her name, but only the breeze responded, teased by a fading sax, now falling silent. Then in a flash, the sky became black as pitch. “The hell?” I staggered backward, struck by intensifying migraine. My stomach churned and skin crawled. Dropping to all fours, I rolled onto my back. The heavens flickered then fizzled, replaced by a tremendous message impossible to miss – ‘SYSTEM ERROR. EJECTING.’ Everything melted around me and I died…or thought I did.
I blinked awake into pitch blackness. Trembling fingers reached for chapped lips around a feeding tube. I lurched and gagged, falling to the floor, franticly drawing out the line from deep inside before vomiting. Wiping the last bit of spittle away, I removed the headset that had long covered my eyes and ears. Blinded at first, I focused on the room.
Memories flooded back: my last day – I’d bought the Prestige Package, though the Virtuatech guys were late. The feeding intubation wasn’t so bad, a continuous supply, but the catheterization and colostomy pump…oh Jesus…
Free of my lines and hoses, I lurched from the bathroom, now barely washed. My beard itched and I rubbed my eyes, rediscovering my old house, tattered and covered in thick dust. “This wasn’t a two week trip.”
I recalled Natasha and my heart sank. She was never real. “Alexa, what day is it?”
No response.
“Alexa, today’s date?”
Again, nothing – no power. So, I found the front door, easing it open but sliding down the jam, too weak to even move.
The empty street echoed the simulation I’d just left, when a woman in uniform approached from up the block. “Hey!” I said weakly.
“Shit. Here’s another one!” she shouted, and within minutes the medics were there.
“What…what happened?” I asked, confused.
“What’s your name?”
“Larry Gibbons.”
“Larry, do you know what year this is?”
“Easy. 2032.”
“Damn rigs,” she cursed. “Larry, it’s 2043. You’ve been tripping for over a decade.”
“How…how is that possible?”
Gazing past me, she spotted my hulking, elephantine rig, Virtuatech’s clown-faced logo imprinted on the side. “Virtuatech went under in 2032, bought out by Unreality Inc. A couple of acquisitions later and…well, you got lost in the shuffle.” She helped me onto a gurney. “Miracle we were nearby when this block’s power failed, or we might never have found you. Honestly, we’ve been up to our eyeballs in random ejects for years. A lot of ‘em just up and die.”
“So, what now?”
“First, a full medical workup and defrag for the withdrawal – bet you had some delirium toward the end there. Some real food, rehab, and the HHS postejection re-orientation. Of course there’s the attorneys with the routine class-action paperwork…”
“Shit…put me back in.”
Inside the ambulance I joined another neighbor, frail and emaciated. “Hi,” I said, “What’s your name?”
“Natasha.”
Tryptophanic Transposition
Justin Sewall
Tendrils of gray cloud stole quietly across the valley, hemmed in on either side by great walls of ancient stone. The bare, upthrust rocks echoed with the sound of silence as the capricious vapors caressed everything in its path with a gentle blanket of mist. Stunted, windblown trees dripped moisture onto a rich carpet of sodden moss blanketing the valley floor. Upon a jutting ledge stood a solitary figure clad in full Black Watch tartan. Fissures of age crossed his face, though some were hidden beneath a trim beard of fierce iron. Inhaling deeply, he blew into his bagpipes. Its mournful lament reverberated across the highlands, a dirge carried upon the winds and scattered by it. A lone raptor screeched as if in reply, wheeling away on an updraft to vistas far beyond.
Defiant in the face of increasing inclemency, the old highlander played on, fingers remembering regimental pieces from ancient battles for soldiers long dead. Their ghosts seemed to march, rank upon rank, among the swirling effluvium that hovered over peat-filled bogs. On they came, shrieking like banshees with glistening bayonets and banners flying. They stared death in the face and pushed ever forward, waves of steel crashing over hapless foes.
“Hey Pops, wanna move it?”
The old man stood confused at the sudden dislocation, the wet highland air replaced with the stale, oppressive smell of the subway. Station announcements replaced the cries of battle. He rocked slightly with the movement of the train but did not give way. The iguana on his shoulder said nothing and simply stared back at him in a vacuously reptilian fashion.
“Yo old-timer! Move or be moved! And what’s with the dinosaur?” said a young punk, whose wide, glassy eyes and trembling hands betrayed his addiction.
“Here I am and here I stand,” replied the old man.
“What the f….get the hell out of my way you dumbass!”
“I shall never yield!”
Unsheathing an ornate silver blade hidden within his walking stick, the old man stood unbowed and unbroken.
“I’ll do you one better Pops.” A small pistol appeared in the punk’s unsteady hands.
The train swayed, its lights flickering into momentary darkness, a black canvas on which to paint the explosion of a single shot.
Time slowed as the bullet erupted from the barrel, spinning lazily on a plume of gracefully expanding gases. Nanoseconds stretched to infinity as the old man easily side-stepped the nearly static projectile. Strains of ancient battles rang in his ears – and bagpipes…the smell of cordite from the expended munition filled the railcar, a silver blade drove straight and true. It penetrated deep, dividing soul and spirit from joints and marrow.
“Now you’ve done it,” said the iguana.
Light swam before his eyes, formless and void. He could not tell if he was standing, floating, or flying. He simply was. There were voices, vague, distant, and undiscernible.
“Am I dead?” he asked.
“No, not yet,” came the answer.
The iguana was standing before him now, head cocked askance, eyes roving in short, jerky movements.
“Where am I then?”
“Where do you want to be? Or better yet, when do you want to be?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“That is a true statement. You are here, you are there, and when you are, you wish to be somewhere you are not. It is very confusing.”
“I cannot remember who I am.”
“You will, I can assure you.”
“Why am I talking to an iguana?”
“That…is a good question. There are simply some things we cannot adjust for.”
“I was…I was shot!”
“Yes, we observed your altercation. You acquitted yourself well for one so old.”
“Old…”
“Do you wish to know your length of days?”
“You can do that?”
“It is a simple calculation.”
“None of this makes any sense.”
“Does it have to?”
The old man felt for his blade and found nothing. He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to get out of this place, whatever this place was.
“You wish to leave then?” asked the iguana.
“I do.”
“Then the question remains. Where do you want to be?”
“Put me back wherever you found me!”
The light retreated once more into darkness. Shapes began resolving into solid objects: a couch here, a television there, a dining room table and chairs set for supper. Pleasant smells wafted from the kitchen, utensils clinked and cabinet doors clattered.
“Almost ready dear! I just need a few more minutes. Are you feeling okay?”
Startled, the old man jolted fully awake.
“Yes…I am now…”