Science Fiction Microstory Contest discussion
Congrats to J.F. Williams, Nine-time Champion of the Science Fiction Microstory Contest
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Beautifully structured story, J.F. And wonderful twists toward the end. Superb!
Thanks, Jeremy and Paula, and everyone who voted for me! I was quite surprised. I was just happy I could use the word "schmutz" in a story. I'll try to have the May threads up soon. If anyone has an idea for theme, you can message me or post it here. I'm trying to make sure I don't repeat something from the past.
Congratulations, J.F. Well deserved.If I may suggest a theme - How about global unification?
How about, for a theme, the word "schmucks" and species with a 60-year-suicide-compulsion cycle?
Paula wrote: "How about, for a theme, the word "schmucks" and species with an-every-60-years suicide-compulsion cycle?"
I've posted the May threads. Links are below. Thanks to Tom and Paula for their suggestions!***MAY 2022 SCIENCE FICTION MICROSTORY CONTEST (Stories Only)***
https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...
***MAY 2022 SCIENCE FICTION MICROSTORY CONTEST (Comments Only)***
https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...
***MAY 2022 SCIENCE FICTION MICROSTORY CONTEST (Critiques Only)***
https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...
Really enjoyed the idea of the flowers becoming humanoid. You pulled it off well sir!
Thanks, Justin! Before I wrote the story I wasn't sure there were trans-kingdom viruses but apparently there are. That's what's cool about writing sci-fi: make up something crazy and it probably already exists. Like when I wrote a story about a sea filled with liquid paraffin and later learned there actually was once at least a lake like that in Siberia. Even my novel has a totally made up society that I later learned actually existed in that place and time, and had a mysterious technology.
by J.F. Williams
Steve switched the engines of the starcraft from deep-space to blue mode. All the crew caught their breath after the always jarring plunge through the curve portal, and shook off the uniquely unnerving feeling that followed every near-instantaneous traverse. They had only made a few of these trips, multi light-year test runs and back, and this had been the farthest, but the feeling was always the same.
"We're getting a signal, Steve," shouted Sparky. "Heads up, everybody."
"Channel?" asked Steve.
"It's the old frequency. Exactly in the range we were told to listen for."
"Beacons?" The mission had a high-priority directive—for which the labcoats expected no success—to listen on an ancient channel for the beacons scattered around Earth at the time of the Great Abandonment. Nuclear powered, they were placed deep in research centers, where various scientists had worked in isolation on their own projects, each a chance to preserve humanity. The devices had elaborate sensors and would stop transmitting if a century had passed without any sign of animal life. "How many signals?" Steve asked as he rushed to Sparky's side. "They placed hundreds of them."
"One. Sorry, Steve old man. Five or ten could just be malfunctions. One is almost sure to be."
"Drumbo," he turned to the readings officer. "What do we have on the surface? Any life signs?"
"Not much. Primitive plant life. There's a total cloud cover. The surface is warm and wet but sunlight is muted. Gases are optimal. We could breathe there. Zero pollutants, too."
"Any data on the signal?"
"Coming in. Coming in. Those ancients loved their data. It'll take an hour or so to decode."
"Let's get ready then. Send engineering the coordinates and have them prepare the pod."
#
As the pod descended through the permanent cloud cover into the endless twilight, Steve wondered what he might see. He found himself enjoying the privilege of first contact, the first human to return to Earth after millions abandoned her centuries earlier.
"Pod 73 to Mother," he radioed. "Any beacon data decrypted? I gotta know what to expect."
"Not yet," Drumbo answered. "Sensors detect only plant life. Weak. No animal. No contagions."
"Right. Plant life. Okay." He locked onto the signal and the craft landed in the middle of a great field surrounded by black ruins and covered in debris crushed to a powder, as he expected, but dotted by thousands of tiny, bright white flowers. "Visual on plant life. Sending images."
"We got a repo hit, Steve," Drumbo radioed back in moments. "Non-poisonous. Maybe edible. It's called the 'Indian pipe' or 'ghost pipe'. No photosynthesis. Feeds on underground fungi."
A figure appeared in the distance, glowing like the flowers, but human-like and walking toward the craft. A few more appeared from behind, then too many to count. Steve shuddered. Were these The Remainders? For real?
"Visual on…," he choked. "On humans. Approaching."
"Decrypt finished," radioed Drumbo. "You'll want to hear this. Genetic engineer named Ettenger was experimenting with a transfer virus. Food ran out but deep underground vein of fungus from, y'know, all the billions of dead, sustaining only the flowers, so Ettenger's virus transferred flower genes to survivors so they could live off that schmutz."
"Jeezus, man. It must've worked."
"Wait, there's more," said Drumbo.
As the figures grew closer, Steve was sure they were all female, variously dressed, in skirts and blouses, or pants, some wore bikinis or jackets, all brightly colored and shiny, like they were wet. Plastics, he thought. Ancient. Could last a thousand years. The figures stood back at the whirr of the pod door opening. He exited the craft, found his footing, and waved to them. "I come from Second Earth. We are human, like you."
"Aye," said the lead figure. "It was told you would come, you who once lived here."
"Yeah," he reached out a hand and made a rictus grin, not knowing whether to fear or embrace these creatures.
The lead figure leaned back. "Please touch us not as we will bruise."
That was fine with him. These women were thin though striking in their beauty, like undernourished models from pictures of the old times. But their skin was so white, their eyes, purple. Hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his gut tightened.
"More on that Ettenger guy," buzzed Drumbo's voice in the pod. "The transfer failed. The Remainders died off but the flowers, the Indian pipes—he thought they may have acquired some human genes."