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A short story, by Todd A. Burnett ( onehundredone@hotmail.com )
The dark of night cloaks the earth in deepest midnight blue. A million stars peer down--pinpricks of light scattered across heaven. Here and there the hunter, the bears, the assorted heroes and villains of old. As the waning moon sets beyond the western hills, a glimmering spark cascades brightly across the night sky.
Somewhere in England, the falling star is watched.
"You see that, Adam? A meteorite. A piece of debris crossing through our outer atmosphere, burning away from the friction. People make wishes on them."
"Sorry?"
"Wishes. Haven't you ever wanted something that you think you'll never have?"
"Er . . . well, sure. But what's that got to do with where you're taking us?"
It was a purple colored afternoon as Wednesdays were always this color according to the 3199 PH (post human) Ozone Color Wavelength Filter Act, and the skies were perfect for TND wave- racing as amber cotton candy clouds filled the atmosphere creating a special skyscape for today's races. A dry westerly wind blew through the beige and chocolate mountains and down into the valley once known by the pre-synths as Tucson, in the global quadrant known as Arizona on the continent now known as Designation 5 Terrascape. Metallic harmonics echoed throughout the stands where the fans of TND wave-racing by way of the hoverphonic musical device floating above the cybercraniums of the fan filled bleachers that hummed with electrical excitement in anticipation of the day's races. The digitune, which played with exciting acoustics, was called "Android In Digital Ecstasy" a favorite classic from the pre-Synthornismic days composed by the human artist, Elan Yerlibb in 2021.
By AlLeur, Section Short Stories Posted on Tue Apr 29, 2003 at 01:54:43 PM PST
"Close the gates!!!!"
Screams and howls of dying men are terryfying noise breaker in the dark. The chills are large needles that are being pressed into your spine
"Close the gates!!!!"
"Sir, the final line of defense has fallen and the gates will barely hold!!! screamed an anonymus private another surivor. More survivors which means more likely deaths.
A large pounding on the doors of the Sanctuary. A room that had not been used since the last 20,000 King's war. It was used for the high council to use it as shelter. Prepared with food and water that would have lasted them at least 20 decades. The High Council was no more. It was destroyed along with 40 million other civilians. Now it was the The Mighty Guard only hope of survival against the menace. Or the remaining people of this world.
"Eric the mail," My mother screamed as I ran out the door, "And don't forget to take the dog."
"Mom, I asked you not to call me Eric, my name is Erica." I yelled as I stopped and waited for our dog.
Her name is Smiley, she's a 15 or a 16-year-old pit bull. Smiley is one of those dogs that never listen when you call, unless there's food.
"Smiley, come on girl, come on. Smile get your little doggie butt in here NOW," I yelled. She normally comes when I say that, but this time she didn't. "Mom where's the dog." I yelled to my mother, who was in the kitchen.
"She's coming, I was just giving her some food."
"Okay, come on Smiley."
" Hurry up young lady." My mother would always say that, but this time she didn't. I waited for her to say it, but only about 30 seconds, then left to get the mail, nothing unusual I hope.
I recently received this story as a much-forwarded email. It's fact, not fiction, I gather, but it reads like fiction and has a quite enjoyable style. I liked this three-pager enough to do a web search and find the original source of the story. So take a moment to read The Horror of Blimps by Scylla.
Roaster Gadly stood in the rain. He was a good five feet, holding a curved blade the length of his arm. He seemed to be distracted, his long fingers feverently searching through his long black hair. He was fidgeting, moving his muddy boots in the long grass. His red eyes darted about the small mountain valley. He was tired, wet and the only thing he'd seen was an old tree stump. Damn that guide. Big game indeed. That ruddy, bearded, sheep herding liar was probably kicking back in the local tavern, bragging to his mates about swindling that "city slicker", or Statsva , as the called his kind up here. All he wanted was an impressive head to hang up on his wall and the city guard wouldn't let him hang a human one. How else was he supposed to strike fear into his borrowers hearts? "Pay up or you'll be used as a coathanger" struck fear into those guys. Course he just had to get it himself. He couldn't have just ordered one out of the Kill Monthly catalogue, no. Like a daft pillock he had to to spend a fortune getting up here. He sighed and started to trudge back to the tavern.
(This is the first story I ever wrote outside of the enforced strictures of English class. I've tried to smooth it out a little, and cut most of the romantic theme that I thought was compulsory in a fantasy story when I was twenty. The idea I wanted to explore back then is that we find things beautiful because they don't last - I think the story had other ideas.)
England: one of those short hot spells that make an English summer. June's fire sinks slowly to the west as day becomes evening. From their day's rest beneath trees and outcrops of granite shadows spread, creeping hungrily towards a pale figure astride a spar of thrusting rock.
This is not a secret place, this bowl-shaped valley, but a forgotten place, imbued with a sense of being breathed on by time. These days no-one comes except the animals going about their lives, unconcerned by any sounds that may occasionally echo from the valley walls.
If someone were to be standing at the tree-line, entranced by the beauty placed centre-stage by the sloping sides of the valley, then that someone would surely be sent, sobbing as they ran, as the slender sprite stood, and widened her throat to cast its song upon the breeze. Song? A poor word to describe the sound that for two days, almost without pause, had filled the vale, an exquisite trilling and rippling music that hangs in the air, impossibly lovely; calling to mind things that once were; were lost, and that may never be again.
Now though, siren-summoned, one comes who has seen sorrows enough to bear any amount more. He comes knowing the history of this place, knowing the use to which it was put by the people who dwelt here long before wolves loped over the land bridge from the mainland. Even knowing what he must face when he reaches his point of summoning, still he comes.
(With apologies to American geography and culture)
I stand and watch the storm, a powerful thing I may not fight. It may not be true that lightning never strikes in the same place twice but, supposing for the moment that it were true, then surely once lightning has struck, the safest thing to do is stay put. Lightning can certainly strike close, a habit it shares with fate.
I was born and raised in a small town in the Midwest of the U.S. of A., where or when aren't important here. What matters, to me at any rate, is that I was one of those kids who really lived their spring years. For me as a nine-year-old boy the world was poured full of magic, it burst through the cinemas shining screens, fell as rain on my head and gusted on zephyrs of air carried across the flat land from the desert. Washed daily by the sun in magic baths of golden light, with the ground thump-jumping up to tread my sneakers soles.
"Three..."
The fusion drive ignition sequence commenced, sending a continuous rumble throughout the ship. His heart palpitated furiously in his chest to supply his shaking muscles with oxygen.
"Two..."
He would be the first man through the mysterious green wormhole near Mars.
If only Earth hadn't been depleted of natural resources.
If only he had had living relatives.
If only that asshole who hit his parents hovercar on that rainy New Year's Eve hadn't been drinking.
"One..."
Astrophysicists debated about its true nature since the idea of it was first conceived...a time portal? A gateway? Natural? Alien?
One thing was for sure; with the exhausted remnants of Earth, humans had no choice but to explore.
