300 Word Writing Challenge -- #54 (July 2024) -- VICTORY TO ASTRO PEN!

[The Judge]

The inspiration image for Challenge #54 is:

Image credit: ChrisG


THE CHALLENGE:

To write a story in 300 words or fewer
INSPIRED BY
the image provided above
in the genre of
Science Fiction, Fantasy, or other Speculative Fiction


In addition to receiving
the Dignified Congratulations/Grovelling Admiration of Your Peers
the winner
has the chance of having his/her story published on the Chrons Podcast!


THE RULES:

Only one entry per person

All stories Copyright 2024 by their respective authors,
who grant the Chronicles Network the non-exclusive right to publish them here

This thread will be LOCKED until July 10th 2024
As soon as the thread is unlocked, you may post your story

Entries must be posted no later than July 31st 2024 at 11:59 pm GMT

Voting will open on August 1st 2024 and will close on August 15th 2024 at 11:59 pm GMT
(unless moderators choose to make an extension based on the number of stories)


We ask all entrants to do their best to vote when the time comes

but you do not have to enter a story to vote
as we encourage ALL Chronicles members
to read the stories and take part in choosing the winning entry!


You may cast THREE votes

NO links, commentary or extraneous material in the posts, please,
as the stories must stand on their own


PLEASE REMEMBER THIS IS A FAMILY-FRIENDLY FORUM

For a further explanation of the rules see Rules for the Writing Challenges

This thread is to be used for entries only
Please keep all comments to the DISCUSSION THREAD


** Please do not use the "Like" button in this thread! **

​

 

[Astro Pen]

Eternal Flight

It was, Eklund thought, three days before he realised that the staircase was probably infinite, Although there was always the impression of light from an entrance around the corner, it never appeared. Just a continuous spiralling down and down, or up and up.

His first thought was that down might lead to hell. Then again it also went up from his starting point. 'Heaven would be up', he reasoned. Why then had he started walking down? Apart from the notion of leading to a ground floor it was just easier, as many a sinner could verify. Up, then, for what seemed to be a day and a half, to his approximate starting point.

He noticed that he was still not thirsty or hungry. Onward and upward he continued. Then stopped. He couldn’t remember how he arrived here.

Maybe if he walked down again he would find a door that he had entered the staircase through.


The Surgeon entered the ward.
“Nurse Atherton, Mr Eklund is stuck on the staircase again. Can you page a couple of orderlies to bring him back to his room?"

The surgeon flipped through the case notes and turned to Nurse Atherton.
“Tragic brain damage. ‘Goldfish syndrome’ you see. Only fifteen seconds of memory replaying in a loop no long term at all. Up and down that flight all day. By the time he has climbed it he has forgotten where he started. And goes down again, like a new flight each time.”

The orderlies guided Eklund back into his room. He looked around at the newly made bed, water jug and flowers.

“Oh, is this heaven?” he asked.

 

[Victoria Silverwolf]

Our Lady of the Tides

Twice each day, under sun or stars, Giorgio walked along the shore at low tide. He gathered sea creatures he could eat and driftwood that, once dried, would provide a crackling fire, releasing pale blue flames and the sharp scent of the sea. Sometimes he found a watch or a pair of sunglasses lost by a careless tourist that he could sell to Alessandro the pawnbroker.

Today he found an enormous shell, unbroken, elegantly curved, richly decorated by nature in spirals of amber and ivory. A wiser man would have seen it as a source of wealth; for Giorgio, it was a gift to be shared.

He took it to a small chapel frequented by sailors and laid it at the feet of a crudely painted wooden statue of the Virgin. Giorgio knew little of theology – Father Martino thought him hardly more than a pagan – but he knew the Virgin was kind to those who honored her.

One night, as the sea hissed and whispered under a quarter moon, Giorgio saw the Virgin. She lay half in the water and half out, as innocent in her nudity as Eve before the Fall. From the waist down her body was deep emerald; above, palest jade. She beckoned to him, rising a bit from where she rested, and Giorgio saw that she took the form of one who dwelt as easily in the sea as on land.

The Virgin rolled into the water and vanished beneath the waves. Giorgio walked into the sea, discarding his ragged shirt and trousers as earthly burdens he no longer needed. He believed he would drown and enter Paradise, shorn of his sins by the grace of the Virgin. Instead, the Virgin took him by the hand and, with powerful thrusts of her tail, led him home.

 

[Cat's Cradle]

Arms Askew in Altoona, Pennsylvania

My husband Henry's 'big joke' is to launch himself from the stairs into our open-plan living area like a speed skater, wooled feet gliding over birch flooring, arms askew, legs pumping like a Norwegian while negotiating furniture, bookcases and kitchen island.
It slayed at our parties, and always left me laughing, until one morning when sunbeams – piercing our floor-to-ceiling windows – revealed twin wear-streaks in the floorboards.
Henry will be finding a new big joke.

In Virtual Directory I chose the first flooring company listed – AAI Refinishers (my motto being 'first is best!').
Turns out this was Android-172 and AI Joseph. They were friendly enough, "Yes, ma'am"-ing me constantly.
I'd expected the work would take days, stripping the floor, sanding, re-varnishing. But AI Joseph – in its blinking travel cube that Android-172 carried about – studied the skating path 'molecularly', while developing work plans for its partner.
Android-172 moved furniture, then used a single device (like a cordless vacuum, with keyboard) to smooth over the skateway, and reseal the bared strips by waving the contraption slowly over the exposed wood. It finished with a quick buffing. Total cost: $49.99.
A "Thanks kindly!" later they were gone, the floor looking terrific.
~

Quality service was how Artificials came, by 2098, to dominate the flooring, siding, plumbing and electrical contracting in Altoona –
and why nationwide, human unemployment was 36%.

The AAA – Anti-Artificials Alliance (the directory's first-listed militia!) – was founded in Altoona, and Henry battled androids (chiropractors, nurses, electrologists) in the 2107 Uprisings.
I last saw him at war's end, prostrate, arms askew, surrendering to AI cubes (psychologists, historians, songwriters).
~

Now that the fighting's over, I'm renovating my war-damaged home. AAI Refinishers will be out Thursday to repair the flooring – amazingly, they'd granted a lifetime guarantee for the entire living area!

 

[THX1138]

The Choice of Ones Eternity

I remember as a child running around and playing in the corridors of this vast gallery of paintings and statues. I was mesmerized by how all the artworks would softly flow in animated life while listening to their stories on headphones.

“Only a moment longer, sir.”

“Thanks.”

The last time I was here was for my mother. Now, for my dad.

“We’re ready, sir.”

“Let’s get on with it, then”

The assistant brought the arm’s length statue and placed it solemnly next to mom’s painting. After a few adjustments, it also began to gently move.

“Ah, yes. Julius Caesar. Most popular before Napoleon with men. And your mom’s choice of a Monette, exquisite!”

Temporal Interment begins at the person’s passing with their ‘Being’ temporally trapped. Their remains and temporal ‘Being’ are then incorporated into their chosen artwork, existing in a perpetual eternal loop in their own mind’s eye. Happily, enthusiastic all the time as if, well, as if they were the center of all things throughout the Universe.

‘It’s all about ME.’

“Your mother’s words are the most heard and quoted of all our dwellers.” A term used for ones temporally interred with their thoughts posted to social media. Something I avoid. “Shall we prepare a plot for you? We have many fine works to choose from.”

I glared at the Director as my mind filled with the sights and sounds of Alpine meadows in all their beauty and peace.

“No thanks, I’ve planned a traditional funeral for myself. In the mountains.”

“Traditional? Buried in the ground and forgotten by all of society forever?

“Nature never forgets a life it brought forth,” I said donning my hat and coat. “But society always does and always will.” My footsteps echoed down the halls as I exited into the rain.

 

[Guttersnipe]

My Body is a Temple

Inside Joe, the Temple Himself, the Brain Scribes were writing fiercely. Joe had been cut off while driving his car, but noticed the woman was around his age; he had expected the traffic offender to be either old or young, and she wasn't quite either. The Scribes' written thoughts were circulated to all parts of the Brain Chamber. Had she not seen him? She hadn't been on her phone or anything. Perhaps something was wrong? Was she drunk? Preoccupied? Angry? She didn't look angry, but you can never really tell.

Then he noticed something. Her car slowed, and had a wobble to its motion. The Brain Scribes indited more, each one saying that the lady was in fact drunk. What should he do? She could get hurt or hurt somebody else. Accidents like these happen all the time.

A few horns honked. Joe slowed down so that he could see the woman through her side window. Roll down your window, ask her what's wrong, the thoughts spread. He opened his window and spoke loud enough to be heard. He noticed that the woman was ducking in her seat.

The woman finally noticed him.

She was beautiful. Dark hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones--Joe's type exactly.

"Oh no!" cried the Brain Scribes in unison, "The Heart Poets are taking over! Don't let them touch you!"

The Heart Poets rushed into the chamber, grabbing the Brain Scribes and adding them to their ranks. Pretty soon, the entire Brain Chamber held only Heart Poets.

"Eyes like the cerulean sea," they wrote, "Raven hair frames a beauty so rare."

In that moment that felt endless, the woman brought out her inhaler and sucked on it. She didn't notice him.

"Oh no!" cried the Heart Poets in unison, "The Cynicism Monster will be upon us soon!"

 

[Rafellin]

Idols

“Just look at this place. Look at it!”

“I am. I’m not seeing anything to eat.”

Tolly gives Aces a withering look.

“Get your mind off stuffing your face for a minute, willya?”

Aces looks about.

“I see stairs and statues and stuff to hold the roof up. Your point being?”

Tolly sighs.

“That roof. Every part of it crafted to design. Those statues: every one in an alcove built for it. All set about stairs that make you walk past them.”

“Still not getting it.”

“Okay. Think of it this way. How long did it take the village to build Ester’s place?”

“Two days. The hunters were back so we had enough folk to do the lifting and the fixing.”

“Right. For that, Ester traded all her spare medicines and tools. But she still owes favours to us, Odette, and Vince.”

Aces looks about, eyes widening.

“Somebody traded to get this built… So much for a hall: the bit you walk through to get to the other rooms.”

Tolly grins.

“Think what this whole pile must have cost to get put up.”

Aces whistles.

“They’d owe so much they’d never be here! Always out paying it back.”

Tolly nods.

“Not according to old Jessan. He said some of them who got this sort of place played tricks like hiring fighters to protect them from those looking for fair dues for their efforts.”

“If they could hire fighters, why not just pay the builders?”

“I asked that. Jessan said it was a big problem with the old world. People believed too easily.”

Aces frowns.

“Believed in what?”

Tolly shrugs.

“Anyone except themselves.”

 

[RTGR]

Immobile

A hand. That is all I see. It's been years since anyone joined us. Only the cleaning service comes every month so it doesn't look like such an old house. Every fifteen or twenty years, she decides to paint and renovate the whole house. At least I have some distraction besides my hand. I remember exactly when the woman and the man arrived. Some time after me, but they must be feeling the same as I do. The passage of time and who knows, maybe the madness of the mind too?
I don't know exactly how much time has passed. I just know that she is still alive. I don't know if I'm alive.
What pleasure or perhaps the lack thereof exists in her life? And in mine? Is her heart as cold as I deduce I am, since all I have now is a memory without feeling, a body without being? Can I call this shell by that name? Body? Maybe.
It all started with a sudden interest in the house. Weeks passing by in front, waiting for someone to answer, and nothing. Were the gods of yore protecting me? Until my last breath answered.
She was beautiful, just like me. She invited me in with a smile and offered me tea. It was the beginning of the century and it was common for us to do this with visitors. I don't really know what was in the tea, but mentally I woke up in this position, with no further change. I never closed my eyes again and never stopped seeing my hand. I saw no snakes, much less a petrifying gaze. From what little I noticed, my clothes were now Roman. I'm just here. Inert. Intangible. Immortal.

 

[Appello]

Hell Hath No Fury

My mother warns me about the God of the Sky.

"Men are not to be trusted," she says as we sit before the hearth fire, worn hands carding through my hair with reverence. "And he least of all."

I take her words to heart, but in the end my caution is of little use. One morning by the river he is there before me, chest bare, legs planted as if to straddle the earth.

"Name your heart's desire, girl." His eyes rake over me like hot coals. "And I shall grant it."

Young as I am, I am no fool. "And the price?"

His grin broadens, blinding me like the sun. "Come, maiden, and I shall show you."

I flee, and fight. But you do not refuse the God of the Sky.

After, he leaves me in the ruined meadow, with a purse of heavy coppers and a white stallion grazing beside me.

The wind whispers. My mother's words again. It is not him you should fear, but what follows after.

I clutch the torn ribbons of my dress as she descends, radiant and hateful.

"So," she spits, eyes blazing in bitterness. "You think yourself worthy of the King of Heaven, do you?" Her lovely mouth twists, a mockery. "Such vanity, and from such a little thing! Well, so be it. A statue, then, for the world to remember you by."

Her arm comes down, and then there is my mother hunched, weeping, at my feet. The wet of her tears slides over the cool marble of my skin. I reach for her, but my arms remain still.

The house closes around me. My mother withers, then fades.

I gather dust while the world turns.

 

[AnRoinnUltra]

The chronicling of Clórach Bunstachain’s Glomstaphonic recital


Clórach Bunstachain pulled back the cuffs of his overcoat, and armed the Glomstaphone.

• Zimp. It flanged its first note.
• Bararunk. The bass thumped.
• Kerrflash. Billions of tiny lumticules scorched through the air and began vibrating to the thoughts of the assembled crowd.

Three judges frowned in practiced concentration.

• Zimp. Bararunk. Kerrflash. The starry Neptunian sky seemed to dance in time to the music.

‘Oooh’, went the crowd in unison.

• Baraunk. Zimp. Kerrflash.

The song echoed into the palace.

• Zimp. Zimp. Kerrflash.

Overlord Dunsoganny and her minions left the opulence of the great hall, and walked to a balcony overlooking the concert field. And stood listening. Transfixed.

Clórach eventually chambered the Umpergons. And the Glomstaphone fell silent. As did the crowd.

‘Bravo’, yelled Dunsoganny. She then looked to the judges, who sat impassively. ‘I think’, she added.

Robocritic FZB3158 was the first Judge to speak. ‘Insufficient data’, it bleeped.

Robald Hobernon was the second Judge to speak. ‘What my metallic friend here means’, he explained, ‘is that there are not enough reviews logged for it to parse and form an opinion of the music.’

Overlord Dunsoganny nodded.

‘I’, continued Robald, ‘on the other hand, am human. And do not need to copy the opinions of others. I thought it was rubbish.’

Overlord Dunsoganny frowned.

‘I meant rubbish in parts. Otherwise great’, corrected Robald, ‘a mixed bag really. I think I’ll also reserve judgement till after the online reviews.’

The crowd, Clórach Bunstachain, Overlord Dunsoggany, her minions, and the other two Judges turned to Judge Furbinart Honglatone.

‘It would seem’, Furbinart noted, ‘that we should wait to see what the majority of Neptunians think before deciding what we thought.’

Someone in the crowd clapped, stopped, yelled ‘rubbish’, and then clapped again.

Overlord Dunsoggany nodded in agreement, and returned to the great hall.

 

[Phyrebrat]

The Assassins of Herostratus

I hate the beast that comes on wings through all my addled thoughts, despite the gifts it often brings, even when besought.

It’s not Depression’s Cur that follows. Let Cerberus be renamed. Cerberus is not the one that stalks so no ideas remain. Nor any from that charnel place, nor even Tindalos. This hound’s in search of no master, and delights to run amok.

Fog is sky grown tired of floating, no pillars bear it up; it’s now ground-lingering, spent, and tired and blurred; a sucking mud. It walks barefoot, unshod of focus, cuts my feet on broken glass; I wear a tattered mantle of resilience, threadbare, purposeless.

The Gales of Overwhelm inundate. Is that birdsong on the breeze? The chatter of a million TVs?

Or is it just stupid me?

The Assassins of Herostratus have set afire themselves, till all is burnt away. All sense remains forbidden, forgotten at the end of the day. My plans, roots that dry and die at twilight, by morning twist and grow in tortuous yearning. And tomorrow repeat — and tomorrow too — without the joy of learning.

Pass me no more tipless matches that evermore I fail to strike; ideas that with a reddened gum would otherwise burn bright. And Oh! the anger, and Oh! the shame, and no one else around to blame. Is this misery a hand-me-down or did I sire this mad domain?

Let London rains wash my dishes, let the wind sweep my floor. Let hurricanes spin the laundry for the effort that abides with me no more. Bind me in a hospital, bundled in a bed; lock me in a chapel where some idiot gods might fix my head.
What you call laziness, bad ethics — or even Plathian ennui. I know that this erratic cur is undiagnosed ADHD.

 

[Luiglin]

One foot after another​

The apparition trod its nightly path up the stairs. For any substantial this would have left the carpet threadbare. For this insubstantial, the only thing worn out was the variety.

You’d think being a ghost would open new horizons of opportunity. Looking into locked boxes, scaring cats, making dogs bark and occasionally, scaring the odd substantial.

When the option came to become a ghost, they’d chosen it in an instant. The brochure showing the heavenly variations had felt just a touch too glossy to choose.

The detail as ever though, the small print.

They’d thought it a joke at first. A prank played on a noob ghost by other older insubstantials. After ten nights of walking up the same damn stairs they knew not. The catch? Locked into re-enacting the last few minutes of their life. From dusk to dawn, day to day, month to month, year to year, ad infinitum.

Reaching the top of the stairs they paused, not to delay the inevitable, but doing the same as they did in life.
Here it came, the feeling, that itchy pressure rising through a chest and into nostrils that they once had but now didn’t. The sneeze, when it came, still had the power to close their eyes. Which made no difference as they could see through the lids anyway.

For a moment they tottered on the brink of extinction, grasping at a stair post that fingers slipped off in life and slipped through in death. Arms flailing, windmilling in a desperate attempt to grasp something, anything. One leg stretched out in a vein effort to break the law of gravity.

Then the fall.

Cartwheeling back to the start. No pain, just reset.

And bottom of the monotonous stairs… again.

Step, trudge, slog… even Sisyphus had a boulder to push.

 

[Peter V]

For the Last Time

Ellie-May sat up in bed, a quick glance at the clock revealing 02:08. Thankfully it was the school holidays - not that she'd have been at school today anyway.

Just as she had around the same time every night for the past week, Ellie-May tip-toed to the door and opened it slowly, before entering the landing and stepping carefully over the creaky board just outside; she did not want to wake mummy or daddy, especially since they'd had too little sleep as it was recently.

Descending quietly to the half landing, Ellie-May saw Gramps tottering slowly down the return. He looked like he could fall at any moment, so she quickly but carefully slid past him and took his hand.

"We need to go up Gramps."

The old man looked down at her, confused for a moment before smiling as he recognised his granddaughter.

"I n-n need to be somewhere."

"I know. And you will get there. It's just not down."

They steadily ascended, Gramps effortlessly silent, Ellie-May placing her bare feet precisely, avoiding every known creak.

They reached the top. "In my room?" Gramps queried

“In your room. “Ellie-May nodded, leading him inside.

"Soon Gramps." She hugged her grandfather as he lay down, a tear dripping onto the coverlet.

She was returning to her bedroom, when the door to her parents’ room opened.

Daddy stood there, looking sad and tired. "What are you doing up Em?" Only daddy called her Em, joining her first name initials together. Mummy said it was silly because people would think she was Emma or Emily but Ellie-May liked it.

“I was getting a drink.” She lied because daddy wouldn’t believe the truth.

"Back to bed sweetheart, dad's funeral is in the morning and we don't want you nodding off during the service."

 

[Daysman]

the turn of a corner

William loved to walk and walked at pace, but always within arm's length of a wall or window, calloused hand outstretched, skimming brickwork, stone, painted wood and glass.

This tactile habit led him to turn corners others left unturned…

He'd spring from nowhere into the footfalls of wary pedestrians, walking from buildings and doorways he'd not exited nor seen from the other side, then moments later vanish, just long enough to confuse any casual observers, to make circuits of entrance halls and fruitless vertical journeys in stairwells.

So it was that William entered the local museum.

A Curator there, taking closeups of their collection of Victorian papier-mache furniture, saw his camera refocus to find the face of a stranger just beyond the open door.

William, in signature khaki, and wearing his favourite baseball cap, stood one hand atop an Egyptian statue, resting on a plinth opposite the down stair, while with the other he examined the flat and perfect plaster of the wall behind.

The Curator watched in silence.

William's state of rest, being naturally unstable, was easily disturbed, and spurred on by the open door, he entered the room. He circled its walls, and the Curator, lightly tapping each table and chair.

He spoke once, as he left, announcing, ”Nothing here is real.”

Immobilised by surprise, the Curator was slow to follow, and when he did, descending the stairway to the staff entrance below, the stranger was gone.

William had returned to his endless endeavour, secure again in the flow of textures, and in his moving vista of the world, and his connection to it.

He'd really liked the museum's fake chairs and tables, but barely registered the old man that tended to them.

He made a mental note to mention it, if he should pass that way again.

 

[mosaix]

Neddie Seagoon Meets Grytpype-Thynne in 2150.

“Welcome to the Kraal House of Fulfilment-By-Technology. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you.”

“Tea? Coffee? No? Then how can we help?”

“I’d like my height increased by eight inches.”

“Yes, I can see that would be an improvement. We can certainly help.”

“How?”

“Kraal technology. But the exact detail is absolutely confidential before payment and would remain so even after the procedure.”

“How is that enforceable?”

“A legally binding galactic contract. If you reveal our methods then you have to pay double the fee. Equally, if we don’t deliver we repay you double the fee.”

“And what is the fee?”

“It’s standard for all our ‘Fulfilments’, two million galactic credits.”

“That’s a lot! Any guarantees?”

“Well, there’s the double payback contract as I’ve explained and I see you have your own portable lie detector. It’s no doubt been monitoring my voice. Any indication of falsehood or deception?”

“None.”

“And have you ever heard a single complaint about our work?”

“Well, no.”

“Perfect. If you have the funds we can proceed.”

“Okay. It means a lot to me.”

“And us. If you’d just sign here… here… and here. Thank you. I’ll do the same… Here’s your copy. Now I’ll give you a few moments to transfer the money and then we can get things underway…"

---

“Thank you… yes, that’s confirmed. Perhaps you would follow me?

“As you can see our facilities are extensive. Behind each of these doors my colleagues are delivering life-changing ‘Fulfilments’ for our clients. Ah, here we are. Door 604. If you’d just stand to one side I’ll open it.”

“It’s a staircase.”

“Correct. The best we have. I should think the second step will suffice.”

“Is this some kind of joke!? I wanted to be eight inches taller!”

“Eight inches taller? We’re aliens, not magicians!”

 

[johnnyjet]

The Temple is My Body

I approach the temple with hesitation and, perhaps, some trepidation,

How long since I was last here?

I came here frequently in my youth. It was full of spirit in those days, as was my heart.

Now it's lifeless, its congregation long gone. Very sad.

I push on the door. It groans open.

Inside, pure white walls and pillars, pristine statues and paintings, just as I remember it. Is someone actually maintaining this temple?

Yet, it's too eerily quiet. My footsteps don't even echo. I resist the urge to shout for fear no sound will come out.

Then I hear it. A faint heartbeat. All around me, as though the temple itself was a living thing.

I almost laugh out loud. Absurd!

Why am I here? Something called me back here. Some inner urge. Unfinished business?

I go into the main sanctuary, sit in a front pew. I stare at the magnificent statues before me.

My vision blurs. My stomach clenches.

I remember now. The stupid games we used to play—Abbie, George, Colleen, Bobby, and I. We went into the temple late at night and spoke incantations. So sacrilegious! We weren't serious. We thought it was fun. Until that night we heard those dark voices. We ran home scared. Never did it again. I remember that night vividly now. I had buried that memory long ago.

The sound of the beating heart grows louder, clearer. No, several beating hearts.

Then I see the frightened faces of my childhood friends—Abbie, George, Colleen, Bobby—in the statues before me. Even as I felt my own heart hardening.

 

[Hugh]

Psychopomp

I wandered through vast silent rooms, the only sound my footsteps on marble floors. I had no idea how long it’d been or how I’d got there. It could be days, weeks, months. Time had become meaningless. I wasn’t hungry, but had no memory of eating.

Suddenly there was a blur of movement by a corner. I ran and caught sight of a young woman. “Stop! Wait!” I called “I’m lost, please help me”.

I chased after her, all the while pleading for her to stop.

The girl showed no sign of hearing me. I found myself pursuing her deep into underground passages. Marble gave way to brick, then to rock. Finally, a dark pool loomed ahead just as I was about to reach her, but she turned and spat in my eye before diving deep into the waters. I saw no sign of her surfacing.

I was already lost, but felt even more so now.

Fortunately, a dwarf appeared, carrying a table and chairs. He gestured for me to sit down while mixing me a dubious cocktail. “You’re going about this the wrong way” he said “You say you’re lost, but the truth is you always have been. Has there ever been a time in your life when you didn’t feel lost? You’re always seeking to find yourself in other people, using the props of work and relationships to craft an identity and attempt to hide the emptiness inside”.

I had to admit, he had a point.

“How about we begin again?” he continued, leading me into a great chamber at the centre of which glowed a large stone. “This is the Philosopher’s Stone” he said “This is who you are. Never forget it.”

Strangely, I now knew where I was. I was on the train to work.​

 

[Parson]

A Room with a View

If I could move, I’d shut the door.

I’ve been confined to this room and this bed for twelve years. Everyone says that they feel sorry for me, or at least those few who actually talk to me say that. But then they also say something like, “But at least you get to live in a beautiful house.” Not true! I live in a gilded cage. It’s a cage because I can’t move and when I look out the door, I see this powder blue stairway which looks like it belongs in a horror movie! How long can you look at the same view and not grow bored beyond sanity?

My parents are pleased with this arrangement. Yes, they were devastated when the drunken cabbie hit their ten-year-old on her bicycle. I was left completely paralyzed. But the eighty-million-dollar settlement means that their spare child (I have two older sisters) can have the best care and they don’t have to do the slightest thing, not even talk to me. My settlement has given them a life they never dreamed of. And over the years my sisters have provided them with grandchildren. They have everything they ever wanted.

But they aren’t stuck in this bed. They don’t have the same view 24-7. I HATE powder blue. But mother dear loves it, so I’m stuck with it. Things are going to change. I’m twenty-two now. The money’s legally mine and I’ve been working hard with the neural link to my computer. Soon I’ll be able to bank online, and then I’ll make some changes. Every expenditure will require my permission. They’ll spend time with me or they’re out the door! Soon, I’m moving us to the ocean. I’ll have a room with a view and conversation too.

 

[The Judge]

A Piece of Cake​

​

​

The huge cake, a replica of the Presidential Palace, is greeted with applause. Then its outer shell is raised and removed. Everyone gasps.​

​

Inside is an impossibly perfect copy of the entrance hall in which they’re standing, with its columns and staircase in the soft blue of Wedgwood Jasperware. And with the many portraits of the President, garish pustules against the heavenly colour.​

​

It’s the first anniversary since he rose up to become President. He’s celebrating in the hall because this is where he murdered his predecessor – red still stains the tiles, despite frequent attempts to scrub them clean. The cake has the same crimson blotch in the same place; all that’s missing from the reproduction is the hall’s ceiling, and him surrounded by cronies braying adulation.​

​

He doesn’t fear the cronies. They’re too weak, too dependent on him. He only ever feared one person, the old President’s wife. The First Witch, he called her, and he wouldn’t mount the coup until she died. Then it was easy. A piece of cake.​

​

Still, he’s taking no chances. Sophisticated detection equipment has ensured no weapons or explosives are present, and if the cake is poisoned, it’s his cronies eating it, not him.​

​

He feels light-headed with triumph. Light-bodied, even.​

​

“Look!” someone calls.​

​

He looks. The patch of red on the cake is shifting, lifting, particles of dye floating upwards.​

​

Everyone turns to look at the floor. The red stain is disappearing, rising into the air.​

​

As the blood rises, so does he. He screams, then grabs at the cake, at his cronies, but they also rise towards a ceiling that is no longer there.​

​

Higher he rises, shrieking into a sky of Wedgwood blue. Higher, higher.​

​

Just before hypoxia claims him, he thinks he hears a Witch laugh.​

 

[Starbeast]

House of Books​

Ding-dong.

“Hello. Who is it?”

“Gothic Pizza. I have a triple anchovy pizza for a Mr. C.W. Books. Say…aren’t you that famous horror writer?”

“That’s me. Come in.”

#

“Ahh. Where..?”

A loudspeaker blurted, “Go up the stairs, take a left then a right. Then take the stairs to the third floor. Walk through the corridor to the next stairs, go up and take two rights then left until you get to the last staircase. Go up, then straight down the corridor to the last door on the right.”

“Okay.”

“What’s your name?”

“Rusty.”

“Nice to meet you. Come on upstairs.”

#

CRASH!

“Rusty! Be careful.”

Bump. SMASH!

“My crystal dragon collection!”

Bump. CRASH! Crunch, crunch, crunch.

“My rare porcelain vases. Watch out!”

KRASHH!

“Rusty! Stop! I can see you on my multiple camera system. Please get off your unicycle and walk slowly in the middle of the floor.”

CRASH!

“Take off the Dracula cape and oversized mask. Now please proceed cautiously through the final corridor.”

KRASHH!!

“My gosh, Rusty. You weren’t even near the chandelier causing it to fall. Now open the door to my office and slowly enter.”

“Okay.”

#

“You’ve cost me a million dollars worth of damage. Now...GIVE ME THAT PIZZA!! This better be good. (chomp) Mmm. This is fantastic.”

“Sorry about the mess.”

“Forgot about it. This pizza is worth it. Besides, I’m insured.”

“Thank goodness. Mr. Books. What’s the C.W. in your name stand for?”

“Clumpy Wet. My Mother named me.”

“What’s her name?”

“Anita Findgood.”

“Oh. I gotta get to my next delivery.”

“Wait. Don’t go the way you came in. Climb down this rope out of my window.”

“Yes sir.”

#

“Hey! Mr. Books! Toss down my unicycle!”

“Certainly. Here.”

Whomp! “ACK!”

“Here’s your cape and heavy mask.”

BOP! “Ooof! Thank you.”