Drag open cupboards! Rummage the dusty shelves! Words spill out; letters separate, scatter across the floor. Photos flame to ash, picture frames’ contents ooze sludgily down the walls.
You fling open a window. There’s a beach, sunshine and the smell of the sea! Waves lapping; a boy in a boat. He points and you look but there’s nothing to see.
A sudden squall slams the window shut.
Here’s a door; chained and padlocked. There’s a message, curled and yellow, stuck to the frame A single word, written in your own hand: No.
You step away, anxiously. You know. Now is not the time.
Turn away, turn back!
You trudge step-by-step over the disturbed contents of your untidy mind.
Empty handed. Empty headed?
You take a breath, drain the mug of tepid tea and realise that Today, you simply have Nothing to say.
The music fades out as we leave the planet’s atmosphere. The viewing screen blinks.
[STARDATE: 2607.7 – DESTINATION: SECOND STAR ON THE RIGHT]
The letters dissolve. The screen is filled with huge rocks, hurtling towards us.
“Asteroids!” yells Stevens.
The warning siren starts to wail and the red light flashes.
“Does this thing have shields?” I wonder out loud.
[SHIELDS ACTIVATED]
A medium-sized asteroid glances off the screen; the ship slews. Only our seat straps save us from being thrown to the floor.
“How do we steer?” shouts Harris.
A joystick, with a large red button on the top, sprouts from the console in front of him. He grabs hold and his eyes fix on the screen. His tongue pokes out of the side of his mouth; his gaming face. The control is hyper-responsive. Harris dodges nimbly through the asteroid belt, blowing rocks to smithereens with a dab of his thumb.
Then we’re through. The asteroids are behind us and all we can see is the inky blackness of space, peppered with bright pinpricks of light which are the stars.
All is quiet. We sit back and admire the view. My thoughts wander.
A huge black cube appears on the left of the screen. It glitters menacingly.
[You will be assimilated]
Stevens peers at the screen. “The Borg Cube!”
The ship is being pulled towards the vast angular vessel. Sirens wail, warning lights flash.
“But that’s not real!” Harris protests as he wrestles desperately with the joystick.
The ship judders ominously.
[Resistance is useless]
Stevens turns to me. “Hold on. Remember what the Zyborgatron said?”
I think for a moment. “Something about the ship being ‘guided by your imaginations.’ “
“Okay, who imagined The Borg?” Harris growls.
“Never mind who’s responsible. Just think of something else; something friendly!” I yell. “Hurry!”
The Borg Cube fills the screen. Harris jabs the red button repeatedly.
Take a last look at the world we call Home. You’ll never see it again. After this generation, and maybe the next, nobody will. It won’t exist.
And we, brave comrades, will not see our next home, nor the several generations which will succeed us. Our new home is far, far too distant. Almost too distant to contemplate. It lies beyond our own planetary system, beyond anything visible to our eyes. Only our most powerful telescopes can see; reached only by a single exploratory probe which has travelled over many of our lifetimes.
Thus our new home has been identified. All available data indicates it is suitable for life. Or was. Remember we are travelling such a very great distance across the galaxy, that what we know about this planet is only its past.
But we are optimistic. No other race could have been so stupid. No other beings would wantonly destroy their planet.
So, brave comrades, we boldly go, across to the westward arm of the great spiral galaxy, to a group of eight planets which orbit a sun, just like ours. Our destination is the third from that sun, a blue planet, and we will call it Home.
When 30 year old Laura Peterson unexpectedly inherits a house in rural Lancashire, she seizes the opportunity to take a break from the busy but unrewarding life she has in bureaucratic Brussels. Her discovery of an old silver locket hidden in the attic prompts Laura to delve into the history of the house and its former inhabitants. But the locket is more than just a pretty trinket. Under its influence Laura’s sleep becomes increasingly troubled; her dreams are haunted by the young girl who once wore the locket and her waking hours by a sinister old woman in a brown coat who seems to be following her. Laura engages the services of a landscape gardener, Tom, to help her restore the old kitchen garden at the back of the house. Their work is hindered by a series of disturbing and unexplained incidences and when Tom tries to fell an old…
Lights flicker into life. We remain strapped into high-backed chairs. The Professor has vanished. The spherical console in front of us rotates, lights flashing amber and green. A countdown commences: ten, nine, eight… A screen flips up showing the surface of the barren planet outside.
An engine powers up beneath us. The countdown continues: five, four… Behind us a siren wails and a flashing red light reflects on the console. The engine judders: two, one… We are thrown back in our seats. Lift off. The siren ceases. All lights turn green.
The screen shows the planet’s surface receding rapidly. I can just make out the shape of the Professor’s Space Machine on the ground below where we left it.
I turn to Harris on my right. “Who’s flying this thing?”
On my left, Stevens points at the screen where the picture has changed. It is not a life-form I recognise. Humanoid certainly but…
“I am the Zyborgatron,” it says. We look at each other. It continues. “This craft is powered by your minds and guided by your imaginations. Welcome to the Fantasy Tribute Space Opera.”
The signature tune to my favourite TV series from the mid-20th century starts to play…
She makes hats for a living. Every kind of hat, for every kind of occasion. Very special hats.
She’s famous in the town for her hats and what her hats can do. You see, she’s a crafter of dreams, a bringer of good fortune and her hats are enchanted.
They bring you health and wealth and happiness. But there’s a catch. You must pay her your dues. And once she’s caught you in her net, there’s nothing you can do.
Try to speak out against her? Denounce her actions?
Better not. Not if you want a long and happy life.
I won! What a super surprise! Isn’t the way Jason has presented this great? Just like he does with all his work. Check him out if you haven’t already discovered his dark and humorous little stories!
Storyteller and Accidental Blogger Chris Hall of luna’s on line won the May 22nd Aether Prompt with her deliciously dark piece, “Woman Scorned No More”:
She holds the golden sphere in the palm of her hand. It glows, warm with all that remains of him. She has him now, resting in the palm of her hand. His soul, trapped. He in her power; not she in his.
Revenge is sweet, she thinks.
She curls her fingers and feels the sphere pulsate. She turns and walks the few steps to the bridge. Leaning on the rail, she watches the greasy, grey river flow beneath her.
She tosses the sphere in the air and catches it. Tosses again; lets it fall.
Goodbye traitorous heart, she whispers.
Congratulations! Now you’re in the running for the 2019 AETHEREAL ENGINEER WRITER SUPPORT PRIZE PACKAGE! How might she, or possibly you, perchance win such…
Well, if you’ve been following my #writingmycity project journey, you’ll know we’ve had a few challenges along the way. Now we’ve come to the end of this particular road and there’s really good news.
Stories have been written, author’s bios have been composed and now our entries to the project are ready to go.
How pleased and proud I am of this group of women. They’ve produced disturbing, gut-wrenching and thought-provoking stories. There’s been anger, there’s still sadness but there is definitely hope.
These stories may not be selected for the Cape Town Library Book, but they will certainly give the selection panel food for thought. I don’t know what image of the ‘Mother City’ the editors of the publication intend to portray, but members of the Suiderstrand Library writing group have borne vivid witness to the gritty, dirty underbelly of beautiful Cape Town.
The voices of these strong women deserve to be heard. My thanks to every one of them for sharing their stories with such bravery and honesty.
luna's on line 