The Future Is Short (2 page)
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Everything in life is better when shared, but how do you share a dream? How can you capture the intangible nature of imagination?
Write it down.
Within each of us, there is a story just waiting to be told. We are here to tell you that you can write that story, but perhaps not without a little help. The Science Fiction Microstory Contest was created as a method for writers to perceive their words through the eyes of other artists. With little more than a pen, words can be formed into a plot, just as a brush is stroked across the canvas or chords are echoed into a melody. But who’s to say the work is actually art?
You be the judge.
These folds of parchment contain but a sampling of stories that have been posted on the contest. Each has undergone the scrutiny of review by the same writers hoping their story will edge past to be the winner. Every month, the vote tallies are collected until one reaches the majority. And under the light of a new moon, the competition starts all over again.
From themes of green or blue, future or past, animal or mineral or alien, a catalyst is formed that sets creativity in motion. By the random nature of synapse, a story forms from thin air, like magic. Bounds that Einstein placed upon light itself cannot hold back a thought. For, imagination is beyond the bars of time and space. Within the mind, and with fewer words than those needed to paint a picture, a full science fiction work is derived in micro-scale.
Which do you like best? Cast your vote!
Jot Russell
Science Fiction Microstories Contest Direct
or
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1.
Jot Russell
If you asked, I’d say guilt was my motivator. You see, I built it because I got a man killed once. I was just a careless kid, weaving my green Wolverine bike across the streets, daring cars to hit me. Two had screeched to a halt as I shot across from side roads. I remember stopping there for a giggle, pausing to watch other cars zoom past on Town Line Road before kicking the pedals to life in a path towards destiny.
It took me a few seconds to reach full speed. As I approached the main road, a truck came up fast over the hill and I felt as if I knew I was already dead. When the body lets go of the soul, time suddenly becomes a meaningless thing. Tumbling in the air, suspended in a state of weightlessness, everything I had ever done in my life was relived in a single moment. Six years in the span of a second, until the second passed, and time itself suddenly returned to me.
Oh, how I wish that, when I stood up to cry, it was for him. But the fear of self-preservation took hold of that remaining part of my soul. My thoughts at that moment completely disregarded the single glance that I had made at the ruins of my bike next to the broken form of the man who had jumped out from behind a tree on the sidewalk and threw me from my bike. Now, he’s all I can see.
***
As I became a man, I told myself to make the life he saved worth something. But my degree at MIT and research work at Google Labs failed to quench the guilt that I still felt. One thing I can say is that I didn’t let it slow me down. Drawing from the accumulated regret, I pushed forward knowing the answer was there; somehow suspended in time and just waiting to be discovered. Forty years after that fateful day, I realized I could build it.
A hundred years before, the simple word “energize” introduced most to the notion of a transporter. But deep within the energy that all matter is created from was the real solution. How could it have been so simple?
Once completed and mass-produced, no one would need a car, truck, or van. A revolutionary solution to so many of society’s problems. A clean, quiet and safe world from the likes of tin mechanized bullets that traveled on land and air. The tests were far from perfect, but each failure only extended my understanding of the science and increased my resolve to make my dream a reality. And then it was!
Through quantum’s uncertainty between time and space lay a dimensionless shortcut that I would be the first to utilize. My only question was to where? The notion was answered as soon as it was asked.
Being the anniversary of the event that led me to this day, I decided to return home.
***
The street was more familiar than I had expected. Somehow it seemed unchanged from the many years that transpired since I last stood here crying. The corner house had the same broken fence. Even the sound of cars that passed behind triggered
a recognition of their age. Suddenly, I realized that I didn’t just travel through space, but time itself. I turned to see a truck speeding closer. No, not a truck. The truck!
Without thinking, I jumped from behind the tree and thrust my weight into the approaching cyclist. I pushed my hands into his chest, dislodging the boy from his green bike. Although safe from the impend
ing truck, his momentum carried me back upright and over towards the edge of the road. With the faintest extra motion, I understood my fate in an instant. Within that instant, I again relived every second of my life, until it was gone.
Jot Russell: An engineer is a designer of work to fill a purpose. Whether that be to build a tower that stretches into the sky, to create a soft parade of logic to command artificial life, or to find a way to arrange random words into the dramatic, those who seek design fulfill their own purpose. I'm an engineer.
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2.
Carrol Fix
Michael woke slowly. Warmth enveloped him in comforting security, easing tightened muscles and soothing residual fear from the gut-clenching agony of his recent death. He knew he had died—no one survived exposure to the vacuum of space. Despite statistical odds to the contrary, tiny asteroids
did
hit spacecraft and his shuttle was the proof.
Must be Heaven.
Never thought I’d make it
here.
For some reason, his vision was blurred and provided few details about his location. He was aware of muted colors and soft murmurings surrounding him and he could hear indistinct melodic tones and formless reverberations lightly rising and falling. A vague contentment filled him, soothing his slight distress.
Lying on his back, he could feel his arms and legs, apparently still attached, but somewhat weak. What else could he expect, given the circumstances? After all, something terrible had happened to him.
What happened? Oh, yeah—the accident.
He raised his right arm into his field of vision, but all he could see was a dark form waving unsteadily off to one side. Doubling his knees, and then pushing downward, he felt a satisfying resistance at his feet. Movement helped ease his inner tension. The aural vibrations increased, with a musical undertone close to his ear that filled him with a sense of pleasure—a nearby presence promising the solace of unconditional love and protection.
Is that God? Is it an angel?
Relaxing, Michael allowed himself to bask in the serene warmth of pure love. He didn’t know when he had felt so peaceful. He tried to remember his life before the accident, but found only hazy memories that suggested stress and strife.
Where did I come from? Where was I going?
Gradually, his vision was improving and he could see indistinct silhouettes hovering nearby. But, with no sign of wings, they could not be angels. Their heads seemed overly large and their arms heavier than normal. Gathered in a semicircle to his right, the shadows appeared to be talking together, and he sensed that they focused their attention on him. Although he could not make out words, he was beginning to distinguish the sounds that emanated from individual shapes.
What are they saying? Why can’t I understand them?
One came nearer, growing unbelievably huge, and warmth fled as he felt himself lifted and placed into the form’s outstretched arms. Looking up, he beheld a face like none he had ever imagined. The word “crocodile” came to mind and he cried out.
Oh, my God. Help me!
Percussions and rumblings spilled around him as he struggled to escape. Ineffectual kicking and hitting accompanied his wails of despair, but no matter what he did, the monsters lightly contained him and passed him from one to another.
They’re going to eat me!
Hopelessness engulfed him. Why had he been spared from death before, just to be killed now? He no longer recalled how he had wound up dead the first time, but he did not think it could have been nearly this terrifying.
Becoming aware again of the reverberations, Michael noticed a musical sub-note gaining strength that was starting to calm him. The sound came closer, and he was handed back to the being that had been holding him when he first awoke. Soothing resonance lilted above him, cradling his despair and smoothing his trembling fears. He felt a touch on his hand and his fingers instinctively closed around the proffered digit. He looked down and saw that his hand was a tiny replica of the three-digit claw that tenderly held his own. He nestled contentedly against the warmth and strength that he knew would fiercely protect him from harm, forever.
Momma.
Carrol Fix is a short-story writer and novelist whose science fiction work includes the novel Mishka: Book One of the Quadrate Mind. She is currently writing the second book in the Quadrate Mind series, while working on a young-adult fantasy novel, Worlds Apart. “Time of the Phoenix” appeared in the May 2013 issue of Perihelion Science Fiction.
[email protected]
http://www.mishkabook.com
