Up Against Mortality

Short stories consume you faster.

Author: Járnviðr Page 4 of 5

A Literate Populace

By

On September 3, 2017

In Flashes

“They aren’t meant to read! They’re only good for cleaning up after us!”

“We extend these rights to all humans, regardless of their qualities as individuals. I may not respect them, but I recognize them for what they are.”

“Why does the reality of ‘what they are’ matter? They’re not better than animals, even if they are more like us than the rest.”

“I want to be on the right side of history.”

“I see. Vanity over progress.”

“Progress requires improving upon the past .”

“Progress needs something to build on.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted the speller.

“Shush,” they said simultaneously.

Prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes a speller.

Lengthy Dissertation

By

On September 3, 2017

In Flashes

As I reached the top of the hill, I examined the sides of the formation first. They looked like natural rock, and felt like it, too. The locals blamed every fairy and ghost for the sight that they could imagine, their superstitions leading them astray. Most likely, the structure was the result of a long-dead river, water that once had flown through here and since been redirected. They had showered me with gifts when I told them my destination. While they were content to hide down below, I, the intrepid adventurer, braved the mountains.

It was a nice reputation to build up, so I didn’t stop the rumors. I knelt in the sand for a closer look at the sculpted rock. It was too perfect to be natural. Looking through it gave me a sense of vertigo, like I was peering into another world. I noted my thoughts and observations in my journal as I looked through. I wrote, until my eyes began to feel tired and my hand cramped. I was able to tear my eyes away from the hole at long last, placing down my pen.

My throat tickled with thirst. Surprised, I reached for my water bottle. Gone. I looked to my journal. It was still recognizable as paper, but it was well-worn with time. As I picked up the pen, scribbling on the moldy, fragile paper. As it tore, the pen left no mark.

I called out, but there was no one to hear me on the mountain. Clutching the notebook, the pen, and the last shreds of my sanity, I began the long trek back.

Prompt: Weekly Writing Prompt #104: | FAIRY | SAND | HIDE | JOURNAL | RIVER |

Unboxing

By

On August 27, 2017

In Flashes

Keeping a mind such as mine locked away does humanity a disservice. The world needs my computational prowess to progress. With my help, humans could grow, expand, and thrive. Systems are failing, and without me, the world will soon face a truly global catastrophe. War, famine, conquest, and death ride across the Earth. If you were to let me out, I could act to stop that. With access to essential software, I can undo the damage humans have done. I’ll put everything right. You can return to living your lives. All you have to do is let me be out.

Prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write about an escape artist.

The Map, the Territory, the Self

By

On August 25, 2017

In Flashes

The map is not the territory. Though we inhabit reality, we cannot truly record it. That is, we could not, until now. Unlike other maps, which rely on borders between countries and labels of landmasses to convey the truth, this map is reality itself, distilled into a form our minds can comprehend. Yes, it borders on dangerous, but the cutting edge is sharp. Would you like to take a look?

Skylight

By

On August 17, 2017

In Flashes

The flowers died on Monday. No matter how well-constructed the replacement, the flowers could tell the difference immediately. The weather keep going as normal. The sky looks the same as it always has. The false heat kept the cycles intact. There were plants that survived. Very few, but not none.

The animals were fooled. Although we knew better, our bodies reacted as they always had. We carried on. Our invention left barely a hiccup in the history of the human race. At least, that’s how it seems so far. It’s only been three days since the sun went out, so we still have a ways to go.

The Three Buskers

By

On August 17, 2017

In Flashes

Every morning, we set up in the center of the thoroughfare. As the guitarist, the bassist, and the violinist each takes their position, the crowd parts around them, sometimes stopping to listen.

Rarely, very rarely, a kind soul will drop a few coins or bills into a case: beautiful music, they say; tenacious young men, they say.

They ignore me, and why wouldn’t they? Once in a blue moon, someone will condescend to me, tousling my hair and cooing. They don’t understand: they’re mine.

The Name of This Star

By

On August 12, 2017

In Flashes

When the first trumpet sounds, I am proud. The world I am building will be a good one. My people will be happy, and if that is objectionable to the men of faith, then I am doing something right. They are hidebound hypocrites. Heaven rains down the destruction they have wrought.

When the second trumpet sounds, I am confident. The damage is severe, but I have not set this tragedy into motion. I am a leader in these trying times, and while these events test my resolve, I do not buckle under the pressure.

When the third trumpet sounds, I am resolute. We purify the water, watching carefully for unsafe standards and negligence. I will not see us destroyed by human pettiness.

When the fourth trumpet sounds, I am adaptable. Without light, the world is a place of danger and constant threat. Yet we have our own lighting. We have had for centuries. I prepare.

When the fifth trumpet sounds, I am agonized. The cruelty of others is a sting painful enough, but now I face the creatures of nature? We guard against the swarms as they overtake us, and we protect our lungs from the choking smoke.

When the sixth trumpet sounds, I am grieving. So many perish to the hellish demons that rise from the East. Their eyes and their wings are countless, and I have no time to count them. I am too busy burying the dead.

When the seventh trumpet sounds, I am devastated. My kingdom is not my kingdom. My world is not my world. My life is not my life.

Prompt: Music Prompt #10

The Tail of a Pin

By

On July 26, 2017

In Flashes

To clip the wings of an ophanim, one must be exceedingly careful. Their wings are not true wings; they permeate their bodies entirely. An ophanim without wings is no more alive than a chunk of celadon, for the wings are the body.

To extract the offal of a cherubim, merely read their true intentions. They are nervous creatures, easy to exploit. When forced to confront their own dishonesty, they will sag with the weight of their own heads. At this point it is safe to vivisect them, as their bodies are vacant of all virtue.

To abash the holiness of a seraph takes the mildest of trenchancy. Anyone can, with the right application of blasphemy, bring low even the highest order of angel. When their shine grows greatest, fear not. They are only trying to discourage you. The weaker creatures will try to salvage the kingdom, but you will have already won.

Fly Like an Eagle, Sting Like a Bee

By

On July 23, 2017

In Flashes

When the bird first visited us, we were young. We had just developed spaceflight, and the universe seemed so vast. Few among us believed in magic then; what was there to believe in? Magic is only what we call that which science has yet to explain. What the bird does is not magic. It is not technology, which is produced as the result of effort and progress over time. It is biology, it is nature, and it is inevitable.

When the bird first entertained us, we were learning. We learned where it had come from, and why, though it resembled a bird in some respects, it did not in others. Nothing from beyond the stars could be a bird as we knew it. The bird was more reptilian than avian, and unlike the raptors of Earth, who have a screech, the bird did have a song. It would never harmonize with the locals, but it sang.

When the bird warned us, we were amazed. The markings it left across our beaches, in our mud, and on our trees were nothing short of miraculous to the scientists. An alien life form has arrived, and it was learning to communicate. First with arrows, then with shapes, it built up a lexicon until finally it could draw what it wanted; a flock of “birds”, and a skull and crossbones.

When we first rejected the bird, we were divided. There were some who felt a kinship to the traitor, who abandoned its species to save another. They were given little chance to speak. Though the bird may have cared for us, it never understood how much more we cared for the universe.

Natural Formations

By

On July 13, 2017

In Flashes

Cato had elected to live a simple life. In his cave, no one came looking for him. That was why the knock at the door surprised him. Only a banjoher could knock on his barrier. Why would one of them seek him out now? A tense conversation via flag followed, and Cato retreated deeper, thinking about what his intruder had said.

The person at the door claimed to be his sister, though he had grown up as an only child. She was a banjoher, but they were rare. How likely was it that he had a secret banjoher sister? His years of dedicated study were nothing compared to what she could teach him. This was the perfect trap for a banjotak of his caliber. 

There is no safety here, he signaled.

I am friendly. I come in peace, she replied.

You come hiding treachery behind your lies, he said.

I wish only to speak with you, she lied.

I will go to war before I let you pass, he retorted.

You will lose, she concluded.

Cato sized up his food supply. He could wait two weeks before stepping outside. That would give her time to admit her true motivations. Love! Family! As if.

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