Dolly squinted up, stolen from her busy holopad by the boisterous burst of blue-hued starlight. Her pupils adjusted. She caught her breath.
Her Comet-class space train, cantering along the networked velocity gates, weaved a shimmering silver thread through the dense asteroid cloud.
“…I’ll need celery for soup,” she remembered.
Ben Toovey is a Brit living in Germany, and a keen procrastinator.
“Is the temperature of your experimental tank okay?” the alien inquires.
“It’s fine,” I reply, words bubbling up through the strange pink liquid.
“Want to watch Twilight Zone re-runs while we test?”
“Have to ask,” he explains. “New regulations.”
I sigh, remembering that I work tomorrow.
“Just probe already.”
A sci-fi micro story written by Hargreaves called “Maybe Next Time” is forthcoming in Daily Science Fiction magazine.
The monitor flickered, headset summoning clamouring sirens into his existence. A ballet of banality ensued, each reaction scripted, monitored.
Then a hiatus, sandwiches wrapped in cellophane and instant coffee.
He once dreamed of being a writer.
Now he lurked in isolation, constructing reassuring mantras.
Dreaming of sandwiches wrapped in cellophane.
Image Ronin wrote this story.
I woke up at seven
My face already shaven
For breakfast coffee or tea
Ready to be me
Walking down the street
Nobody to meet
Doubtful like Hamlet
Hands in my pockets
How to be alone
Curiously I want to know
Now I’m getting home
To finish this sad show.
Virginio is an Italian student of English language. He likes writing stories in English and sometimes playing with rhymes.
“What are you making today, Geraldo?”
“My friend, I have many creations! Witness my self-baking bread, and these gingerbread men dance and sing! Marvelous, no?”
“Truly, but all I wish for are some buns to eat with my soup.”
“How sad,” said Geraldo, “that we live in such a world.”
This story is based on a title suggested by @Zutzy.