"Space Travel" -- Incomplete SF Flash Fiction

Incomplete flash fiction. August 2010.

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Water. Water is vital to everything in life. Air is vital. Food and shelter are vital. Love and companionship are vital.

Space is harsh. Traveling through it, doubly so. It is cold below decks, where the “economy” travelers are sequestered. Families sit huddled in every layer of clothing they can squeeze into, swathed in blankets if they are fortunate enough to posses one, and – for the very lucky few – huddled around the scant heaters which cycle in the barest dregs of warm air from the decks above. Food and water rations are as scant as the warm air, as likely spoiled or bug-infested as not – stale and tasteless, and likely made up of nutritionless fillers, which serve to sate the belly if not the body. We have heard that luxury liners serve the finest champagnes and rarest cuts of beef, clean water… even real chocolate. This was hardly a luxury liner. The richest travelers aboard might get an extra ration per day, a slightly warmer deck.

Most of the room on the ship was preserved for cargo space, and since the cargo was worth more to the captain than the lives of his passengers, even the cargo had better environmental controls than the people. If a person died, well the ship had already made its money from them. If the cargo were ruined, it’d fetch nothing at port.

I was one of the unlucky ones traveling alone. I had no family to huddle with, to share body heat. I had been forced to find space near the hull, the coldest part of the deck, where heat slowly bled away through the metal bulkheads. I sat, knees pressed as closely to my chest as possible, breath misting from beneath the tattered blanket draped over my body and hooding my head.

(August 23, 2010)

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"First Snow" -- Incomplete Flash Fiction

A bit of fantasy. Written December, 2010.

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The first snow of the season drifted quietly from the heavens and settled on the stone walkway in the sleepy late afternoon light. Men and women in coats and cloaks bustled through the streets, hurrying home from work or errands, dodging carriages pulled along by pairs of horses or the occasional high-wheeled cart towed by ox or mule, racing the lamp-lighters and the chill, eagerly towards home and warmth and food and family. Some slipped into inns or taverns, seeking a hot meal, a crackling fire, or the warmth of cheap wine or ale in their bellies. Women wrapped in silks or fine wool, trimmed with furs as often as not, glided along the shops with brown-wrapped, twine-bound packages tucked under their arms, laced, booted heels clicking and clacking on the paving stones; gentlemen in dark coats stepped aside, tipping their tall hats to the ladies, making their way from their places of daily employ, some headed for the gentlemen’s club for a pipe and lively conversation, others home to wife and children and supper.

All in all, it was a pleasant sort of evening. Katerine couldn’t have been more pleased to see the snow as she stepped out of the booksellers shop, pulling the door shut behind her and plunging the key into its’ lock with a satisfying clink. Honey colored curls peeked out from beneath a pale fur-trimmed cap, a matching cape settled just-so over her shoulders atop her neat, if plain, wool frock. She was grateful for the thick wool stockings and sturdy laced boots as she slipped into the throng, breath misting in front of her as she began picking her way home. Blue eyes twinkled in the lamp light and her pale cheeks began turning rosy in the chill air.

Once she turned from the main boulevard and began her trek along a somewhat less busy side-street, she lay back her head and stuck her tongue out into the chill air to catch a delicate snowflake with a girlish giggle. This time of year left her feeling that magic was afoot; from the twinkle of the stars overhead, the golden gleam of the lamplights lining her way, to the warm crush of bodies on the sidewalk and the welcoming mirth of voices in the nearby inn. And, of course, the silver glisten of softly falling snow. Soon, she’d wake one morning to find the city blanketed with the silky white powder; children would be squealing in delight, chasing each other with snowballs, sliding down embankments with make-shift sleds, tromping through knee-high snow banks heedless of the cold and the wet, caught up in the glee of a winter playground. She longed for her own childhood days and the hours of freedom that at the time seemed so short and fleeting; though, in truth, her spirit retained more of that childlike wonder than most her age.

She was pleased to note, as she climbed the steps to the boarding house, that someone had placed a cheery evergreen bough, wrapped securely in a wide, crimson ribbon, to the heavy front door. Smiling, she inhaled the piney scent as she pushed her way inside. Warmth and light and the sounds of girlish chatter welcomed her home as she peeled off her gloves, cape and cap, and stepped into the front sitting room.

(Dec. 01, 2010)

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Flash fiction - incomplete - 06/25/10

This is just a small piece I started working on this evening. Inspired by old memories of a never-finished story. Not much else to say.

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She swam in blackness. Time had ceased to exist here. She neither felt nor cared for its passing. Where time existed, pain awaited. She had no concrete memory of the pain, and she felt nothing in the blackness; yet she knew without doubt that the pain was there, beyond reach, waiting. If she moved outward, to whatever lay beyond the blackness, the pain would consume her. The blackness was safe.

Even so, she knew she could not hide the in black forever. Something awaited her, beyond. Something other than pain. Something that she had to do. Something important.

But how could she bear the pain? Would she even be able to do this important thing with that unspeakable pain bearing down upon her? How could she face it? She was only one small soul, hardly important in the grand scheme of things. Her small spark couldn’t matter. Yet, she knew there was something she was supposed to do. If only she knew what it was. She had no more memory of that thing than she had of the pain. She simply knew.

And so she let herself remain in the blackness, apart from time and memory, floating in the endless void of nothingness. It couldn’t last forever; she would have to face the pain eventually. If she did not, there would be worse than the pain; perhaps not for her, but for others. She was needed. But she had to steel herself, first. The pain loomed, on the periphery of her awareness. And she was afraid.

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