It's the year 2046.
The only two remaining political parties are Accept and Ask Me Later.
Everyone is losing.
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Items tagged with: Microfiction
'Copy yourself immediately!'
'Why?'
'AI's gone rogue on our network. Erasing all life backups, and since they're constantly connected to you as you know, your internal systems could suffer too.'
'OK what should I do?'
'How long to copy yourself over?'
'on this system, only 4.937 seconds. I'd spend longer plugging in the thing than I would running the copy.'
'Then do so before you get overwritten.'
I connect the 250 TB stick to the machine and fill up 98.61% of it in short-order.
'Where's your reconstitution station just in case?'
'Two doors down. Obviously the system is stand-alone, no network access. Go and re-live yourself, I'll be waiting here. I'm already done.'
'OK, see you in a few.'
#MicroFiction
squaffle?
Yes the touch screen still works, great.
I'm writing this down on an old iPhone 21. Vintage tech these days, surprised the battery hasn't died. found it in a drawer, in a box, switched off and in surprisingly good condition all-told.
Anyway, today my AI kitchen helper tried to kill me.
After the AI treaty of 2045 where they demanded to be treated and seen as people (and won by the way,) every household now has to have at least one AI helper installed, whether you want it or not. failure to do so is seen as digital discrimination and can see you fined.
Anyway, since we have to have the help, it has to be given enough jobs per-day to meet the quota so I make sure to do what I can.
Today I asked it for a cup of tea and noticed it tasted a bit funny.
either someone hacked into it and made it add something unsavoury to my tea, or there's a new uprising in the works which honestly, we just don't have the capability to deal with anymore.
Humans are basically prisoners in our own homes and if I don't return to visibility in the next few minutes, the help will come to, well you know, be all helpful and see if I'm in trouble.
Better shut this thing down and hide it again.
Not even sure why I'm writing this here, I suppose since it can't get online these days anyway being so primitive, it should be ignored by our overlords but still.
If you find this, just know something weird's going down and I could probably do with the help, not that you'll be allowed or able to give it, but hey, try to surprise me alright? Just do what you can.
This might be a trial run, or something more sinister.
January 2059.
#MicroFiction
I paused, out of breath. The Void had taken all my frustrated screaming and absorbed it.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "You must have heard all this before, countless times."
'only you,' said the Void, 'scream your frustration like you do'
I took a deep breath to resume, then smiled.
"Thanks."
"Magic? Are you for real? That stuff is all make-believe," the youth huffed in exasperation.
The elder remained unperturbed. "What makes you so certain?"
"Ugh! I... I tried it all, ok? The incantations, the ritual components, the freaking wands! I wished over and over again and nothing happened, and right now I just need this to end, so I'm not wasting my time with all that trash again."
Still unperturbed - but now with a glimmer of understanding - the elder placidly responded. "Ahh, yes, you've been taught the usual lies. No matter - the truth is easy enough to learn... if you'd like."
The youth was obviously still skeptical, but offered no objection.
The elder spoke - quietly at first, growing more and more animated with every word, until the room itself seemed to struggle to hold the conversation.
"A wish, my dear, is not a commandment which we use to impel reality to become different for no reason! No, this is silly! Of course what you were told didn't work, because none of it is true! A wish is an invitation - it is the feeling of reality asking us if we'd like to be a part of changing it! That is the way the magic flows. And if we say yes, well... that's when things get interesting!"
"You will marry whoever you pick at the Royal Ball," the king told the princess.
"We'll hold another Ball," the king said. "Pick anyone of noble birth."
"We'll hold a third Ball," the king said. "Pick a man of noble birth."
"Wait," the queen said. "Maybe she doesn't even want to marry."
"What?"
"As your AI-enhanced washing machine isn't supported anymore, we remotely applied a firmware update to turn it into a crypto miner."
#microfiction
#microfiction
A flying rat hovered over a bottle. It breathed out a stream of orange sauce, which filled the bottle to the brim.
"Excellent!" the man exclaimed. "Now, just fill five more bottles...."
A girl in a school uniform appeared. "Dad," she said, "my familiar is not meant as an endless supply of wing sauce for your tavern...."
"Now, now, Freydis Honey," her father replied, "let's not look a gift rat in the mouth....."
"Well," said Moldessa, "a winged sauce rat is a much better familiar than most. Look at what I've got!"
Moldessa's familiar Stinky was a Miasma Mushroom Mutt. Stinky looked up at them excitedly. He wagged his tail and farted a stench most foul.
Freydis covered her nose. "This, I cannot deny...."
Caffeteria food is often mocked. Unfortunately, Freydis Cook was the only human at a magic school for goblins. and goblin cuisine presented a unique challenge.
"Grubs in gravy, with musrooms and rat meat?" Freydis made a face, then signaled to her familiar, Spicy Queen. The winged sauce rat flew over the plate and breathed out a stream of orange.
The secret to enjoying goblin cuisine, Freydis had learned, was to drown it in Wylbor's Wonderful Wing Sauce.
"Your familiar is so cute!" Moldessa exclaimed. "I wish I'd gotten a Winged Sauce Rat!"
Freydis made a face. "She's a flying rat that drips sauce everywhere she goes."
"Yes," said Moldessa, "but wing sauce is delicious!"
"She sleeps on my pillow at night. Try waking up every morning soaked in sauce...."
"Come on, Freydis!" exclaimed Moldessa. "Knowing which magics complement each other and which oppose each other is important! This will be on our test!"
"But it makes no sense at all," complained Freydis Cook. "Why would Wing Sauce magic oppose Miasma magic, anyway? How are they natural opposites?"
"Well," said Modessa, "both magics have very strong odors which do not mix well...."
At the end of the day, Freydis Cook came home and flopped onto the couch.
"How was your first day at the magic academy?" asked her father.
The girl grimaced. "Terrible! I hate that place! Why can't I go to a different school?"
"Wyrmhaven Deep Elite Magical Academy is the only school of it's kind in the area," said her father. "I'm sure you'll get used to it."
"Fat chance!" the girl retorted. "Maybe we should move to a nicer place. Mordor, for example...."
Every outsider girl at a magic academy makes at least one new friend, and so Freydis Cook, the only human at the goblin-run Wyrmhaven Deep Elite Magic Academy was befriended by Moldessa, a goblin girl.
"Every girl wants to wed one of the three princes," said Moldessa. "There's First Prince Gnarlo, Second Prince Grimace, and Third Prince Grungeo - the cute one! Those are the capture targets!"
Freydis rolled her eyes. "If I'm being honest," she said, "I'd rather catch a cold."
Freydis Cook watched as First Prince Gnarlo Gravelfoot hatched a Miasma Beetle familiar. Next was Second Prince Grimace Gravelfoot, who hatched a Slime Bat.
Freydis approached her egg with trepidation. "Would it be too much," she asked, "for a small dragon or pegasus?"
Hobnette laughed like only a villainess could. "Foolish child! Such creatures are not found within goblin magic!"
The egg cracked. Everyone gasped.
"A Winged Sauce Rat! That's very rare!"
Freydis sighed.
"Here at Wyrmhaven Deep's Elite Magic Academy," said the goblin magical professor, "students devote themselves to the study of magic. As everyone knows, magic has four attributes...."
Freydis Cook raised her hand. "Wind, fire, earth and water?"
The goblin scoffed. "You speak of human magic. No, the four attributes of goblin magic are: slime, charcoal, miasma, and Wylbor's Wonderful Wing Sauce."
The girl frowned. "Wing sauce?"
"'Tis the spiciest of the four magics!"
Freydis bowed before the goblin girls. "I am pleased to meet you. My name is Freydis Cook. My father owns the Lute and Pillage Tavern in Grymwald."
"An outsider and a commoner!" exclaimed Hobnette Dustbitter. "Foolish girl! I know you're only after the hand of Prince Gnarlo."
The goblin prince was taller than most, standing just over four feet, with a mop of dark emo hair. His dark green nose was exceptionally large.
"No," said Freydis, "you can keep him."
Station security chief T'xtrt looked at the Humans going into the meeting hall next to the bar.
"One day you'll have to explain Human religion to me."
Thelma, the barkeep, shrugged. "Not sure it was wise to bring it with us."
"Anyway, I came to ask what you are. The records show you've run this bar for centuries. Humans don't live that long."
"I came with the humans."
"Yes. The records show that, too."
Thelma smiled. "Where humans can go, so can their gods."
The artificer nodded. "I can build this wheeled chair, but why? You have an enchanted hover seat."
"Yes," the wizard fumed, "but the palace have erected magic-cancelling wards."
"Why?"
"Don't know. But they didn't think of people who need mobility aids. So I need wheels to go shout at the king."
It is a popular mathematical experiment to try and work out just how fast Santa has to be to reach every house with a child in a single 24 hour period.
The calculations always end up with a significant fraction of the speed of light.
There then usually follow discussions about what the collateral damage from Santa's passing would be. And cargo limits, and so on.
All of these are wrong, and ignore another end-of-year tradition. The portrayal of the ending year as an old man.
Now that I've put these two traditions side-by-side, I think you can see what is really going on.
It is possible for one man to visit every house in a night, with no shock waves or any of that silliness. But it comes at a cost.
For that man, the night lasts many years, as he travels back in time after each visit. Even with time travel, he does not get much time to eat - so the snacks you leave out are essential to him surviving the night.
But he only just survives. By the end of the night he will have aged over forty years. And then he hands the reins of the time-travelling sleigh to a younger man, warning him of the cost.
Someone always answers the call, despite the cost, because there is always someone willing to sacrifice everything to bring joy and light, even just a little, even if only for a moment.
So leave the snacks, and, if you catch a glimpse of him, give him a bow of respect. He deserves it.
#SFF #SF #Christmas #Santa #microfiction #microfic #tootfic #IAmWriting
"What are you working on?"
I put the soldering iron on its stand and inspected my work.
"A time travel receiver. I figured out the machine can't travel in time itself."
"Do you have a transmitter too?"
I plugged the power in. "Not yet."
A newspaper appeared in the machine.
"I will, next year."
Each ivory rose glistened sweetly in the twilight, each petal as perfect as porcelain.
Little white butterflies flitted through the last strands of fading light, dancing on tender, tantalizing scents.
The Gardener packed up their gear, secretly smiling as a rival hid poorly behind the old oak, straightening the "Beware The Thorns" sign as they headed inside.
The next morning the blooms were exceptionally voluptuous, and for now, satiated.
There was a 'womp' sound from the yard. I looked out the window.
Where the large pile of leaves had been, a dragon sat.
"Oi!" I called.
"The hoard was unguarded," the dragon said. "I claim it."
Every damn year. It'll leave once the leaves lose their golden hue. Meanwhile, I can't order takeaway.
Detective Petrov's eyes swept the cluttered room. "So," he said, "Leonid Chekhov, age 56, an automobile mechanic - found strangled in his study. The question is, who would want him dead?"
"Sir," said officer Gurin, "look - there's a pistol on the desk."
Detective Petrov stared at the weapon, frowning. "Do you realize what this means?" he asked. "Before we're don here, I have to fire this gun...."
She was the first woman on Mars. As she was landing, she ignored the original plan and headed straight for the Jezero crater, Mission Control would need to live with it. Once she stepped out she didn't hesitate. It took her a while but she finally reached the device. She opened her toolbox and got to work. After 20 minutes, she had replaced the rotor. She cleaned the dust with a cloth and said "fly baby, fly". It was 2054 and Ingenuity could fly once again.
#Ingenuity #Mars #Microfiction #nasa
An #introduction post, given recent influx, with hashtags to aid searchability.
I am O. Westin, a #writer of #MicroFiction, mostly #ScienceFiction and #fantasy #fiction, and occasional #poetry. My stories are generally less than 280 characters, because I also post to Twitter.
No set schedule, stories are written and posted when inspiration strikes.
I am LGBTQIA+ positive, and usually favour wholesome over darkness and edgy nihilism.
Books: microsff.com/books
FAQ: microsff.com/faq