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...."
The space elevator project was funded by the world's billionaires, who were offered exclusive luxury tickets on the first ride up into space.
After the launch, the project announced a second funding round, to start looking into the feasibility and advisability of installing a "down" button.
“Time travel ruins everything. There can be no narrative tension if the protagonists can just go back and alter past events. Once a fictional milieu uses time travel even once, it is dead to me”
“All right. What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to go back and kill ol’ Herb’s grandpa before he ever has any children!”
The doorbell rang. The FedEx girl handed me a box. Inside the box was a dented and stained cardboard carton. Inside that a wooden cigar box. Inside that an envelope. Inside, a handwritten letter. “My Dear Alice, I hope this message finds you well. I have successfully averted the conception of H. G. Wells (you won’t recognize the name, but an author of note in some circumstances). Alas my means of return has ceased to exist. Please arrange publication of the attached manuscript, which I hope will restore my ability to travel home.”.
“What’s all that?”, my spouse asked.
“Nothing, love, just some kind of weird Nigerian Letter scam”
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
