It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone

She plodded towards the farmhouse, root over burned root.

Her stems tick-tocked in mourning for her lost brothers, sisters, and husbands. The silence that answered made her sap run slow and thick. They had been so many, so happy, before the animal and his flames.

How her poison sack swelled at the memory.

She would root beside the door and wait. She could wait so quietly. One way or another, the feud would end.

---

 

The prompt was unusual, and the theme pastoral.

“Unusual” made me think of the song from the title. If it’s not unusual to be loved, then it is unusual to not be loved by anyone, therefore I had to write about a triffid who had lost all of their loved ones. Classic logical progression. Oh yes.

Ordained in Darkness

At midnight, the ritual opened the way.

She recognised Christophe’s legs as he burrowed into the dark. Envy flared that she was last, but it would be found by spiritual strength, not brute searching.

She pushed in head first.

Pressure, squeezing. The walls alternately impeded and impelled. Breath snatched and lost. She released her sanity and tunnelled.

When the others emerged, born a second time, they found her crowned and triumphant.

---

 

Commentary:

The theme was night owls, genre: weird.

Not sure how well I hit that to be honest, or how much sense the story makes, cut down as it is. But that’s the game isn’t it? In my mind, this is mad cultists competing in an occult struggle to be crowned High Priest, and their enemies are about to Rue The Day.

Back Channels

The reception hall was light, airy. Most of the creatures there were partying, congratulating themselves after a hard fought negotiation that had left both galaxies better off. Most, except for two ambassadors that were huddled in a corner, trying to avoid the delegation from Sol.

“Oh you didn’t.”

“We did.”

“You just went and threatened Earth.”

“It seemed logical at the time. I mean, they love the place so much, but it’s only a planet.”

“I know exactly what you mean, it’s crazy how attached they are to the place. Do you want to know a secret? I probably shouldn’t tell you this but…”

“Go on.”

“They aren’t really a part of our alliance. We just leave them alone out there on their spiral arm to weed out extragalactic invasions from that quadrant. Means we can put our defences elsewhere. All the locals learned ages ago, but newcomers fall for the same trap every time; you can fight them, conquer colonies, obliterate navies, whatever you like. But point one planetkiller at Earth and they get-”

“They just got that look. In their freaky binocular eyes.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what did you do?”

“We had an amazing invasion force, backed by giant mechas.”

“Classic.”

“Really? We thought it was pretty special, the mechas were- but I suppose it doesn’t matter now. You know, they burnt a continent to get rid of us though. How many times can they do that, realistically?”

“You’d think that wouldn’t you? Have a look on your way past, they’ve probably rebuilt it already.”

“No thanks. If I have to see those smiles again…”

“Urgh, yeah. So creepy.”

“Don’t look so down ambassadors, negotiations finished, everyone wins. Have a drink!” The two froze as a species-appropriate liquid was plopped into the cybernetic augment or pseudopod of each one. The human smiled, mouth too full of teeth in between the bristles on its face, then left, calling out to another species.

Each ambassador said something untranslatable from their own language.

“Do you think he heard us?”

“I’ve no idea. Let’s never find out.”

---

HFY!

345 words

Panroachia

“I know you love my stories really.”

“I know you love rambling about the space rangers.”

“Okay. One time, we went to a planet that had too much water. By the time the inhabitants had industrialised they’d melted aaaaaall their ice and flooded everything. The only things left were huge floating plastic clumps, covered in cockroaches. Because-”

His grandsprout chorused the familiar last words.

“No matter how far you go, the roaches got there first.”

---

It Contains Multitudes – Scifi Gothic

Theodora fled through endless corridors. She glanced back, flickering plasma illuminated no pursuer. Had she escaped?

The robot burst through the bulkhead, its impossible strength demolishing the structure. It opened its arms.

“Oh my darling, come here,” it said, with a feminine voice.

“Mother?” They embraced. With an internal grinding noise the robot’s voice changed. Became cruel, masculine.

“Now you are mine.”

Theodora swooned over its shoulder. Then, unseen, slipped a spanner from her sleeve.

“Haunted robot, my foot. I’ll fix you.”

---

Can We Help?

“It’s art, Mum,” said Eric. “I thought you would understand.” He had all of the hurt a teenager could possess. “Maybe all your ‘patients’ are just creative.”

“This isn’t art.” She grabbed the pebble stack that had been hidden at the back of the bookshelf, ruining their careful balance. “It’s obsession.”

At work she took a new, unethical route. Instead of treatment she encouraged them. Gave them rocks of varying sizes, shapes and textures. She had to know what was happening to Eric.

The patients loved it. They were all, if they took a break, desperate to help with anything they could, especially cleaning. The ward sparkled.

“Can we help?” they asked. “Can we help?”

One, Pete, was so far gone that he had no time to help. She found herself spoon feeding him as he stacked, holding bottles of water to his lips so he would drink. He muttered a phrase, too low to hear, but the same shape every time.

“It’s not for you, it’s for the Earth.” He would say when asked. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t make out his words.

Eric found the solution. She’d been telling them all about the frustration of trying to listen to Pete. Eric looked up from his rocks. “Remember when I thought spies were cool?” That had been twelve months ago. “I have a spy microphone in my drawer. I’ll get it for you!”

She pinned the microphone to Pete’s shirt. He paid no attention. She listened to his mumbling on her phone.

“You’re dirty. Can we help?”

She repeated it. Pete stopped. He smiled at her with relief.

“You’ve heard it too.”

“It’s a message?” she asked.

“Yes. I hope the Earth listens. It should be clean.”

“Do you think it will reply?”

“Not where we can hear.”

---

First Contact Troubles

The ambassador was a mess of ichor and shattered exoskeleton.

“I treat humans,” the doctor stammered. “Could a vet-?”

“Until we break through that mob, you’re all we have. Now save him!”

“There’s no pulse, no breath. He’s gone.”

“Oh for-” the nurse pushed past. “He doesn’t have a heart, of course there’s no pulse.” She bandaged the worst wounds and began to pump insectile limbs. More fluid leaked, but then – a shuddering breath.

Pain Then Pleasure

“Oh,” said the man, delightedly. “Do you know, I’ve been at this all day and you’re the first to agree to my terms?” He shook Pete’s hand. Pete shrugged, he was up for experiencing some extremes.

“So,” said the little man, “one hour of the worst pain you can experience, followed by an hour of the greatest pleasure.” He led Pete to a bare room and sat him on the floor. He closed the door as the screaming started. It didn’t take long before even that stopped.

Two hours later he opened the door to stop the pleasure. The screaming returned.

---

 

101 words.

Procrastination, The Silent Killer.

I felt like an idiot. I’d been procrastinating all day, when my deadline was rushing towards me, all break lines cut.

The thing is, people ask “where do your ideas come from?” and other such inane questions. Any creative knows that ideas are just there for the taking. Similarly people expect inspiration, when what you need is a work ethic. I kept those truths close to my heart, which made my failure a little personal and painful.

My theory is we’re all afraid of failure. That’s why we allow ourselves to be distracted, it prevents us from making an attempt and failing. So when I spent a day immersed in computer games like I had concrete boots on it was just the scared part of my mind trying to keep me safe.

Luckily it didn’t take long. All I had to do was step away from the phone, away from the computer and open my mind to the kind of thinking that generates ideas. I looked around, breathed deeply and made sure to keep my focus general, nonspecific. Soon enough, I had it. Procrastination, that was what this one would be about. Perfect.

First I took the game I’d been playing and gifted it to Samuel Binford, the symmetry pleased me. He normally worked nights, from home, so he was asleep right now. A parked car, alarm blaring outside his window soon solved that. With a terrible sleep his executive function – the brain process that controls willpower – would be stuffed. Easy pickings when he discovered an anonymous game gift in his emails.

His gaming station was in a small, private room in his house. Usefully it had a small air vent to the outside. A cylinder of carbon monoxide through that and my deadline was met. Binford was no more.

An Erlking’s Daughter

Ernie hates storms. I thought it was the wind and rain, that Ernie wasn’t so bright, but now I know better.

The night I learned better was a big winter storm. I loved the sound of heavy rain hitting the roof, but that was Ernie’s trigger to start barking and pacing. I sent him to his bed. The whining was quieter at least, and I heard the shed door as wind ripped it open. I swore. I’d forgotten to close it and rain would rust all the machinery.

I threw on my jacket, thrust feet into boots and headed out. The wind hit me like a wave. There was an odd noise, but it was probably creaking trees so I pushed on to close the shed. When I’d latched and locked the door I heard the noise again. It was singing. Who’d be out singing in a night like this?

It was a woman. Hair loose and flying, dress soaked through from the rain, she stood on the edge of the light from my windows. Her song was adventure, power, lust, everything my farm wasn’t and I stepped forward. But then I heard frenzied barking from inside. Ernie was pressed against the window, teeth bared. I looked back to the woman and saw a thing instead – all wood and willow hair, with thick root feet and bramble claws.

I ran, but it was faster. Briars grabbed me and I fell, but Ernie was there, grabbing my shirt and hauling me in. The lucky horseshoe over the door fell, and sheared the bramble branches like an axe. There was an awful screech outside. I slammed the door.

The next day I burned the remaining twigs, though they scratched and clung to me. Ernie got steak, and can bark all he likes.

---

 

I saw the amazing Robert Hofmann singing The Erlking this weekend (backed by some wonderful musicians). It seems to have stuck. This was a tough one to get out on the page though.