Short stories

Repatriated

/ Robert / 4 Comments

After eons on Mars, Aurelia was cast out because they challenged the persecution of the Transient by Orangan, the orange overlord. Essential for harvesting Sylph spores, the amorphic Transient beings were being systematically hunted down, frozen, and cryovaced by Orangan’s national guard.

Previously free to the subterranean dwelling Martian inhabitants, they now paid a premium to Orangan for Sylph; necessary for breathing Mars’ rapidly diminishing ether.

Following a short internment onboard prison propulsion ship, Pulsar, Aurelia silently meditated on their misfortune. Accepting the inevitable unknown, Aurelia was jettisoned into the velvety black void.

All was not lost, Aurelia’s form hardened as they gently tumbled through the Solar System, in awe of the surrounding celestial firmament. Time seemed to stand still as Aurelia contemplated the events leading up to their downfall, the uncertainty of the future, and forgiving the perpetrators of their demise.

An eternity passed as Aurelia’s DNA drew them into Earth’s atmosphere-once home to their ancient ancestors.

Rolling through the meagre air, Aurelia plunged into the over warmed ocean, enveloping the planet. Instantly their body gelatinises.

Descending into the murky microbial vortex, the pressure squeezes Aurelia, elongating them, tendrils break free, catapulted into the distance, to explode into a myriad of fragments, adding to the primordial gloop.

In a flash of elation, Aurelia’s core collapses into the welcoming embrace of the Titan, architect of the universe. Matter melding, consciousness transcending, and rebirth imminently assured.

ChatGPT suggested amusing backstory to accompany the doodle, below.

eet Glorpt the Absent-Minded Cosmic Squidlet, a creature who accidentally slipped through a wormhole while trying to remember where it left its snacks.

Glorpt was born in the Candy Nebula, a gelatinous region of outer space where everything—from the asteroids to the stars—has the texture of gummy bears. The squidlets there spend their days practicing interpretive floating, inventing new colours (like blorple and snorgreen), and forgetting what they were doing mid-glide.

One fateful day, Glorpt mistook a wormhole for a vending machine and—poof!—found itself splattered onto a strange blue-and-gold world (that’s Earth, apparently). Ever since, it’s been trying to blend in by posing as modern art. When people stare too long, Glorpt blinks slowly and pretends it’s a reflection on the glass.

Its bright pink and green camouflage was meant to imitate cosmic coral, but on Earth it mostly attracts curious humans and confused lizards. The single wide eye? That’s not for seeing—it’s for daydreaming about home and wondering if it ever really existed.

Locals say if you stare back into that eye for too long, you’ll forget what you were doing too—just like Glorpt.

Saturday night shenanigans

/ Robert / 4 Comments

I just entered my first ever Furious Fiction writing competition!

Garth arrived with, ‘how are you darlings?’ While lifting the wrong arm to release the overnight sleeping bag. ‘Smash’, white wine spread across the living room floor.

The elaborate soiree commenced without further incident, the remaining four guests were settled in the lounge, lit with white candles.

My husband busied himself with small talk and cocktails as I prepared the pork fillet with apples, calvados and a dash of cream. I was met with a cheer as an orange flash illuminated the adjoining rooms. Flames were sucked up through the cooker hood to lick the ceiling. This was by no means an intended flambé experience.

Cozily seated at the table, featuring blue candles, the ensemble savoured three courses plus cheese. Alcohol flowed freely, loosening tongues, spreading ruddy complexions. Afterwards, coffee and petit fours were served in the cool of the lounge.

The sharing of stories, jokes, and limericks was hushed by, ‘crash’, ‘bump’, ‘thud’, followed by loud voices, coming from upstairs.

A fresh-faced dark haired man of medium stature thumped down the stairs, closely followed by a petite pretty tousled blonde young woman. Unceasing in their endeavour, they charged through the gathering, opened the vestibule door followed by the front door, and rushed out into the midnight air.

An icy blast and the sight of the sparkling frost covered earth outside sent a collective shudder through the band of revellers.

‘Bang’, ‘bang’, taking two steps at a time, our semi-clad lodger, Lance hurtled downstairs. This hirsute alabaster skinned god stole the gaze of the room as he left in pursuit of the first two. The unsettling disturbance wound up the gaiety of the evening, guests departed and Garth bedded down on the sofa.

In the morning, Garth complained of meagre sleep due to the answering machine’s bleeping and a diatribe of messages. Lance appeared sporting a flesh wound on his forehead, dressed head to toe, in his customary black.

The shenanigans of the previous evening were revealed. Lance was asleep on his bed, he awoke to find the object of his affections canoodling with his brother on the floor. In a rage, Lance had punched the brother and pushed the fiancée across the room.

Upon exiting our humble abode, the fiancée had returned home. The brother had driven for two hours, to find his wife in bed with another man. The calls in the early hours were from the brother to Lance.

Lance asked if we had sunglasses he could borrow. He was going to the local church to discuss the wedding with his fiancée and the vicar. Lance was furnished with a discarded black pair from a petrol station. Upon reviewing his countenance in the dining room mirror, bearing in mind his life was in tatters, he said, ‘do these make my nose look big?’

The mark on his forehead? Lance had become entangled in a hawthorn bush while running through the fields.

Talk about baying at the moon!