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@oneto1000
TEMPORARY META POST
Hello! I'm having some computer trouble at the moment that may see a delay in getting stories up on here. The iPad Tumblr app is generally a kind of unimaginable awful for anything other than plain text, but if the issue persists I'll do my best to use this crumbly piece of software to get my wee tales posted. Your readership and patience is very much appreciated. Yours sporadically, Sam.
ONE-HUNDRED and THIRTY-TWO
“It was a joke,” she said, trying not to laugh.
“A not particularly funny one, Sarah! For god’s sake, you always go one step over the bloody line, don’t you?”
Sarah composed her face as much as she could – a slight smirk remained – and set a mug in front of Art.
“Listen, Artie. I didn’t mean anything by it, and there’s no harm done, right?”
Art huffed, but eyed the tea. “It’s just that it’s the latest in a long line of…”
“Yes, yes, alright, maybe I have been joshing you a bit much. Can you blame me, though?” Her composure started to break once more, “You do get so–” she caught a glimpse of his scowl, and broke down completely into laughter.
Art slapped the arm of his chair. “SARAH!”
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ONE-HUNDRED and THIRTY-ONE
It’s only when that day comes that you realise the merit of the cliché. “Live every day like it’s your last day on Earth” sounds trite until you’re actually looking down the barrel of that last 24-hour stretch, and you start to wish you’d followed the old adage a little closer.
Not that I wouldn’t have more days, though elsewhere, but I walked about in a sort of fog, my senses dulling themselves as they were overwhelmed with clamours for attention from every single thing I’d never experience again.
Music, books, films – these became bland. I’d know them well enough. The wafting smell of curry, though, and traffic jams, and leaves crunching underfoot, and...
I stared up at the rocket as the sun rose. My last day on Earth was up.
ONE-HUNDRED and THIRTY
"Germans on the beach, Germans on the beach, ey-oh m'daddy-oh Germans on the beach!" I mean, I think that's what they were singing. God knows at gone four A.M. when the lager's been free-flowing for more than fifteen hours, and the warm streets are filled with raucous tourists waiting for the rising sun to put them to bed with a stern glance and an exasperated sigh at the state they’d left the city below.
The sun had a certain proprietorship over this particular city. It shone 363 days out of the year – the water table kept fresh by a sodden hill-country upstream that waylaid the rainclouds – and each day the tourists were out on the beaches in force, baking like inebriated crabs.
But for now, they simply kept me awake.
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ONE-HUNDRED and TWENTY-NINE
As the last grain of salt fell into the bowl below, bells began to ring all across the island. Gumsa looked up at the salt-clock, set down her pen, and stood to refill the upper reservoir.
She stopped with her hand on the lower bowl.
“I see,” she said. “So, do I have a way out of this?”
She heard, barely, a shift of cloth across the room.
"No."
“I’m mid-sentence, may I perhaps finish what I’m… no, don’t answer. I’m sure I wouldn’t afford you the chance, were we reversed.”
No answer.
“Who’s killing me, then? Lodu? Fenta? Yas?”
"I cannot say."
“Come! I’ll be dead in moments. Might I have this small satisfaction?”
Another shift of cloth. "Yaben the Old."
“Ah! That is indeed a final heartbre-”
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ONE-HUNDRED and TWENTY-EIGHT
The way the air rippled, you might think the ballroom was underwater, the dancers drowned and made animate by chance currents that lent grace and form to waterlogged corpses… but the rippling was an effect of the psycho-ontological drugs most of the room was on, as n-dimensional chemicals warped both minds and the reality around them.
On occasion, it would rain gold - or lightnings would fork betwixt dancers - or clothes would vanish, reappearing minutes later in different styles and colours, leaving the lucky victim blushing and exhilarated.
Through these semblances and apparitions walked Chero, eyes blindfolded, wrists bound. Even the most intoxicated cleared a path to the centre of the room.
A space cleared. Chero’s hands held a knife.
The dancers danced on as Chero bled.
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ONE-HUNDRED and TWENTY-SEVEN
Miles of road behind, I stopped for a drink.
I leant on the bar, winced as I heard my back creak. The barkeep finished up serving one of the others in the public bar, and ambled over, gait lazy.
“A pint of something cold, please. And a bowl of something hot.”
He nodded. “Stew’s on, it’ll be a moment or two. Basement cider should be frosty, if you’re OK with waiting for that as well.”
“It’s been a long day, friend. No problem with waiting.”
So, I took a seat, and I waited.
A new patron entered the inn, road-stained as I was, and sat opposite me.
“Tsavo,” she said, “You done walking yet?”
“Never, Ngutuni. Are you still riding?”
She smiled. “Always, Tsavo,” she said. “Always.”
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ONE-HUNDRED and TWENTY-SIX
"Horace?"
"Come in, sir."
The captain stepped into Horace's quarters, returned his salute. "Well, Horace, what's about? Why didn't you want to meet in your office?" Horace sighed. "Too many personnel down there, sir. Trying to keep this quiet. You might want to sit down, sir." The captain took the Cabin's only seat, opposite Horace on the bed. "It's bad, sir. Uh, how are the engine repairs coming?" The captain blinked. "Slowly, Horace. We're still four months out from dock at best estimate. Why?" Horace rubbed the back of his neck. "Supplies, sir. Protein and starch are fine, but..." The captain leaned forward in the chair. "...but, sir, we're all out of sweeteners. From honey to synthetic." The captain frowned. "Oh, sh-" "No sugar, sir. Indeed."
(Thanks to friend and 1-1k contributor Aaron for the prompt for this - “we’re out of sugar.”)
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ONE-HUNDRED and TWENTY-FIVE
Would you believe that, after all she said, I still went back? I’d have swallowed my pride if I had any, but I let slip the last shredded rags of dignity and bought a bus ticket. The journey was cross-country, a long old haul, and boring - I saw more fields on that day than in my life before it, and the main source of thrills was occasionally spotting a cow or a sheep a little way off the road. I didn't pack food… boy, my follies back then would take a while to list. So, I got off the bus and walked to hers. Knocked on the door – I had a key, but, y’know. Barging in seemed like a bad idea. “Oh,” she said.
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ONE-HUNDRED and TWENTY-FOUR
The hillside was vibrant with flowers. She stood atop the mount, hair streaming in the wind while her shirtsleeves and trousers rippled. She was visible for miles, the hill being the only height among this prairie – a burial mound by some accounts, it steamed on warm days. The rider pulled his horse up short, eye caught by what he first took as a pyre – the sun lighting her hair and the wind making it dance. His hand rested on his sword-hilt by pure habit, his heart raced from the pace he’d just been making. The vibrancy of the flowers was lost on him, so striking was she.
She saw him too, a rare dark blot on the gold-brown grassland. She smiled.
He rode on. Archive  -  About  -  Submit
ONE-HUNDRED and TWENTY-THREE
We delved down into darkness. And there in the dark we found that long-forgotten Church, whose stones were laid by our distant forbears. We cracked open those ancient doors, spilling out a staleness that choked thhe air. Men fell around us in droves. Most of usTHEM died in that moment. We who still stood kknneewwknew? our holiness saved us. Our dedication t?o the Church. ??? We crost the thrshld and fivefourfivesixthreesevenfour more died. Threethreethree left now we werenotforlong. THE Alttttttttr held a nife. An ife. Anife. Sharp. Rusted. Bone-handeled. Hands quaked helpstopnothoughts. Murdererererer. I grasp nif kni kinf blade. One man lieslays downadownadown I stab him. One last man resitsts. I kill him. I’m left. Write this. Help. All dead. Amdeath. Am coming.
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ONE-HUNDRED and TWENTY-TWO
I heard the groans before I saw the crowd. Supine and prone, scattered across the Great Hall, clothes and hair dishevelled, limbs splayed. I felt faint at the sight, and, judging from the pale haggardness of the Junior Medic, he did too.
“Do we know anything, JM?”
Head shake. “N-no, sir Medic. We arrived a quarter hour after their collapse, and these last hours have seen no change. Th-the labs?”
I sighed. “Not a thing in blood or tissue. Where’s the chap you moved?”
I followed the JM into a side room, where lay a man, front caked in blood.
“The b-b-blood came as soon as we left the building. M-mouth, eyes, everywhere.”
“Right,” I said. “Get coffee. This’ll be a haul.”
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ONE-HUNDRED and TWENTY-ONE
I sat in my chair on the viewdeck of Magister Orion III. It was empty bar me and a lone fax-servant. I barely noticed as it came over and collected my empty glass, so engrossed was I in the sight before me – a planet, burning up in its own loosed internal fires. There was a split in the surface, tens of thousands of miles long, a split that visibly widened and lengthened even as I watched.
I called the fax. over.
“Lud?”
“How many are down there? How many dying?”
It considered. “Four-hundred millions, lud.”
“Is that all? How many we could save?”
A pause. “50 millions.”
I dismissed the fax., leaned back in my chair, and watched a world die
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ONE-HUNDRED and TWENTY
We landed on the narrow beach below the cliffs at Jobi Pointe, scaled them and killed the lighthouse keeper, his wives, and his flock. The mutton we carried southwest along the coast, roasting some when we camped at The Old Wall a day later. The ruins loomed over us, throwing further shade over shadowy hearts and minds. Next day, we followed the Wall in its meander – the locals kept away, and we were unseen. Once more we rested, ate well of mutton below ancient, broken stone at The Old Wall’s southernmost end. Then, we made pace, three hours of driven travel. We came upon Bingo Bay at noon. They watched our island across the sea. They never saw us coming.
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ONE-HUNDRED and NINETEEN
Clouds roll against the horizon, stark against the sere majesty of the sea. Lightning flickers, and casts a fitful glow across the tower made of droplets of moisture and sky. Below, the water roils, dancing and shaking; a waltz to an unseen orchestra. It roils, dancing to some unseen conductor; an unchained spirit let loose upon the waves. The shadows loom long, casting darkness across the unseen miles. The beauty of green against blue against grey; the Breton glasz. Above, I watch securely at a vast distance, through the far porthole; it turns beneath me, constant, eternal, precious; the Earth turns to some distant, ineffable rhythm; dancing to a unique, complicated, breathtakingly beautiful rhythm. I exhale. The Earth turns. This is a guest story, written by Paul Gifford! Paul would describe himself as “essentially that drunken fellow who enjoys telling stories in the pub.” You can find a few of these tales by way of the podcast @drinkthispod, while for more personal ramblings head to @igorzarubo. He fills his days curating a small community archive, but still likes to think he's occasionally entertaining. Archive  -  About  -  Submit
ONE-HUNDRED and EIGHTEEN
I couldn’t see through the haze, and nor could I tell if it was present in the room or just over my eyes, or in my own head.
“Bostwick?”
I winced, said, “What?”
“Bostwick, is he dead?”
I groaned, felt it reverberate in a broken tooth on my right side, winced again.
“Oh, god, of course he is,” I said.
“That’s…” the speaker hesitated, “unfortunate. You’ll have to go back again.”
“Oh geez…”
“Listen, you keep fucking up, that’s not my fault.”
“It’s not mine, either! This whole damn thing is impossible.”
“The histories say otherwise. You do succeed, Elliot.”
I sighed. There was a sickly truth to his words.
“Send me back… ten minutes earlier, this time.”
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ONE-HUNDRED and SEVENTEEN
“That’s the document?” I shook my head. “No, this is the summary of the release you’ll need to sign to be officially told the document exists.” She frowned. “Listen, I’ve explicit permission from the Chancellor of–” I waved a hand, silencing her. “I have Chancery orders to safeguard the realm. Don’t namedrop to circumvent protocol, major.” “Protocol? That’s what you call it? I call it stalling and obstruction.” I sighed. “Just… read the summary, major.” She flipped through the handful of pages. “I can’t think about the document off-site? What on earth?” I shrugged. “Those are the terms, major. It’s your choice to accept them or not.” She frowned again. Scowled. Sighed. “Bring me the release.”
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