#microfiction
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"Listen," one guard said, "I know we have only just met-"
"No," the other guard said, "we've worked together for years!"
"-but you can trust me when I say-"
"I can't, you have the curse that's opposite from mine!"
"I don't care for you at all."
"Well, I… oh… I love you too."
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NO ONE WANTS TO WORK ANYMORE
#short fiction#short stories#microfiction#flash fiction#very short stories#vss#photography#art#fiction
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“Do I have to undress?”
“No,” says the clockmaker, taking the cigarette out of her mouth with spindle-jointed fingers. It’s hand-rolled - meticulously - and unlit. Noticing this feels like brushing against a joke you don't quite understand. “I can just do your wrists, your elbow. Touch up the patina on your fingers. But your hip needs work, too, and there's no getting around it for that.”
She gives you a slewed, undercalibrated smile, a little too much teeth, a face a doll shouldn't make. The wrong of it is comforting. “It's okay, daisy-bell. We're all girls here.” You get the joke this time.
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Squeak!
A doll that squeaks!
It squeaks when you hug it, when you pat it, when you say hello to it, when you call it down for dinner - at everything, it squeaks!
Today it doesn't squeak.
It looks a bit down, even - which is saying a lot, because it always seems so chipper.
So its witch picks it up and carries it with her! Brings it with her for the day! Shows it places it doesn't usually see!
It seems to brighten up a bit, even if it doesn't continue squeaking yet.
While its witch was hoping for a bit more, she's just happy it's feeling a little better
And she gives it a little hug!
And it gives a little squeak!
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reverse ship of theseus: flash-cloning implemented as a solution to the vast timespans associated with nearlight shipping. signing onto a freighter and surrendering your genome in the contract so that when your body grows old and decays, the onboard artificial wombs can grow another you to be put right back to work. when you finally reach your home port again you are quite literally not the person you were when you left.
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After the occupation, the princess was confined to the palace.
Once a month she'd be taken on a walk around the city, heavily guarded of course, to show the people that she still lived. It also served, of course, as a reminder of what they stood to lose if they made trouble. The princess did her best go wave and smile and give the people what encouragement she could.
The rest of the time, her life was spent in musty rooms and dusty towers. She filled most of her time scouring the castle for materials which she would sew into more and more elaborate outfits, which she would show off on the days when she was allowed outside.
Indeed, the public loved their princess and her dresses so much they'd often sketch or paint them along the route and pass the images on so that all could see the princess at least was well.
This pleased the occupiers for two reasons. First: it kept the princess out of trouble. Second: it gave them a reason to sneer and they did love a good sneer.
"What a vain creature she is!" They would remark.
"Doesn't even care we murdered her brothers so long as she gets enough satin to make her little dresses!" They squawked.
This was unfair, of course, for to call her creations "little dresses" was to call Queen Murderfun the Needlessly Genocidal "a tad piquey". Her dresses were gravity-defying wonders lace and pearl. They were thunderstorms captured in velvet and waterfalls summoned in silk. She was a wizard with silk.
Still, she bore their mockery with a tight smile and careful deference.
"Please, good sirs, my home, my people and my city now belong to you. Let me keep, at least, this one last joy."
And they sneered and they crowed most unpleasantly, but they let her keep her sewing room.
Of course, they would have known their mockery to be doubly unfair had they realised the true purpose of the princess's elaborate designs. For hidden in the intricate embroiderings across her gowns, jackets and fans, the princess had encoded secret (and very detailed) messages. When she would go on her monthly walk, the city's loyalists would line the route, sketching down the patterns to decode later.
Thus did the princess transmit all the occupiers' secrets (unearthed while supposedly 'searching the castle for old fabrics') to the city and thus did she build her resistance.
On the day the revolution finally came, she girded herself in armour of thick spider silk and whale bone. She cut a fine figure with a lacy handkerchief in her top pocket and a razor sharp knitting needle keeping her hair up.
As she waltzed through the castle to open the door for her army, the Usurper King tried to stop her and she simply unfolded her handkerchief and showed it to him.
Upon seeing the impossible arcane pattern emblazoned across it, he fell to the floor with blood streaming from his eyes.
She always had been a wizard with silk.
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Thank you for reading. If you'd like to support my writing, you can do so at https://ko-fi.com/strangelittlestories
#writing#microfiction#short story#flash fiction#wrote this a few years back and finally got round to posting here
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the pale mech pilot (chronically depressed tgirl) slumps out of its cockpit after a prolonged battle (playing borderlands 2 for 6 hours) at the orders of its handler [NO METAPHOR HERE] shocked from having its neural interface ripped out (taking off noise canceling headphones) it is quickly rewarded with just a pulse of neurostims, (a drink of water and a handful of chicharrones) legs slack against the ground as it struggles to remember how to operate outside of its titanic metal shell it calls a body (memory foam mattress)
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The trees lumbered across the field.
It was a weird thing to watch. When a tree settled to rest or sniff at an interesting crocus, she could almost believe that it had been rooted to the spot for years; then the huge body would raise up on spidery roots and trundle forward with stupid placidity to follow the herd. When they all had settled to rest in the morning light, it was like the field had been turned into a misty woodland in seconds.
A sapling bounded up to her and sniffed at her wrist before bounding off again, spindly roots kicking with delight.
"It's pretty simple work," said the farmer. "We let them out to get some fresh air and sunlight, check them for blight. Every so often we have to lay out some manure, but that's pretty much it."
She watched the sapling. It stumbled on its own limbs and limped into the shade of its mother.
"It's pretty similar to raising cattle," said the farmer. "We raise them up for a couple years, and when they get big enough we take them down to the slaughterhouse and have them butchered."
"Wouldn't you send them to a logging mill or something?"
"Nope."
A chickadee whirred through the air and lighted onto a branch.
"There's good money in it, too," said the farmer. "There's a lot of demand for certain cuts of tree meat."
"You mean wood?"
"Nope."
There was a blur of branches. The tree ate the chickadee.
#'if this is all building up to a tree farm joke i'm very impressed' she said#'no i think the writer is just feeling weird today' said the farmer#narrativia#short story#microfiction#worldbuilding#if it turns out they do the same bit in dungeon meshi i'm gonna be viscerally upset
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“I’m afraid it’s over, doctor. We’ve seen through your sinister plot.”
“It’s not a plot, you uneducated fool – it’s a scheme.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A plot is defined by political intrigue as a central feature, whereas a scheme is defined by its complexity. You can have a straightforward plot or an apolitical scheme, but not vice versa. This is a scheme.“
“I thought if it was complex it's a machination.”
“No, it’s a machination if it’s artful. I’ve never much cared for artfulness; for example, this conversation isn’t artful at all, yet it’s kept you occupied long enough for the next phase of my scheme to come into play – just as I’d planned!”
“Your scheme depended on me not knowing what a scheme is?”
“Wheels within wheels, old friend.”
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Ramona: Yeah, uh, Roxie and I are both trans women.
Scott: Oh! So that's how she's one of your "evil ex boyfriends" despite being a girl!
Roxie, six inches from slicing him to bits depending on what he says next: Oh?
Scott, oblivious: Not "ex ... boyfriend", but "ex-boy ... friend!"
Roxie: ... y'know, that's the funniest way I've ever heard any "cis" person describe it.
Scott: Oh, really? -- Wait, why was "cis" in quotes?
Ramona, as innocently as she can manage: What do you mean in quotes?
Roxie, ditto: Yeah, this is a verbal conversation.
Scott: Uhhh, never mind.
The catgirl speedrunner from the High Council of Trans Women who was ready to clip through the wall and deck Ramona or Roxie in the face if either of them tried to violate the Trans Prime Directive, like with the Vegan Police: (retreats)
#shenanigans#scott pilgrim#ramona flowers#roxie richter#trans scott pilgrim#trans ramona flowers#trans roxie richter#trans stuff#microfiction#my stuff#my writing#my fanfiction#rhoda pilgrim
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"I want," the man said to the art robot, and then described an image in some detail.
"Certainly," said the art robot. A printout came out of its chest.
"Thank y- Hey! What's this?"
"A list of artists who make images of the kind you describe, and who are accepting commissions."
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flight deck
you don't have to tell your handler that you're coming in messy after a bad mission. she's tied into flight ops. she knows.
she's waiting by the flight line before the grease monkeys have all your armor off, with a lubed glove on one hand and two fat purple pills in the other.
"ssshhh, pretty thing," she says. "you did your best out there. now open," she forces the pills to your mouth. "good girl. where's that water bottle… swallow. good."
her hand is already working between your legs, reinforcing her praise. they always detach the armor there first.
the pills help. the pills leave you feeling floaty, detached, enough to ignore what they've done to you to make the armor work. you probably can't climax without them by now, not that your handler would ever let you find out.
a few moments later, you spatter your built-up tension and guilt across the deck. with a sigh, you sink to your still-armored knees. your reflex weapons disarm, automatics finally allowed to take over from your own hair-trigger awareness. they're safe now. you're safe.
the grease monkeys are also safe, emerging from behind blast shields that would not have stopped any but the lightest of your armaments. more for psychological safety, really.
"she done?"
"the fuck do you think, wrenchie?"
"i think you couldn't pay me enough to do your job."
"i don't do it for the pay," you hear your handler say, as your eyelids sink towards closed. "i do it because that thing you're all scared of? she's all mine. and every landing, i get to remind myself, and all of you, and most importantly, her." □
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Happy eclipse day to all who celebrate!
I wrote this after road-tripping from Gen Con to see eclipse totality in Carbondale, Illinois 7 years ago!
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Peacetime
An ex-combat doll during peacetime.
But it's not that easy, is it?
A combat doll will always be a combat doll. It carries its battles with it, no matter what steps it takes.
Demobilized, demilitarized, discharged, disarmed - a combat doll remains a combat doll.
It will wake up in the middle of the night in cold sweats, blood still fresh on its hands, even if it's been years since that blood was spilled.
Any sensible witch knows this to be true.
A combat doll always remains a combat doll, even without its instruments of violence, even if it exists in peacetime.
Just as we all carry trauma of some sort, the combat doll carries the battlefield with it.
And every day is a battle in its own way.
Even during peacetime.
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Mech pilot handler playing Armored Core VI and ranting about all the inaccuracies to her pilot. (who is on the floor between her legs, too twitchy and blissed out by continuous battlestim use to actually understand anything other than direct orders)
Sometimes she says the word "combat" and the pilot looks up at her and shivers like an eager puppy. She pats its head fondly and then roughly pushes it back towards her crotch as she continues to complain about the implausibility of mechs being so mobile flying in Earth's gravity.
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