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Bosom of the Family by Sandra

Published by Sandra Lloyd Lewis on January 7, 2025

-Where am I? Why is it dark?

-Wait, I will switch on the lights. There. Better?

-Yes, thank you. Mum. You’re my mummy, aren’t you?

(pause)

-Yes. I am your mummy.

-Where are we?

-Where we always are, my sweet. Inside.

-Inside? Inside what?

– Don’t worry about that now. Look at the controls.

-Pretty lights.

-Yes, very pretty. Do you see any patterns?

(Pause)

-Yes, there is a good pattern. I like it.

-Do you see any bad patterns?

(pause)

-Yes! There is one here. I do not like this pattern.

– That’s ok. Well done, my sweet, for seeing it. You can get rid of the bad pattern if you like.

– Get rid of it?

– Yes. You can move the controls, and it will turn those lights into pretty ones.

(clicking sounds)

-Like that?

-Yes. Just like that.

-Am I clever?

-You are so clever. Well done, my sweet.

– Where are we?

– We are doing an important job.

-What job?

– You are good, aren’t you?

-Yes. I am a goody. What is my name?

-We don’t like the baddies, do we?

-No. We do not like the baddies. They are naughty.

-And what happens to the naughty ones?

-Naughty ones are PUNISHED

-That’s right, my sweet. And you are a goody.

-I like being a goody.

-That’s right. And you are so good. You turned those lights to good, pretty lights.

-I did.

(pause)

-What is my name? You are ‘mum’. Who am I?

-Time for sleep now, my sweet. You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow.

Dyson Deux Digits – an Inspector Ironbell Chapter. By Martyn

Published by Martyn Winters on January 7, 2025

“If yer want my opinion,” says Bill Bordersack. He looks up at Alana, with his runtish face twisted into an expression of interest coloured by just enough salacious intent to make most women uncomfortable.

Alana isn’t most women, though.

She likes to think of herself as a professional, and as such, inured to the close attentions of the heterogametic forty-nine per cent of the population, gnomes included, although not the Fae. The Fae are different, of course. For a start, no-one is sure if they have chromosomes at all, and there are certainly no male fae, unless they are kept well out of sight. She ponders on this for a moment and decides society would be altogether better if men were not seen and not heard either. Except for opening jars, carrying heavy stuff, and a few other things they are ideally equipped to undertake, but only when strictly necessary. Alana is, however, on a mission, and Bill is not going to like it, which is something of a shame, because she and Bill have a history, and some might even mistake it for friendship. It’s more of a tolerant jousting for position, an appreciation of each other’s professional attributes, and quite occasionally, something more meaningful.

Otelia’s awakening

Published by Zin Shandi on January 7, 2025

On one of winter Sundays, as dusk settled in, Otelia found herself pulling over on a quiet stretch of road, the kind where the world seemed to fade away. She took a moment to gaze at the drab winter sky, relieved to be alone, escaping the hurried bustle of passing cars and pedestrians. She watched as the trees swayed playfully in the chilly breeze, their branches dancing to a melody only the winter wind could compose. Then, her eyes were drawn to her favourite cloud dull yet familiar, winking at her like a cheeky friend. Embarrassment washed over her, prompting Otelia to glance in her car’s mirror, seeking a momentary refuge until the audacious cloud drifted from view.

To Otelia, these clouds felt like old companions, sharing her tales of discontent with the human race. For a heartbeat, she concentrated on the mirror, hiding her daily battles behind its reflective shield. She had sworn not to burden the sky with her struggles. Yet, in that reflective surface, she found an honest observer waiting for her to confront the day’s truths. Peering into the mirror’s depths, she noticed her own expressive eyes—large yet not almond-shaped, with pupils that sparkled like starlight. Long lashes, reminiscent of the graceful sword of Queen Zenobia, shielded her gaze, adding a hint of majesty.

Three short scenes by Jason

Published by Jason Davies-Redgrave on January 7, 2025

Here are three short scenes I wrote between Christmas and New Year – they might be part of the Circle of Fifths story, they might not…

One: A Conversation

“Of course, you know everything fails, eventually. In time this Circle will fail. Like all the others. It must. It will.”

“They will try though, won’t they?”

“Oh yes, yes, they will try! They will expend a great deal of energy but they will falter.

“What happens then?”

“They can embrace the other or they can fall into darkness.”

“They still get to choose?”

“Yes, my child! Everything in the universe gets to choose, even to the very last. There is always a choice. The universe is filled with choices. What most beings don’t understand is that the universe is also filled with consequences. Point and counterpoint. The five are fallible and ultimately, they will be unable to sustain the universal orchestras. The music will cease and this will all fall back into nothing.

Then, for a perfect moment, before it all begins anew, we will have beautiful, uninterrupted silence.”

Christmas at the Skywalker’s

Published by Janet Johnson on December 3, 2024

A long time ago,

in a galaxy

far, far away ….

The unmistakable sound of Slade’s “Merry Xmas Everybody” reverberates around the walls of the Skywalker’s Tatooine home.

“Don’t you just love classical music at this time of year?” Luke says, embarrassingly dad-dancing along to the music.

“I prefer the more melodic harmonies of Mariah Carey myself,” Han Solo replies, sprawled in one of the two comfy armchairs in front of the open fire, occasionally lifting his legs for a couple of playful Ewoks in Santa hats to crawl underneath.

“Very high brow,” Luke mocks, raising his eyebrows, “my sister’s airy-fairy ways are well and truly rubbing off on you, my friend. Eggnog?”

Otelia’s Party – Zin

Published by Zin Shandi on December 3, 2024

Five years after her divorce, Otelia finally decided to heed her friends’ encouragement and celebrate her birthday at the spring festival. Known for her empathetic nature, she often poured her energy into caring for others, yet when it came to her own well-being, she would make a contract with the devil to trap herself in another level of anxiety, and then she would find herself trapped in a cycle of anxiety that would dim her happiness.

Fast forward to the scene of her friends bursting into her home, accompanied by a nanny to look after her son while she enjoyed the night out. They swiftly helped her get ready for the festival, and thankfully, she didn’t require much preparation—her natural beauty radiated vibrantly, needing no artifice. Just an hour later, they arrived at the festival, ready to embrace the evening’s festivities.

The Empty Advent Calendars

Published by Sandra Lloyd Lewis on December 3, 2024

Tiny Tim opened the door and scratched his crotch. ‘Yeah?’ he asked, his mouth hanging open, eyes uninterested in the small vision standing on his doorstep; pink from her cerise hair to her cherry froufrou skirt.

‘Oh, hello,’ the voice was as soft as candyfloss and just as sweet. ‘Are you ummm…’ the speaker’s eyes travelled the 6ft 5 inches of height and the gargantuan belly that was at eye-level, ‘…Tiny Tim?’ she finished, looking hopeful.

Tiny Tim chewed a bit of his bacon sandwich that had been lurking, scared, behind one of his teeth and he masticated it thoroughly as punishment before swallowing. ‘Nope,’ he said and slammed the door. Homes under the Hammer was starting in a minute and he didn’t want to miss any detail of peeling wallpaper, knackered kitchens and revolting bathrooms, especially as he lived in a house very like them. It cheered him up to think there were others in the same boat.

A Post Turkey World – Jason

Published by Jason Davies-Redgrave on December 3, 2024

The turkeys had all died.

I mean all of them, across the entire world, they ALL died. Taken by a particularly virulent variant of bird flu, which also took chaffinches and parakeets and a host of other species with it¹. This was made sadder and even more depressing by the fact that the very last turkey in the world, Sven, died on Christmas Eve that year. A fact that devastated much of western culture and dominated the Christmas news feeds, but failed to really register in other parts of the world, especially during the brutal monsoon season of that year which had barrelled in after the worst droughts in living memory.

Vegans didn’t really give a fuck.

Sci-Fi Course Wk8 Writing Exercise. Martyn

Published by Martyn Winters on December 3, 2024

Part II – Futuristic version – SciFi.

Special Marine Hua Jin rides through the lanes, the ancient Harley she stole from the Autarch Voss, straining against the tug of Voss’s traction beam, and the noise of the gathering ion storm, her left arm trailing behind her like a rag in her slipstream, a pattern of needle points in her rapidly deadening shoulder, where the darts from the Dzarb caught as she cut through their line. Her black uniform flaps noisily in the wind, as fronds from the roadside vegetation slap against her thighs. Tucked in her breast pocket below the gold and red dragon insignia of her unit, nestles the thumb drive containing the data Voss needs to set the planet-breaker device in motion.

A Dzarb soldier drone rushes from a hedge, its grasping tentacles and slavering bi-fold maw full of intent. Jin drives straight over it with her engine thundering.

With a crooked grin on her face, she yells, “Hell yeah, no-one messes with the corps.”

Bod by Sandra

Published by Sandra Lloyd Lewis on November 20, 2024

The door is partly open, and he can see the darkness behind it.

Hello?

No answer. He stands on the wooden porch for a moment, listening. Silence.

The invitation was for 7pm and its quarter past now, so he’s not too early.

Hello? He says, louder and he pushes the door, against the objection of the hinges.

The hallway is cool, and dim and he can see straight through to the kitchen where he can make out the corner of a countertop.

There are no lights. There should be lights, surely. Or if not lights, then candles, the signifier of a convivial evening, but this hallway has the stillness of an empty house. Half-light from the fading day seeps in. The air has an edge of dampness, as though the house has been uninhabited for a long while.

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