SF Drabble 451 "Like Cobwebs"


"Arno Vets, come forward." The crumpled old man shuffled up to the line, stopped, clasped trembling hands behind his back. "Arno Vets, you have been judged medically unfit for work. You are reassigned to Barrack Housing 185-A. Dismissed."

We didn't watch him go; we were listening for our own names.


"Capi Macklore, come forward." A well-dressed woman moved to the line and smiled casually. "Capi Macklore, your debt has been paid by an anonymous Citizen and the fine waived. No further action. Dismissed." There was grumbling as she left.


"Wace Halvaneer, come forward."

Me. Here we go.

SF Drabble #450 "Est Pour Les Amants"

"Oh, look at them, Caro." She was beside herself with excitement. "The hair, the clothes. And the machines…"

"Automobiles." He had her around the shoulder, as much to keep track of her in the crowd as it was in affection.

Paris swept past them and bustled around them and brushed against the cheek and eye and nose: Paris between the wars, Pars of glamour and sex and miracles.

"Thank you for my wedding present."

Three thousand years back, for a week they'd never forget. He leaned in for a kiss, a long, passionate, Parisian kiss. "Thank you for marrying me."

SF Drabble #449 "Glimmer"

"You're in there somewhere, sleeping, maybe trapped, maybe just waiting for that spark to return, that anima," Walcott said, tapping lightly on the 'head' casing with a dirty fingertip. The robot never answered, no matter how many leads he replaced or contacts he cleaned or parts he replaced.

"You worked once, I know you did: I've read your logfile," he observed, sighing, and sat back in his chair. The unit had been a loader at Quito, then lifted to the Moon and then Europa, nearly a hundred years of labor all across the system before eventually failing.

"Where'd you go?"