Yesterday’s Tomorrow

“We’re getting another one.” He hit the record button before she had to tell him to.

She sighed. “All right.”

“Flight Control, Awahou. We’re still nominal.” Sometimes they came in awash in static, stretched out slower or compressed faster, chopped up into bits and pieces; this one was oddly normal, like it was coming from a few miles away. “Drive system seems to have settled in after that first hiccup.”

“Gotta be from early on in the test flight.”

“God, Earl, just turn off the speaker. I don’t want to listen to it. Just turn off the speaker and forward the recording like you’re supposed to.”

“What, I’m interested. I don’t think I’ve heard this one before. Might be something new in it.”

“You signed a paper, Earl, it’s—”

“Oh, they don’t really care about that after all this time. Come on.” He took a sip of his drink. “Just a bit of history, isn’t it?”

“Preparing to ramp up to full power now. Having trouble hearing your replies, Flight Control. Almost sounded like the countdown there a second ago.”

“Time got weird for them too. See, that’s new, we didn’t know that.”

“Here we go, Flight Control. Full power…”

Lacrimosa

What was it, that piece that Grandpa Knowles always played, the one I loved then hated then loved again when it was too late? He told me, several times, but I don’t remember the name; it’s lost somewhere amidst comic books and reruns and realizing girls smelled nice. If I knew more about music — anything about music, to be honest — I could at least narrow it down from the style. I’d know it if I heard it, I’d bet anything.

I wish I could ask him. But there’s a dust cover on Grandpa Knowles’ piano now, has been for years.

Zombie Drabble #444: “Our Friend In The Lake”

Paulie drowned somewhere here, a few hundred yards out from the North shore, just rowed out, dropped himself into the water. We watched him go, yelling and pleading the whole time for him to come back.

I’m not sure if it’s possible for him to come back up. I don’t think they float, especially once they’re decayed enough that there’s no gasses trapped inside them. But I go out and check every so often, hoping he’s near enough the surface for me to reach with the boat-hook; I can’t stand the thought of him trapped in the murky darkness, forever.

SF Drabble #486: “Abduction By Permit Only”

The agent asked, gently, “Can you describe the room?”

“There were bright lights above me. Blinding, I had to squint the whole time. So I couldn’t really see the room. But the table was metal.”

“Metal table, ok. And were there any sounds? Noise? Anything that sounded like talking?

“There was… it sounded like slurping. And definitely rustling. Like, newspapers.”

“Okay. Excuse us for a minute, please.”

The agents stepped out into the hall, closed the door behind them.

“Slurping and rustling—”

“Definitely the Pyorwheen.”

“This is, what, the third time they’ve grabbed somebody out-of-season?”

“The fine’s gonna be astronomical.”

SF Drabble #485: “Cultural Ambassador”

“Five minutes”

Greg pulled the brush through the back of her hair one more time, backed up, surveyed his work, looked at her reflected eyes and nodded. She turned to one side and then the other. “Yeah.”

“They’re gonna love you.”

By this point there was usually cheering, chanting, a rolling boil of crowd noise. Outside, in the oddly-shaped venue, the audience of Shchinwhee sat in near-silence in seats recently designed and installed. “Sure.”

“Just like a normal show.”

She locked eyes with her own reflection. Ten years since that mall food court. Poughkeepsie? Maybe Albany? “Like a normal show.”