SF Drabble #381 “Reproduction”

Tracking. Cloak engaged. Stand by for course correction: mark. Stand by for full power: mark. Range closing. Scans inconclusive. Stand by. Stand by.

Range closing. Scans indicate nuclear power source, hydrogen scoop design. System of origin computed. Destination system computed.

Range closing. Scans indicate five organisms active, one thousand four hundred and twenty three organism cryogenically frozen. Biped, opposable thumbs; bipeds probable crew and colonists.

Range closing, no change in target attitude. Cloak stable. Stand by weapons.

Stand by to match course and speed. Mark. Parallel course achieved. Position directly above target achieved. Stand by boarding. Stand by ovipositor teams.

Zombie Drabble #385 “The New Economy”

There was a farmer we ran into only because we smelled wood burning on the wind, and followed it back to his place. Nice enough guy. For him, the end of the world hadn’t changed much: he worked his land, tended his livestock and his crops, only instead of selling his product he lived off it himself. He knew what was happening, of course, but he figured, what’s it to him?

We explained it. He had guns, of course, that type always does, but we got the drop easy. Shelter. Lots of food. It’ll be months before we move on.

Zombie Drabble #384 “Relics”

It had been going for a while before he realized he’d been hearing it: a radio, or somebody’s iPod earbuds up way too high. He wrestled his way out of the too-small sleeping back and padded through the room in stocking feet to try to find the source of the noise.

It was the Carsons’ teenager, what was her name? “Emily.”

She reached into her own sleeping back and the noise stopped. “What?”

“What are you listening to?”

“Some classical piece I’ve never heard of before. Found the iPod yesterday.”

He convinced her to share. It was Debussy, “La Mer.”

Fantasy Drabble #297 “Sir Hubert”

Midnight rounds are unfailingly uneventful: everyone's asleep, including any enemies of the Crown. You’ll be patrolling the quiet halls, trying not to let your sword or armor clatter, and there he’ll be, a shimmering panic.

They’re coming.

“They’re not coming, Hubert, that was a long time ago.”

They’ll kill you all. They’ll kill me.

“Got your tenses mixed up, you have. Still: I appreciate the warning. Well done, you: mission accomplished. Eternal rest well-earned.”

It never works. They’re almost here.

We don’t know what his real name was in life; ‘Hubert’ suits his face. “Best get ready, then, Hubert.”

Fantasy Drabble #296 “On A String”

It wasn’t voices or anything like that. Nobody came to me in a vision. I just got this urge to go down there and dig, and after a few days of fighting it I gave in.

Nobody bothered me while I worked. If you look like you belong, like you know what you’re doing, people more or less leave you alone. I dug up the bones, put them in a bag, took them home, no problem.

The bones must be the guy pulling the strings. Who else? Now I have to figure out what’s next. Maybe I’ll get another urge.