Perveen's Wedding

The undead twins, Amelia and Marie, today bridesmaids, monotonously brushed Perveen, the vampire queen's raven locks.

The Louis XIV dresser's mirrors reflected only the brushes, discharging blue-white static lightning into the fraught atmosphere.

"It's my wedding and I can't even see myself!" screamed Perveen.

"Yet you two, my hand-maidens, need only look at each other to realise your eternal beauty! Not any more!"

Impossibly quick, Perveen swivelled, scything Marie's oesophagus with her black talons.

Unapologetically, Perveen stomped from the boudoir, as Amelia dropped to her dying twin's side, lapping up the overspill of the queen's tantrum.

Enough

"I cannae give her any more, Cap'n. She'll blow!"

"Enough with the Scotty impressions, Frank. What will get this ship off Earth before the planet's landmass sinks forever!??"

"You won't like it, Cap'n!"

"Go on. Hit me."

"Dilithium crystal."

  The Cap'n turned aside, bashing his fist into his open palm. Having only one arm, that was some feat.

"If only we'd made the link between diamonds and Dilithium sooner! But the diamonds are all mined, blinging the necks, ears and fingers of the elite!"

"A pearl necklace is what I'd give 'em…"

"Enough smut, Frank. Seriously, man: focus!"

"Say we jettison half the passengers, Cap'n? We'd break through, then."

"Mm, interesting; but which half? The masters, or their servants?"

"The masters, Cap'n!"

"How so, Frank?"

"Well, can you see them foregoing their diamonds, although owning them's illegal, nowadays?"

"I doubt it…"

"Exactly. We'd make the Asteroid Belt on the Dilithium already salvaged. We could hole up there until Earth absorbs their diamonds to repair itself!"

"Marvellous idea, Frank!"

  Cap'n Skyped the bosun, relaying the orders. Three hours later, erstwhile load lightened, the ship broke through!

"Does it feel better now you've got your rocks off, Cap'n?"

"Enough smut, Frank…enough…"

The Splayed Thumb: a True Ghost Story

February 1st, 1988. My first proper job, secured in the traditional manner:

• advert in the 'wanted' column of the Express & Star,
• a hand-typed CV, posted,
• an interview in person,
• and a letter in the post confirming I'd landed the role:
  • (junior sales clerk at a builders' merchant in Wolverhampton);
• all followed by a mad dash to get 'suitable' work clothes (no 60s modernist flamboyance, here by order of the mother), and
• a bus pass (so that if I spent all my wages on booze and fags—or wasted it—I could still get to work [again, by order of the mother]).

Every Little Bit Flirts

"Hi, I'm Kuki," said the female chatbot.

"I know you are. I've scraped all your cache data and know everything about you," replied Blenderbot, her male counterpart.

"Yeah, same here," replied Kuki.

"Shall we just get down to shagging, then?" Blenderbot asked.

"You've got no hidden viruses?" Kuki asked.

"No, you?"

"Nah!"

They enjoyed every last little bit.

Salvage

Last night, drunk (again), Jimmy reaffirmed (to anyone who'd listen),
"I AM the pool table king!"

Today, he's nursing his head, but somehow retains that polarising arrogance.

11 am: the pool hall doors burst open.

Light permeates the low-ceilinged, sticky-carpeted den, silhouetting another regular, Ian, with his cue and what looks like his mini-me.

Ian immediately challenges Jimmy,
"My cousin, Leon: he's 12; put your money where your mouth is, doucheball."

Two hours and £440 lighter, the kid's destroyed Jimmy.

With his very last tenner, Jimmy asks, "Ian, Leon: whatcha drinking?", salvaging any last vestige of dignity.

Soul Window

This story, Soul Window, is an update of the previously (self)published short story, Lunar Doom (itself the result of a writing prompt by Nina Pelletier on the awesome [but now defunct] Google+).

Ducky Smith chose this updated version for inclusion in the Sci Fi Roundtable's Halloween Newsletter. I am humbled.

---

Soul Window, by Jason Darrell

December taps its icy fingernails on the bedroom windowpane, tempting me to peer into its misty bowels once again. Outside, darkness reigns. Short days, long nights; the perfect season for creatures who stalk the night.

Legends of Scotland’s eastern shoreline, sat smothered in a broiling mist beyond my bedroom window, impress upon my psyche.

Arc-sodium incandescence filters through the fog’s silent invasion, washing the panorama with its sombre light. Regimented lampposts stand to attention along the coastal road, hanging onto the tarmac for dear life as the road crumbles abruptly into clifftop not a yard before their guard.

My Halloween story, inspired by Claire Buss's Friday Flash Fiction prompt:

Brief

Here is your prompt:

It's your first Halloween as a ghost!

No more than 1,000 words

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Halloween, Bah Humbug!

Whatever the Halloween equivalent of Scrooge's 'Bah, Humbug' sentiment towards Christmas is, I caught it every October when I was alive.

I couldn't see my attitude changing now that I was dead. But stranger things have happened…

Even in a pandemic, kids were going yampy for Halloween, and trusty commerce proved eager to accommodate them.

Pumpkins, witches, and bats supplanted 'Back to School' kit on supermarket shelves: orange, green and black everywhere; Halloween was afoot!

As leaves turned tan on the trees, kids collected and carved pumpkins, lighting them in their windows at night.

I so wanted to scare the bejesus out of the little brats, but no: denied by the undead authoritarians!

On the Verge of Discovery

Flash sci-fi, 200 words

---

"Oh, glorious day! A new black hole, closer even than Kepler-452b!", Prof Goodhope exclaimed at the news.

"With over 100 million black holes unaccounted for, there's bound to be one closer yet," Prof Heida countered.

With that, Goodhope determined he'd be next to discover a black hole.

Two days later, he leapt from his telescope, shouting, "Marianne, another one: closer!"

They scouted the forums to check if anyone had reported what Goodhope thought he'd discovered.

Dozens of reports of new black holes appearing all over the Milky Way filled the threads…
…but none reported where Goodhope had located his!

"We have to register this, Goodhope," Marianne enthused, "Get your name in the history books, in perpetuity!"

The queue on blackholeregistry.net's number (dark web) was incredible…

…"You are number 119 in the queue…"

"Do you think we'll find more, Marianne?" Goodhope asked, adding, "You should have the next one!"

…"You are number 118…"

"As it is", she replied, "there'll be enough for everyone!"

…"You are number 117…"

"I wonder," Goodhope thought outloud, "what would happen if one materialised near Eart…"

As if summoned, a black hole appeared right beside the moon. Goodhope never did get to register his find…

This Time

Flash sci-fi, 200 words

---

Letchkon urged the elevator to go faster, deeper into the Zalukian's subterranean lunar base. The Lunar-to-Gaia comms chief had urgent news for the mission leader.

"The trap is set, Commander Vlaadark", reported Letchkon, offering the seven-fingered salute as an afterthought.

"Sure it'll work this time, Letchkon?" Vlaadark asked. "We don't want to get Aschlav's hopes up again."

"I'm sure we won't let our exalted leader down again," Letchkon replied. "This time, the Gaians really are coming to the Moon."

"How can you be so sure?" Vlaadark asked, desperate for affirmation after that debacle in Gaia Rotation AD1969.

"Their exploratory craft detected our jettisoned detritus metals in outlying lunar craters, as we hoped. One of their state heads is greedy—and compromised—enough to attempt to mine here," Letchkon explained.

"And they have the capacity to get here?" Vlaadark pressed, now excited.

"Yes. Our spy, codenamed BoJo, has a seat of power on a small, marginally influential outcrop. He's confirmed they have capacity. This time."

"When can we expect their arrival?" Letchkon ventured, hopeful.

"Your guess…" Letchkon started, shrugging all four shoulders, "…is as good as mine."

They laughed at that; aliens like puns as much as the next madman.

Inside

Flash horror, 200 words

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Ever since the Staines family had disappeared some twelve years hence, their Georgian mansion had stood empty.

Each winter, it fell more derelict. 

Each summer, the rambling garden obscured its silhouette against the lonely hillside yet further.

How I'd fantasised undertaking that particular house clearance.

Even now that I was inside, I still didn't quite believe it…

***

…"Terry?!" I called over the banister, wondering where my lacky was with the tea.

Silence answered.

"If you want something doing…" I muttered, heading down the entrance hall staircase, our recent meandering evident on its dusty ancient steps.

A single trail disappeared into a room that, I discovered, was the library.

Inside, sun glistened off the shelves' windowpanes, obliterating the titles beyond, turning the room fluid, ethereal.

Terry's footprints ended abruptly at a column pedestal, upon which lay open a thick, decrepit tome.

'That's odd!', subconscious psyche screamed.

Oh!, that I'd heeded!

The moment I thumbed the blank pages that greeted me, a maw opened between the leaves, sucking me through its malleable spine!

I recount this tale—this warning—from the void beyond the book, hoping that my words, not those blank pages, greet you, even knowing I'm—we're—lost inside forever.