Flash Fiction: Gone

Gone
Nathan Ryder

I met Lisa through WhoKnowsHowLongWeveGot.com. I had stumbled across the site while chasing data and studies to look at and comment on, and it seemed like something I should sign up to.
We started chatting online, first by email and then by IM. She told me a little about her family; about her job as a secretary for one of the few banks that hadn't collapsed in the chaos of the previous six months. She seemed interested in my own work when I told her about it; she was the first person I had met socially who seemed to get it.
She asked me challenging questions about my research. Who's going to look at your site in five years' time? I didn't have snappy answers for that then – I'm not sure I do now – it's just something that I felt I had to do. She understood that drive, and I was grateful that she did. I still haven't answered that question for myself about why I sift through the data, collate and look over the reports and statistics, searching for a pattern.
She didn't mind either that donations through my site (FadeStatistics.org) were paying the bills. I liked to believe that I wasn't tapping into just the layer of desperation that was building up over the global population. I felt better about it that way.

It felt like there was a real connection between us.
We decided to meet.
“After all,” she said, “'Who knows how long we've got,' right?”

We're on our second drinks when she steers the conversation towards our personal theories. She looks really beautiful, I've told her that once already and want to tell her again, but don't want to seem too eager.
She tilts her head to one side when I pause to think about it, try to put my complicated thoughts on the Fade into words. A smile plays across her lips, a smile that carries to her green eyes. Her skin is pale, a fragile beauty, slightly aged before her time – unsurprising, given the circumstances, it's hit us all – but still gorgeous.
“Don't tell me you believe in the ideas coming out of the Bible Belt?” she eventually laughs playfully as I put my thoughts in order.
I smile back and take a sip from the overpriced house red. The bar isn't the nicest place; it was probably alright a year or so ago. The really nice places are now all too expensive for the likes of me and Lisa. The quiet local we might have gone to last year will have closed.
“Well,” I say, “I'm an agnostic when it comes to faith... But no, they can't have their cake and eat it, insist that this is it but 'oh no, we're not going just yet, sir, praise be, it's all part of the plan.'”
“I don't believe that either,” she says, reaching over and squeezing my hand.
“I don't know what it is,” I reply, squeezing her hand back, “I'd like to figure it out. Or at least be a part of solving it. The way I see it, we have to keep looking.”
The other inevitable question came up a few minutes later. I think I brought it up, but I don't remember too clearly. I remember what she said:
“Where was I? I don't know. At home I think. My sister...” She pauses and looks away for a minute.
“My sister was at home with me, she was over for dinner and she called me in from the kitchen. The newsreader was shaking as he spoke; I remember sitting down next to Kate and just listening to the announcement, and to the President and everyone else as they said we had to be strong, that plans were in motion, that 'we' would figure it out.”
“I'd seen it more and more over the month before that – missing persons, suspected abductions – but that was the first time it was really real. Do you remember that thing the other year with the bees? And those feet washing up out of those rivers in Canada? There's always something going on, something in the background and I would think, 'That's weird,' and go on with my life.”
I nodded without saying anything.

We decided to leave the bar. The atmosphere was oppressive and strained in there, people compulsively glancing around the crappy sheen of class every few minutes – just to make sure I guess, though whether they were checking for themselves or on other people I don't know – and so we walked for a while. I tried to keep the conversation on relatively safe subjects: the latest re-runs on TV; the revised property statutes that were being rushed through by the government; Z-list celebrities arguing in the headlines and on the glossy magazines over who had been most traumatised by it all.

We're walking side-by-side.
We're holding hands.
She's pressed in close to me, head resting on my shoulder.

The skies are clear as we walk slowly around the outskirts of a park. It was late July, and not too late at night; we felt fairly safe despite what was being said on TV about the breakdown of society. I hadn't seen too much of that, no signs of looting or rioting or anything that the media had been warning about. Just the usual scaremongering – it doesn't matter that we're all scared anyway, someone has to whip that fear up even more.
Outside her apartment building we pause, chatting about nothing because it's easier than talking about the thing that we both want to know. We smile, both admit that it's been a lovely evening and that we should do it again. We smile some more and beat about the bush, kiss, hug, kiss some more.
Then with her arms tight around me she whispers in my ear, “Stay.”

We both agree that there's no pressure, and in an effort to prove this Lisa puts the TV on, before heading into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Her living room was nice; family pictures on the wall, a bookcase filled with Tom Clancy and Stephen King, and really neat and tidy. I remember making a mental note to clean up my place before I invited her over.
She comes back through and sits next to me, taking my hand and squeezing it. For thirty seconds we make a pretence at watching a sitcom; almost simultaneously we look at each other, smile, and then start kissing.
We're interrupted by the kettle whistling on the stove; she smiles, kisses me again and jumps up.
“Do you want some help?” I ask.
“No, it's OK,” she calls back, “Do you want tea or coffee?”
“Tea please.”
Ten seconds later –

I wonder, I'm sorry, I know I said I would write this out straight, but I can't. I wonder, I wonder if we had just stayed together, whether...
I know it doesn't make any difference now.
What ifs don't make a damn bit of difference.

“Dan, do you take milk and -” Her sentence was broken off suddenly. I heard something fall, a clang, a rolling; instinct kicked in and I was up. The kitchen was only a few feet away, but my heart was pounding and I was breathless as I stepped up to the doorway.
I didn't expect... Despite the news and what we knew, I didn't think it could be. All that I did, my collection of studies and data, compiling every shred of news on the Fade, and I just – my mind didn't really grasp it until then.
The kettle was rolling a little, rocking slightly on its dented side. Hot water steamed away from pitted grey lino. Poetry fridge magnets. Simple countertops and generic white goods. Obvious Ikea mugs and utensils. More family snapshots pinned to a cork board.
My eyes focused on all of that, barely able to look at the pile of clothes, the black pants and red top that she had been wearing, settled halfway between her black shoes.
The shoes had little silver bows on them.
I hadn't noticed that when I met her.
And her shadow, a dark outline, Fading.
The edges remaining defined for a few seconds longer than the core, the Fade at work.
I didn't mean to, I tried to keep my eyes open, but I suddenly blinked.
Her shadow was gone.
I sank to my knees and just stared at the clothes and the space that she had occupied. Some time later I called the free phone number that you were supposed to use to report a Fading. Lisa Woods ceased to be a person and became a statistic, another string of 1s and 0s that would be used to try to figure out a pattern to the Fade.

That was two years, seven months and four days ago. Eight months ago I began stockpiling. Six months ago I left the city. I hated the feeling of constant scrutiny from other people. I decided to leave after the first time someone tried to break into my apartment. I found a small farming community in the country; we just work to survive and look after each other. We have a big fence. Others come out this way, but they leave us be mostly. I write, sending letters any way I can to other researchers; I can't break the habit. I spend most of my time helping with the crops and the livestock.

Populations are starting to dwindle, clustering together, coping as best they can. The official statistic is that every second between twenty and fifty people around the world Fade. Some think that the true impact of the Fade could be greatly underestimated.
People still die of natural causes of course, and children are still born, but it doesn't matter now. Millions have committed suicide since the Fade phenomena were confirmed by the United Nations. Several countries have decided that now is the time to test their nuclear neighbour's mettle.
No one has reported signs of any other species Fading.
It isn't the Rapture, it's not war or terrorism or aliens (well, that we know of). CERN was discounted. Theories involving disturbances between consciousness and interactions on the quantum scale, while interesting, are untestable.
The world gets larger every day. Remnants of governments try to keep the peace.

There is no pattern.

I don't want to know what happened to Lisa. I don't want to know what's going to happen to me, or when. Time is running out, for all of us.
I hope that it doesn't hurt when I leave my shadow behind.

I hope you're reading this, whoever you are. It's a selfish desire, and while I am still a confirmed agnostic I have one prayer that I make regularly:
Please God, if you're out there, I don't want to be the last to go.

*

This short story is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works License. Feel free to repost and share it with others, so long as you credit me (Nathan Ryder, 2009) as the original author and link back to this page. It would also be nice if you dropped me a comment!

Flash Fiction: On Charles Bridge

On Charles Bridge
Nathan Ryder

To Sophie Barnes' blue-grey eyes there was no more beautiful sight in the world than the view from Charles Bridge. She had visited Prague several times, both on business for Grover & Macmillan and on holiday; normally she would have to contend with several thousand other people streaming across the bridge, but it was dawn, and she was able to appreciate the beauty of the city by herself.
She pulled the coat tightly around her, warding against the chill in the wind that was tugging slightly on her pale blonde hair. Sophie tucked a stray strand away behind her ear, and checked her watch. Sunrise was in ten minutes, and already she could see the pale light creeping up from further down the river. Her flight was in two hours, but it was only a short taxi ride to collect her bags from the hotel and then on to Prague-Ruzyne International Airport. She had time, and she let her eyes gaze towards the coming sun, drinking in the colours as they started to spread.
“Hello Sophie.”
Angelo Mori's accent always surprised her; there was a slight trace of his childhood in Pisa, but this was more firmly dominated by the New England business colleges that he had attended on his way to becoming one of the biggest property developers on the East Coast.
Sophie knew every inch of him, and yet still her eyes lingered as she looked at him now, tracing every detail of his expensive coat up to his perfectly chiselled face. Once, she had fallen in love with his eyes, pools of calm that radiated warmth to the rest of his face. He had let his raven black hair grow slightly longer since she had last seen him, and there was a slight greying at his temples that hadn't been there before. She felt that old attraction surfacing again, and with it a shiver as she realised how shallow the grave of that buried feeling had been.
“Well, aren't you going to say anything?”
It was only when he spoke again that she realised that she had just been staring at him and she had no idea how long they had both stood there. Sophie struggled to keep her voice under control, as a wave of emotions passed through her: sudden delight at seeing Angelo again, surprise at how quickly she found herself falling in to those brown eyes and shock as the memory of how they had parted that last time swept back in to her mind, becoming as clear as the breaking dawn.
Finally, she spoke.
“What... What are you doing here Angelo?”
She immediately felt foolish for asking, but if any trace of it crossed her face Angelo showed no sign of having seen it.
“Sophie,” he said, stepping towards her, smiling the same tender smile that he had shown her on their first date three years earlier, “Sophie, is it not obvious? I am here for you.”
He stopped two feet from her, and she continued to just look at him, unable to find words after what she had said the last time she had seen him.
“Do you have nothing else to say?” he asked after a moment.
Sophie felt her heart racing, and she tried to get a hold of herself as she asked, “How did you find me?”
“Carter told me you were here,” he replied, smiling lightly, and Sophie swore mentally at Carter Macmillan, for revealing the information. He might be her godfather, he might be her boss, but for the longest time he had been the most insufferable wannabe Cupid when it came to her relationships.
“Don't be angry with him, Sophie, he only wants the best for you – as I do. I should have known where you would be when I heard you had taken a short leave of absence,” Angelo continued, stepping closer and raising a hand to touch her arm, “You always said that Prague was your favourite city in the whole world.”
“And I suppose you just flew here in your private jet when you found out where I was?” she said, feeling a small flush of anger hit her cheeks.
Angelo did not respond to her tone of voice, saying simply, “I had to Sophie. Had you been in London at work I would have gone there; had you been on business in Melbourne I would have followed. I had to see you, I had to tell you - ”
“Tell me what?” she asked, her heart fluttering wildly. All of the control that she had had just moments earlier had evaporated, and she felt her heart and her head struggling for ownership of her body.
“Sophie, you must know. I could not say those words before. I am so sorry... I was a fool; we had both been hurt, but I failed to see – no, I failed you. I should have been a greater man than I was for you. I think... I think I can be that man now. If you will let me.”
“Angelo,” she said, after a moment's pause, shaking his hand from her arm, “Angelo, I can't... I can't - ”
“Yes, yes you can Sophie!” he said, taking hold of her with both hands and drawing her close to him, his accent breaking down as he became more animated. “Us together... It is what we have both been looking for all of our lives! You know it, I know you do. I let my past get in the way, and you let yours trap you, unable to feel that which you know you want to feel, that you long to feel.”
“Please, let me go - ”
“Sophie, I lo-”
“No Angelo!” she sobbed, “Don't! Don't say it!”
“Sophie,” he said, composing himself and fixing her with his large brown eyes, “Sophie, I love you.”
Her head was awash with thoughts as he continued, “I know you love me Sophie, I know you don't think that you deserve happiness – but you do! You're beautiful, and you're brilliant and you could be happy if you would just let yourself!”
She struggled for a second to escape his hold, but then he pulled her closer and kissed her. Her lips responded to his kiss, gentle at first, and then stronger. Her hands snaked around his muscular body and embraced this wild, passionate man who she has loved since the moment she first saw him.
A few minutes later they stand there holding each other. Sophie felt more secure than she had felt in her whole life, her head resting on the chest of the man she loved, together as the sun's first rays hit Charles Bridge.

*

This short story is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works License. Feel free to repost and share it with others, so long as you credit me (Nathan Ryder, 2009) as the original author and link back to this page. It would also be nice if you dropped me a comment!

Flash Fiction: The Lying Sister

The Lying Sister
Nathan Ryder

The Friends of the Forest hold a fair at Royden Park on the first Sunday of July every summer. My Mum always insisted that we go and do our bit to help with conservation.
I remember Royden Park being really big when I was a little boy. My older brother Tom thought it was boring, but apart from a bit of hay fever I was really happy that sunny Sunday afternoon. I was constantly distracted by clowns, coconut shies and donkey rides, and I wandered off, too young to know that there is any danger in the world for children. The field that hosts the fair is bounded by a thick line of trees on three sides, and I found myself peering into the trees, having run out of money playing the 'ball in the bucket to win' game.
Just as it was occurring to me that I was alone and didn't know where my family was, I heard a voice.
“Psst!”
I turned and looked among the trees, but saw nothing.
From straight in front of me I heard the same voice again: “Hi...”
It took me a few seconds, but then things seemed to come into focus, and I saw the outline of a little girl in front of me. It was as if the edge of her came from a pattern on tree bark, a flickering shadow from the breeze, and the subtle tones of green that made up the leaves on low hanging branches. I said hello back.
“Hi big brother,” she said, stepping forward slightly; as she moved the colours of the trees fell away from her, and there she was, a little girl, dressed simply in a pink dress, hair tied back smartly and a pleasant smile on her face.
“Oi! Billy!”
I turned and saw Tom running up to me. He was eleven, and his face was a mix of anger, boredom and smugness. It was an expression I recognised well.
“You little div!” he shouted at me, “Mum and Dad are looking everywhere for you, what are you doing?!”
I turned to point at the little girl, but she was gone, there was nobody there. I blinked, but didn't have time to think about it as Tom pushed me and told me off. By the time we got back to my parents, I had almost forgotten the little girl who came out of the trees. They were more relieved than angry, but it didn't stop Tom from being the golden boy for a few days.

I was ten the next time that I went back to the fair at Royden Park. Tom was old enough to get out of it by then. Royden Park was nowhere near as good as I remembered.
The vast expanse of green was just a small field, marked off with trees on three sides. Only one of those sides was really a forest, the others were just a thin line of trees and bushes separating it from other fields. The fair was rubbish too. I knew now that most of the games were just a con, even if I won a prize it wouldn't be worth the fifty pence I handed over to play.
Mum trusted me to wander off by myself and not get lost now. She still liked coming to the fair for the Friends of the Forest, she thought it was really important, said that the forest had a lot of history. I was wandering around the edge of the field trying to pass the time while Mum was off buying some handmade mirrors or bowls or whatever.
“Hi big brother.”
I turned to look at the treeline and a stray half-memory came to me as I saw the little girl standing before me, peering at me with curious green eyes.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I'm your little sister,” she replied, smiling and winking at me in a manner that wasn't right for such a young child, “I'm your little sister... Sally. I'm five years old and I've lived with you ever since I was born.”
“No you're not,” I replied, wrinkling my nose up with contempt, “I've only got a big brother, Tom.”
“And, me, your little sister, Sally. Stop playing mean games... Billy,” she said, reaching out and trying to touch me. I stepped back to avoid her hand. I noticed then that she was... vague. I could see her, but around the edges she was less distinct, especially at the ends of her arms and legs.
“I don't know you,” I said, stepping back again and avoiding her grasp.
“You do too!” she screamed suddenly, lunging for me and grabbing my wrist. Her hand was warm, but I could see my arm through it as she held me in place. It was like a vice, and despite being a much larger child I couldn't pull free from it.
“Say you're my brother!” she spat out; her eyes were red around the edges, and her hair was no longer blonde but turning brown and green, woodland colours blending together. “Say you're my brother and I'll let you go you miserable pig!”
I called for help, but I was too far away from anyone, and she was impossibly strong.
“Let me go!” I shouted at her, finally resorting to hitting her; I brought my hand across her face, but it was like I had slapped a wall and I cringed with the pain.
“Say it!” she shrieked, and I felt her nails digging in to my arm.
“I'm your brother, Billy!” I shouted, and then shouted it again turning and screaming at her now mottled and dark features, cunning great green eyes that stare back into mine, satisfied. I lose myself in them, the pain fading.

“Mum!”
She can't hear you. No one can. Hmm, maybe a child could, but you're no more than a child yourself, which is why we need you...
I see my mother, frantic, looking for me.
She'll forget soon. We'll make her forget. You won't be missed. We're not cruel that way...
“Let me go! Please! MUM!”
I see her – but I don't know how – and she is less certain of what she is doing; a momentary panic that had her is fading; she reaches in to her handbag and takes out the car keys.
“MUM!”
A second of hesitation, and something like my heart dares to hope, but then she wanders off back to the car park. Time passes and I see the fairground people take their stalls down. I keep calling out, desperately hoping someone will hear me.
You'll get used to it, says the little girl's voice, I did. This is the way it is.
Time passes as in a dream. Water flows into me, and sunlight makes me dizzy with satisfaction. It is a long time before the others get through to me, and tell me what I have to do. They do what they must. I tell myself I will have no part of it, that I am still something else, that I'm not supposed to be here.
And then one day the fair comes to the park, and somehow I know what I will do, even before I see the child running around, coming closer and closer to the edge of treeline.
It isn't so bad here, reminds the voice of my lying sister, a voice that I now hate and love as kin. And it isn't. There is no other way. We all have to do our bit for the Friends of the Forest.

*

This short story is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works License. Feel free to repost and share it with others, so long as you credit me (Nathan Ryder, 2009) as the original author and link back to this page. It would also be nice if you dropped me a comment!

Flash Fiction: Nursery Noir

Nursery Noir
Nathan Ryder

I'm sat at my desk when the quiet's broken by a dame. I put down the blocks I'm building with – maybe a house, maybe a doggie, I haven't decided – and walk across the classroom.
My name is Jonah Jones, I'm three years, three months and some change old, and I'm a gumshoe.

Lisa's a sweet girl. Aside from wailing she isn't much for talking. I'm a sucker for a redhead though, and Lisa think she's a princess. I'm sure her parents do too. Go figure.
She's stood there next to the dress up corner, crying like a kid cutting her teeth. I have a quarter of a grape stuck behind my teeth, and I chew it over whilst standing there waiting for her to calm down. She's way too upset to get any sense out of, and I wouldn't expect miracles from a dame when she ain't crying.
My eyes wander and I notice the ripped princess costume in front of her. I stoop to grab it, feeling my pull-ups ride up. I smell something funny but I'm dry; it's early – not even milk time – and I'm usually fine but there's plenty of time for things to go wrong. I try to hand her the torn pink dress and she goes on crying even louder.
Then something goes wrong. I feel the hand of Miss on my shoulder, turn and knew I've been tapped as a fall guy.

Miss gives me a dressing down. I stand there and take it, mind elsewhere; my Mom's sure to hear about this.
Lisa isn't talking, can barely string a sentence together anyway. Maybe she doesn't know, but someone does. Someone's happy for me to take the fall. I might not be able to convince Miss, I might not be able to convince Lisa, but I will find the truth.
I vow that I'll find the rat and make him pay.
Then Miss puts me in Time Out. My investigation is on hold.

It feels like a week, but it's probably only five minutes. Still, I'm ready to snap by the time she lets me out to play with the paints. I stand at an easel and hold my arms out for Miss's Assistant to put an apron on me.
I begin to paint a picture of the crime.
Lisa's favourite dress has been ruined, torn almost in two. Miss has me collared for the job, and Lisa's unable to get me out of it because she's a big crybaby. Way I figure, it's a senseless crime, but who knows? The world is full of crazy broads and bastards (a bad word I heard my Daddy say) and none more so than in the Nursery.
Chubby Smith sidles up to to me and asks what all that was about. Nothing seems to get by Chubby, and for a minute I consider asking him if he saw anything. Information is never free from Chubby, I tell him to scram for now. He takes off smiling though, and I have a terrible feeling that I'm going to have to speak to him again before all this is over.

I'm trying to figure the angle, and have ended up with what I think is a nice picture of a tree, but it's no help. I go to see Mr Bear.
Sure, he's a big stuffed bear, but he usually helps. We talk for a while. Well, I talk, and he listens. I sit on top of one of his legs and look at his immobile face. I know he isn't real, and at the same time I know he's taking it all in.
I tell him everything, and just as I'm finishing I smell something funny again – not funny ha-ha either. I look up to see Stinky Tyler grinning at me. The smell from him takes my breath away for a second; realisation dawns as he speaks.
“Play time's over. Boss wants to seeya.”

Miss is the authority, but the Organisation is something else. I've known about them for a few weeks now, but never crossed paths with them directly. Before me now, hiding in plain sight, their Boss, Chubby Smith. Stinky Tyler's hand is on my shoulder as he leads me over to the sandbox.
“Can't have you talking Jonah,” says Chubby, studying the tower of a sandcastle.
“I had next to nothing until you and Stinky poked your beaks in,” I reply, looking around casually. All the guys I'd figure as bad apples in the class: Jimmy Crayons, Wet Tony, Wheezy Jackson.
“How about now?” asks Chubby as his eyes meet mine.
I shrug.
“A protection racket, right? You get 'donations' from other kids, their favourite things stay nice and unbroke.”
Chubby smiles.
“You're not so smart are you though Chubby?” He frowns and stands up.
“You didn't have Lisa figured as a screamer, did you Chubby?” I continue, “You knew she wouldn't talk – hell, she can't – but you didn't have a head for these hysterical dames.”
“And you, you stupid baby, you just wander in and start asking questions, thinking about things...” mutters Chubby as he signals his boys to come over.
I think fast; they'll work me over, nothing obvious, and I'll have to keep shtum.
Only one thing I can think of can get me out of this, even though it pains me to do it.
I'm a big kid now, but even big kids slip up. I let it go, and feel my pants filling and start to cry. For a second Chubby laughs, thinking that I'm not such a tough guy, but then as my wailing gets louder he wises up.
Too late.
Miss and the Classroom Assistant are there, just as I'm surrounded by these slightly bigger boys, my pants smelling ripe. There's a few explanations for the scene that they're seeing, but in all the obvious ones, I'm the victim.
I smile through my tears as Chubby starts getting told off.

Miss found other kids' toys and possessions hidden in the sandbox. They started asking questions and Chubby started crying. My guess is it'll be a long time before he even thinks about anything like that again.
Half an hour later I'm changed and back at my desk, trying to figure out from the blocks whether I was working on a house or a doggie. Neither makes much sense.
“Th-thank you.”
I look up and see Lisa smiling, standing awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other. I wink at her and indicate the chair next to me, pushing half of the blocks in front of her place.
“You know doll,” I say, leaning back and grinning, “This could be the start of a beautiful friendship...”

*

This short story is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works License. Feel free to repost and share it with others, so long as you credit me (Nathan Ryder, 2009) as the original author and link back to this page. It would also be nice if you dropped me a comment!

Flash Fiction: No Fifth Symbol

No Fifth Symbol
Nathan Ryder

Cruising through void, our ship found an anomalous signal; analysis shows it is without doubt artificial in origin. Tracing it back, our party found a world forty lights away. It was similar to our own, all points of SSC (survival standard chart) good for us.
Our scans found a civilisation, Lunar Rhythm, unknown to ours. Normal civilisation growth up to sub astronomic transit, with no aspirations to go out to stars and void. Basic humans, slight, dark hair and brown sight organs; laughing always, childish in a way, but good, caring to us. No major social quirks.
Almost.

Ann and Brian, our linguists, took much fun in studying Lunar Rhythm and in particular it's communication protocols. Lunar Rhythmic was not difficult, basic syntactic constructions with old root grammars and a standard dictionary. That said, Ann found that although our civilisation and Lunar Rhythm had common starting points, Lunar Rhythmic had a syntactic quality that was anomalous; translation was minimal from Basic to Lunar Rhythmic, minor word variations only.
Ann had an insight. I can call to mind Ann and Brian discussing an anomaly that Ann saw during our first formal contact.
A sound hits my auditory canal, Ann's gasp.
“No fifth symbol!” Ann shouts.
“What?” I ask.
“No fifth symbol,” again; Ann and Brian talk quickly. By and by, I grasp syntactically what is passing. Following discussion, our party confirms Ann and Brian's thoughts. A schism such as this could not occur naturally. “Why is Lunar Rhythmic as it is?” was our mantra for many days.

Many days pass. A thought occurs, from Brian, for us all to hold communication for a month with a lack of fifth symbol. I can call to mind Ann nodding, “This will aid us in sympathy with Lunar Rhythmic!”
Our hosts, Lunar Rhythm, support us in this. John and Alan had suspicions at first, but soon took to communicating in Lunar Rhythmic. Ann, Brian, Mary follow. I, as Captain of our ship and party, was last, my suspicions many. I thought it crazy, talking in this way at first. Days pass, and I find my thoughts taking an unknown quality. Calm, lack of fifth symbol causing brain functions to flow – truth, thoughts flow without a fifth symbol, a diminution of options improving cognition.
And such joy in thinking and in watching days pass on Lunar Rhythm. Moon arcs at night claim air from my lungs on all occasions! Spring days, so happy! Our party find joy in this radical concision of talking and thinking, of Lunar Rhythmic, a form that is shaping our minds as days pass among a caring, good company...

Thirty months pass. Our party knows it should bid so long to Lunar Rhythm.
All of us talk. An hour at most all of us discuss, but it is not a hard pill to swallow.

Our party will stay with our hosts and patrons, Lunar Rhythm. Such joy was found at our choosing. Local customs hold a particular oddity to us still, but Ann and Brian's scholarly discussions point our path, our way. No major social quirks.
Almost.

*

This short story is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works License. Feel free to repost and share it with others, so long as you credit me (Nathan Ryder, 2009) as the original author and link back to this page. It would also be nice if you dropped me a comment!

Flash Fiction: Homage to '253'

Homage to '253'
Nathan Ryder

Martin Reed
Outward appearance
Black suit, open collar, striped sweater wobbling on the line dividing trendy and nerdy. His hair, too short to do anything with, too long to look tidy. He pushes his glasses up (slightly too big), staring intently at a document. His other arm is slung protectively around a backpack resting on his knees.

Inside information
Martin isn't reading the paper on tutoring strategies. He looks through it. All he can think about is the growing feeling that something is now not right in his eight month relationship. Trying – and failing – to identify what is wrong now he has come to a conclusion: he must break up with Emily before they both end up hurt.

What they are thinking or doing
It's not you it's me. No, he tells himself, you can't say that after eight months.

I just feel like our lives are going in different directions; I don't want to hurt you. Well, the last part is true...

The announcer's voice mumbles the next station. Martin wakes from his thoughts and shakes his head. Putting the paper away he thinks about work.

That lasts a second, then he begins to think about Emily. What happened? What am I not getting?

Stepping off the train he clumsily drops his wallet. Picking it up he goes to take his ticket out and instead pulls out the picture of Emily that he keeps there.

Smiling eyes, her shy grin.

In a second he realises: the next step.

Walking away he rehearses in his mind, I love you. Will you marry me?

*

This short story is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works License. Feel free to repost and share it with others, so long as you credit me (Nathan Ryder, 2009) as the original author and link back to this page. It would also be nice if you dropped me a comment!

Flash Fiction: ...And I Feel Fine

...And I Feel Fine
Nathan Ryder

From: Carolyn Webster, Senior Tour Supervisor
FAO: All Museum Tour Staff

Tour Guide Assistance Notes for “The End of the World! (as we know it!)” 28.05.19

1. Emphasise, when talking with visitors, that this is the latest in a long series of state of the art multimedia experiences for visitors at the Museum.
2. Emphasise especially that the exhibition is free; make special mention of the well stocked Museum Gift Shop.
3. Use of recording devices of any kind is strictly prohibited in all exhibition spaces. Storage capsules are available for a small refundable deposit in the cloakroom adjacent to the Gift Shop.
4. The Museum's legal division is certain that we are perfectly within our rights – through public domain, fair use and parody laws – to use the media that we have in our exhibitions. That said, all Museum staff will use the assigned exhibit names when leading tour groups and when dealing with questions from members of the public. Regardless of how a member of the public refers to an exhibit, you will use the name given in the official tour programme.
5. If you believe that there are any questions that have not been raised in this outline, or if a member of the public asks you a question that you do not feel qualified to answer, please refer to a more senior member of the Museum Tour Staff.
   

From: Carolyn Webster, Senior Tour Supervisor
FAO: All Museum Tour Staff

Addendum #1 30.05.19
Having mentioned similar in point 4 of the original Tour Guide Assistance Notes, it pains me to reiterate the point for certain members of staff. Despite members of the public referring to it by another name, you are to refer to the exhibit “Post-Civilisation Simian Earth” by that name and by that name only.


From: Carolyn Webster, Senior Tour Supervisor
FAO: All Museum Tour Staff

Addendum #2 03.06.19
Any resemblance between the appearance of the lead character solidgram in “Post-Civilisation Simian Earth” and “Viral Neo-Luddite Earth (circa 1971)” is purely coincidental. DO NOT get drawn into conversations on the subject. DO NOT acknowledge or mention the name Charlton Heston. Refer all queries to myself or another senior member of the Museum Tour Staff.


From: Carolyn Webster, Senior Tour Supervisor
FAO: All Museum Tour Staff

Addendum #3 11.06.19
Following an incident during the first school tour of the day, access to the “Reanimation Station Military Base!” exhibit is limited to members of Museum Technical Personnel. Any queries by members of the public or by “journalists” should be met with a request to contact me.


From: Carolyn Webster, Senior Tour Supervisor
FAO: All Museum Tour Staff

Addendum #4 15.06.19
The “Reanimation Station Military Base!” exhibit has reopened. No school tours or individuals under the age of 18 are to be allowed access to the exhibit. All staff and members of the public should respect the yellow lines on the floor and endeavour to stay clear of them. No one should cross the red lines painted on the floor, and in the event that a member of the public does cross a line, Museum Tour Staff should:

1. Order them to return;
2. Not follow them;
3. Alert members of Museum Security and Technical Personnel.
   

Museum Technical Personnel have assured me that while they cannot find the fault which lead to the injuries during the school tour four days ago, the solidgrams are restricted by the angle of the beam emitters from passing the red lines. Probably. They definitely cannot pass the yellow lines. All inquiries regarding the school tour incident of 11.06.19 should be forwarded to myself or another member of senior Museum Tour Staff.


From: Carolyn Webster, Senior Tour Supervisor
FAO: All Museum Tour Staff

16.06.19
VIRAL INTRUSION OF SOLIDGRAM SOFTWARE!!! LEAVE VIA EMERGENCY EXITS OR MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE MAIN SECURITY DESK!!! MUSEUM WILL BE SEALED IN FIVE MINUTES, ALL DATA AND POWER LINES WILL BE SEVERED WHILE INFORMATION SYSTEMS ARE PURGED, SAFETY WITHIN THE MUSEUM COMPLEX CANNOT BE GUARANTEED!!!


From: Carolyn Webster, Senior Tour Supervisor
FAO: Museum Board of Trustees

Autotyped from dictation, 18.06.19
I was left a project to supervise that I didn't want, that, that no one wanted. And yet your response at the start of this was, “No worries, Carolyn is always up for a challenge, Carolyn always comes through!”

You didn't listen on the 11th, you just wanted the story to go away.

You didn't listen on the 14th, you just looked at the margins. What do they look like now?

You can find yourself someone else to ignore. Consider this my resignation.


From: Carolyn Webster, Senior Tour Supervisor (former)
FAO: All Museum Tour Staff (those remaining)

Autotyped from dictation, 18.06.19
This should be Addendum #5 I think, my last message to you doesn't count. I always liked things to be regimented. Sorry if any of you thought I was a stuck up bitch for being such a stickler for the rules. I've resigned. The tours are all cancelled, the whole exhibition is to be closed. I was accused of cutting corners, but I didn't design this exhibition I just took over the project.

You only have to look at half of the things that the exhibits were based on to know that it was never going to end well. I am sorry that I couldn't persuade the Trustees to close the exhibition sooner; they'll say that we – that I – should have stepped in sooner on the day. I know it wasn't enough, please believe me that I did everything I could.
CW

*

This short story is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works License. Feel free to repost and share it with others, so long as you credit me (Nathan Ryder, 2009) as the original author and link back to this page. It would also be nice if you dropped me a comment!

Flash Fiction: Ethical Conditions

Ethical Conditions
Nathan Ryder

There are two or three of Them outside right now. I can hear that high-pitched chiming that they make. I guess it's Their way of talking or something. I don't know.
I wish I had paid more attention in school. I hated science. I didn't care. I wish I knew more about it now. I might know where I am, or know how to figure it out. The stars look wrong. There are so few. I only know that because Mary told me. I'm so stupid.
I might know how They can float, how They can build these things which look like houses but aren't, how They can make me sleep just by looking at me...
...I might know what this thing, this machine, that They've put in my side is, and why I hurt after They have visited. I always sleep when they come. They just look at me, I think – it's difficult to know if that area of their skin is an eye – and it happens, I just black out. I always hurt after, but it goes away quickly.

The house is alright I guess, for a prison. It's warm, there's food and water, and I guess they sampled our radio, or maybe just took a recording of the internet and filtered out some music, because I haven't heard the same show twice so far.
Mary lives in the next house, with three other women. There are no other women in my house yet. She says she has been here for two years, give or take. She tried marking the days off on one of the walls, but every time she woke up the house was like brand new. She tried marking the days on paper, but it was the same, every time she woke up the house was renewed. All of the other women say the same thing happens to them, but between them try to keep a calendar. I don't care. I just want to go home.

A week or so ago, I walked out, kept going for four days. There were endless houses, all identical to mine, all off the same road. The women I met had similar stories. The day came around when they put me to sleep. They found me, like clockwork, and when I woke up I was back in my house. Mary said she tried it. They always find her.

I haven't seen a man since I arrived.

I look out of the window, and see Them looking up. The usual one points at me and then turns back to the other one. I duck away, fearful that He or They might be about to do me some harm.
I want to go home. My name is Nicola Smith. I'm twenty-two years old and I don't know why They are keeping me here. This is bullshit. It's been months now. Why am I writing this? The paper will be like new just as soon as I go to sleep anyway.

*

"Do you admit that there is a conflict of interest?"
The reporter won't get off that track, and I can hear the judgement in his tonal shifts; the telepresent public relation tell me to give him the standard response.
"Since we haven't been able to make them understand our language, or even train them in more than a basic way with regard to our intentions I agree that we have to tread carefully. But make no mistake, these are animals," I begin, pause, and then continue, "Social animals, yes, but they're barbaric, warlike, highly suspicious of other tribes. Keeping them here is an act of kindness-"
"They're sentient," the reporter says, "Early tests on them-"
"-were flawed," I say sharply, cutting in and giving the impression that the reporter had better not cut across my statements again. It's all so carefully scripted, and I'm bored, I have other work to do. "Long term observations of them in their natural habitat showed that they do not learn with time. As time moves on they become even more rigid and tribalised, a flaw on their social constructions that grows hungry for destruction. Coupled with the imminent atmospheric collapse, keeping this group is necessary for the sake of the Quadrant's Biosphere Specimen Archive."
The public relations whisper away at me on the closed channel. They're bored too, and give me permission to take my pick of the closing statements.
"As for their caviar," I conclude, pointing the way to him, "It is a luxury item and the profits from its sale supports the energy cost for their habitat. You might think it is a terrible thing, but I assure you we operate under the strictest of ethical conditions, approved by the Quadrant Consensus."
He gives a gesture that is easy to take as a shrug; he doesn't really care, his righteousness is an act. This is a puff piece for his news service, all of us know it. No one wants to really debate this any more. He travels ahead, still surveying and recording. The telepresence is disabled, science staff offline.
I glance back and see that one from the latest batch looking down.
I check the records and realise that she is alone in her dwelling. The new annexe is waiting to be filled with the next hundred thousand who are arriving, but I'm sure I can allocate one or two dwelling mates for her.
I really wish public relation would talk directly to the reporters, even if the reporters are only vaguely interested. Animal husbandry is my area, not ethics.
I look up and see that the female is gone from the window, and move off to catch up with the reporter.

*

This short story is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works License. Feel free to repost and share it with others, so long as you credit me (Nathan Ryder, 2009) as the original author and link back to this page. It would also be nice if you dropped me a comment!

Flash Fiction: The Bacon Bush

The Bacon Bush
by Nathan Ryder

Things never just happen in science. All those happy accidents that lead to 'miraculous' breakthroughs are never that at all. I'm serious. The guy who invented non-carcinogenic cigarettes? He just wanted smoking to be cool again.
Take Mike Brewster's discovery, the one that got him the Nobel in 2017: you might think that there was some noble goal there, maybe wanting to feed the starving masses, giving them more than just grain, giving away cheap, easily available protein. What a great humanitarian, an innovator in the area of agricultural genetics.
Nothing of the sort.
Brewster overheard the woes of one of his post docs, did some thinking of his own (the realisation of how profitable it could be pushed him along a bit probably), and arrived at a solution.
Not the one that his post doc was going for, but a solution nonetheless.
That post doc – my friend, Adam Harris – didn't have a noble goal in mind either.
He just wanted to impress his vegetarian girlfriend.

“I just want to impress Helen!” he said, after a pint or four in the local.
“You can't give up meat,” I said. I was slurring a little I think, a little bored too, but you support your mates when they're having relationship problems. “You don't give a crap about poor little Chicken Licken or Porky Pig, she knows that!”
“I know, but I really want this to work...”
“Look mate, you tried before, but that textured soybean stuff she buys just isn't the same,” I said, draining my glass. I set it down and stood up, my turn to get the round in. “It's not like meat grows on trees, is it?”

Back in the labs some weeks later, Adam was trying to explain the problem he was having in getting the right proteins to knit together. I was just amazed that he was getting anything from the adapted soybean plants.
“I'm getting chunks from the first strain,” he said, as Brewster popped his head around the door, “The amino recombination is almost there, it really is!”
“But not quite,” I said, frowning and looking at the sequence that he was proposing for a future culture. It was out of my area, but I could understand enough of what he was doing to offer an opinion.
“Strains three through seven are producing something that looks like mince but tastes like crap,” he said, nodding a hello as he realised his supervisor was there.
Brewster cracked a joke about Adam knowing what craps taste like. We laughed dutifully, and a few seconds later Brewster walked away. Six months later I realised the importance of that moment, Brewster's eyes hungrily taking in the diagrams of protein chains and enzyme mappings that were strewn across the wall.
We should have remembered the allegations that had been made against Brewster a year earlier. Questions had been raised about his conduct whilst he had been supervising a visiting student (and Brewster's subsequent filing of patents) but nothing had ever come of it.
And we should have remembered that he has a photographic memory.

Six months passed and Adam cracked it.
He and Helen had split up by then, had done so two months earlier when she called in at the lab and saw that strain thirty-seven had produced a curly little tail. But it didn't matter. Adam had done it. We trimmed a few 'fruits' off, slapped them in a pan and fried them. Served on toasted white bread, no butter, it was pretty good. Thin trim of fat at the edge, a little too pink maybe, but a good texture and the taste was spot on.
Officially he was going to call it Glycine Max Modified Strain 53.
Between us we had taken to calling it the Bacon Bush.

One week later, he was almost ready to present his research. A hundred little seedlings, four mature plants, and even a new variant that produced rashers of streaky bacon. I had just stopped by to see how the press statement was coming along, when a group of geeks from the seventh floor burst in.
“Mike Brewster is giving a press conference in the main lecture theatre!”
“It's a major advance apparently!”
“He's on the midday news now!”
We put the feed through to the wall screen. Brewster was ten minutes in to his spiel and we tune in to the moment that said it all: Adam's last six months of work and his failed relationship were all for nothing.
Brewster beamed for the cameras and pulled the screen aside; you could almost hear the biotech firms scrambling over each other to put an offer to him.
Broad green leaves, main mass of the plant two feet high, thick vines supported like tomato plants with inch thick slabs of red meat hanging down from. Not a soybean plant base, that much was certain, but too much of a coincidence.
Adam let out a howl as he turned away and stormed out of the room. Meanwhile flashbulbs went off again and again as Brewster said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: the Steak Plant!”

*

This short story is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works License. Feel free to repost and share it with others, so long as you credit me (Nathan Ryder, 2008) as the original author and link back to this page. It would also be nice if you dropped me a comment!

Flash Fiction: Five Cigarettes

Five Cigarettes

by Nathan Ryder

“I thought you said that you were going to quit.”
She exhales and blows the smoke out, a small grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Let me guess, they'll kill me, right?”
The cigarette is almost gone anyway, I don't know why I brought it up. Just something to break the silence.
“Well - ” I began.
“It's not really been top of my list, you know?”
She checks the pack while she takes another short drag.
“Only four left,” she says quietly.
We both sit in silence, and only speak again when we hear a faint noise, drifting through the night. That's the way it's been for the last few days, just talking until we decide to sleep.
“I'll stop after these are gone,” she says, “I'll make them last.”
A week ago there were six of us. Now there's just me and her.
“We can probably get some more from that shop on the corner,” I suggest. “It's no big deal.”
“No,” she says, taking one last drag and stubbing it out. “I'll stop after these.”
Something outside, closer than before, sends a long howling moan into the night, and once the noise stops we just look at each and blow out the candles.
Ben died two days ago.

*

We escape over the roofs, jumping from the edge of one building to the next.
They got in.
They're not fast, but the way we figure it, we need to get away and out of sight as quickly as possible. They've not got enough left mentally to chase us for long, they might not even “think” to follow us out of the attic...
There's just so many now.
We stop, out of breath. She points to the top of a petrol station a few stories down. We stop and watch the street, wait until we've caught our breath.
Nothing.
The flat's trashed, gone. And here there's empty streets.
We scale down a fire escape and then just run for it. We climb up onto the roof of a van and from there I can just about reach onto the petrol station. She boosts me up and then I reach down for her, pull her up.
We lie back, saying nothing. I realise after a few minutes that she's shivering. I pull the blanket out of my pack and drape it over her. She looks at me and smiles, lifts the edge of the blanket and I huddle underneath with her.
I wake at sunrise. She sits, her legs hanging over the edge of the roof, watching the dawn, smoke trailing up from the cigarette in her hand.

*

I hear a scream, drop the torch and then pick it back up again, run.
At the doorway to the shop there isn't a second's pause, and without thinking I find myself throwing the torch straight at the man looming over Jane. She's still screaming. The man stumbles back and I jump over her, falling forwards and taking me and him over to the floor. His arms shoot up and his dead fingers grip at my throat. I put my hand out, scramble and find the torch.
As he starts to pull me down to his mouth I bring the handle of the torch down on the man's face. He moans, growls again and his arms struggle again at me; I bat them away and smash the torch in the centre of his forehead. With something sounding like a sigh he stops moving.
I roll off him and look over to Jane. She's sobbing still, but looks like she's calming down, composing herself.
Something's wrong and for a second I don't understand.
Then I realise. I can't say anything.
“I was just having a smoke,” she says, wiping her eyes and nose on her sleeve, “I turned around and he was just there...”
She catches me staring.
“What?”
She looks at her hand.

*

“You promise?” she asks quietly. A thin plume of smoke rises from the cigarette in her hand. Since lighting it a few minutes ago she hasn't inhaled. She holds the other hand close to her, keeping it out of sight.
“I promise,” I say, hoping that my voice doesn't quaver.
She finally takes a drag. We used the last candle two nights ago, and the only light is from a pale yellow moon.
I don't know how long it is before she speaks.
“Where will you go?” she asks. I look at her, and see the light hitting her eyes. They're more distant than yesterday. I'll have to... I'll have to go when she falls asleep.
I want to.
But I promised.
“I don't know... Maybe the next town. Try and find some other people. Food would be nice too!”
“Yeah,” she says, “I think I'll feel better if I eat something.”
I look down, but know that she's looking at me.

*

Two days later I set out. She died peacefully, and then I waited.
She went less peacefully the second time.
I wrapped her in a bedsheet and laid her in a rooftop garden that I found.
I stood over her and smoked the last one out of the pack.
I'm glad I never started before but I don't think that one will kill me.

*

This short story is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works License. Feel free to repost and share it with others, so long as you credit me (Nathan Ryder, 2008) as the original author and link back to this page. It would also be nice if you dropped me a comment!

Intro to Flash Fiction

Thing number 16 on my list, as regular readers will be aware, is to write 101 pieces of flash fiction. I decided on this as a nice creative challenge, something to just flex my mental muscles while I was thinking about other creative things.

Instead it has taken me over 100 days just to get to the point of finishing the first one! I have plenty of ideas, but when it comes to writing something of between 250 and 1000 words (which is what I am going to take as my restriction) you have to be very creative with the story that you're telling. Now, I'm not suggesting that I am very creative, but I'm hoping that readers will find something interesting in at least a few of these stories that I'm going to tell.

On the off chance that someone wants to link to anything I write, please remember to credit me (Nathan Ryder) as the author, and if for some bizarre reason you'd like to reproduce it in some way or whatever then please get in touch. Look at the Creative Commons licence that I have in the main site sidebar for further detail.