It had cornered her in a back alley in one of the rougher areas of Antares City. The backwater center of Antares Prime, a mining colony along the outer rim of the asteroid belt beyond the settlement worlds of Caleb and Karon. The mineral rich rocky band provides the resources that power the tech hungry settlements and keeps the portal to Mother Earth open. The new frontier and the promise of wealth brings all kinds of fortune seekers through the wormhole, the galactic 49ers of the asteroid belt.
Celesta, a bounty hunter by trade knew the creature would bring her a small fortune. The aliens normally avoided the colony, preferring to remain on the more remote rocks of the belt. Only showing themselves when seeking shots of Synth, the highly addictive narcotic preferred by miners hoping to find respite from the hell of this place. The drug had been introduced to the locals in the early years when relations between our species were less strained.
Remi had worked for this moment for as long as he could remember; no handbook or road map had guided him to this point; only his dogged determination in the pursuit of scientific discovery and an innate ability to harness his imagination to reveal impossible solutions.
He quivered as the machine sighed and rumbled to life; the air cracking just above the tension of the shimmering surface.
The multiverse was only a theoretical mathematical construct before he’d discovered a way to open the portal that reached beyond the heavens.
Remi envisioned an expansive network of universes hidden behind the opening’s viscous filter.
The autonomous probe entered the diaphragm, wearing immediately in the wind like current; the camera glimpsing only shadows before going dark.
His greatest triumph, although successful, would come undone as the armies of the multiverse poured through the gate…
Saturday started like any other. Chad was at gym while she sat quietly thumbing through messages, sipping her morning tea. The doorbell rang and Abigail answers to find a woman with child standing alone on the porch.
Abigail stood in the eye of the storm. Lies and deceit laid bare for all to see. A swath of her existence torn asunder. Pieces of her dreams and hopes thrown into the hurricane, spinning widdershins about her.
Let me preface this story by saying there is nothing more annoying to me that someone telling me that something has been rendered ‘mute’ unless of course it had actually been rendered ‘mute’. Notice: This story contains course language but only once in the fourth paragraph!
We sat in the crowded courtroom waiting for Billy McGraw, Esq. to begin his final summation. The team had presented a compelling case in defense of our client. He was guilty, just not for the crimes he’d been accused of committing on this day.
“You sit here today to determine the guilt or innocence of this man,” Billy began. “The Crown has painted a convincing picture for you. Complete with timelines, text messages, deadly weapons, expert witness and more. But I submit that Johnny Fingers alibi makes all of that ‘mute‘. He was at hom…”
Billy would continue but the words were no longer registering. They faded into the background. Years of schooling at the finest institutions including the prestigious University of Toronto Law School and still, all credibility lost in a single faux pas. In my eyes and I could sense it in the jury’s eyes.
Sitting there, wanting to scream it out to the entire courtroom at the top of my lungs. “The fucking word is…” but I would mute myself. The damage had already been done, anything else I added would be ‘moot‘.
After a short diliberation, the jury found Johnny Fingers guilty on all counts. Somewhere Billy’s English teachers were rolling over in their graves. It would be the last case Billy McGraw’s ever argued at the firm.
Twenty-six years had passed since the grizzly murders of Nicole Brown and Ron Gold.
Every morning James awoke with one goal in mind; he would capture those responsible for this heinous act. Today was no different, he thought as he lay in his bed, the murderer had to be down at the Beverly Hills Golf & Country Club.
He was certain of it, plus a round of golf and a pop or two sounded like a good way to review the years of evidence amassed in his head. Finally dragging his ass out of bed he headed to the kitchen where he’d ingest his daily dose of Orenthal ℞ washed down with a glass of Tropicana OJ.
Completely unaware that something miraculous was about to happen, the Juice would turn to his left and solve the murders; staring back, the killer would ‘once again‘ reveal himself in the mirrored doors of the hall closet.
Fraught with fear, Amari glimpses the shape of the intruder shift in the low light of their living room. Her sharp glare freezing the children behind her in the hallway.
Sensing an opportunity, Amari recognizes this momentary gap in focus might be their best opportunity to escape. She sighs then draws a deep breath, “Go! Go! Go!” Leading them by the arms, she thrusts past the threat and out the front door. They keep on running to safety at the neighbours.
I know, the temerity. If you like these, check out ‘Home Inspection‘ my comedic epic fail of a first attempt at this weeks challenge.
1. Young Punks
He had dined with Kings and Queens, sipped sweet nectar with Gods. Without his contribution, the tech world would still be stuck in the stone ages but here he was a dinosaur himself. The young punks with their TikTok and Twitter kept reminding him. They had the temerity to question his influence on the future. This would be a mistake; he still had more fight than they could imagine.
2. Impossible Dream
Mars was a pipe dream to many. An insurmountable traverse in the cold vacuum of space. So adverse to life that the journey seemed unsurvivable. It would require the temerity of a team of exceptional visionaries to take a dream and turn it into reality. Humankind will remember the first astronaut to set foot on the red planet’s surface. They will celebrate history unfolding in anonymity from Mission Control.
When I first read this week’s prompt for Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt my brain caught a severe case of Dyslexic Moment Syndrome (DMS). Admittedly, DMS is a completely fabricated, home diagnosed condition. Trust me, I am not making fun of the disorder. In fact, I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to look at a page of text and not be able to read it. I admire anyone who has developed coping strategies to overcome it. That said, those of us who are not dyslexic have all experienced DMS at some point in time. Today when reading Sammi’s word my brain saw ‘termity’ instead of ‘temerity’. I normally look up the official dictionary meaning of these words, even the ones I’m intimately familiar with, before writing but because my idea used a play on the word, I didn’t bother. I didn’t catch my mistake until I went to add a link to the dictionary meaning to the end of my post. For the record, once I realized my error I went back and added to the story, blowing the 69 word limit out of the water. This is the tall tale I came up with…
“Howdy Y’all,” Big Daddy said in that slow southern drawl he was known for. Jumping down from his jacked up pickup truck he added, “Looks like a fine property Bubba. Let me take a peek.”
Bubba and Bobbie Jean waited patiently on the porch while Big Daddy did his thing. Checking the roof, windows, foundation from inside and out. He was meticulous as he went about his task, scrutinizing all the things a conscientious building inspector would normally inspect.
We probably should have waited for the inspection before signing the deal, Bubba,” Bobbie Jean lamented.
“Don’t worry Sugar, this place is perfect. I see little Bubbas running everywhere,” he replied.
When Big Daddy finally returned he said, “Beautiful property. A great place to raise the little ones, someday.”
“So it’s all good then?” Bubba said as he began to relax.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Big Daddy retorted. Billie Jean sensed the bubble about to burst as he continued, “Problem ain’t the property boy. The building’s all ‘termity’. Haven’t seen an infestation this bad in years. The whole God damned place could fall in at any moment. I’d steer clear if I was you!”
Epic fail written for Week #243 of Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt, guess I’ll have to try again. Photo credit: Unknown. Copyright 2022 Greg Glazebrook, All Rights Reserved.
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