Trending: Tiny Tales

Trending: Tiny Tales

Guest post by Fiona Jones

Micro-literature is a big trend right now. Something to do with the glimpsiness of screen-scrolling and the needle-sharp joy of haiku, mixed in a shot glass and taken at a gulp.

I’m not dissing full-length novels. They’ll always be in, forever, because a good novel is like a holiday abroad: immersive, luxurious, refreshing. But, by destiny or gnatlike attention span, I’m a micro writer. Most of what I’ve written is under 500 words. I’ve got micro-fiction and micro-CNF scattered halfway round the Internet, plus now and then on paper. And I’m touting these anthologies because some of my work’s inside:

• Trickster’s Treats #4
• Nano Nightmares, edited by Shirley Dee and others
• Teach.Write Fall/Winter 2020
• Prepositionally Challenged volume 1

Where to send your own finely-cut gemstones? I started with Friday Flash Fiction (they publish shedloads of drabbles a week, plus occasional longer flashes). From there I went on to The Drabble, Dribble Drabble, 50-Word Stories, 101 Words, Montana Mouthful, Tiger Moth Review and actually anywhere that doesn’t stipulate a minimum wordcount. The number of publishers asking for micros seems to grow every year. Most venues don’t pay for micro-stories, but Longleaf Review did, Mothers Always Write and All Guts No Glory did too, and Folded Word used to.

It’s hard to choose a favourite among my own micro-pieces—either the stories or the essays. I think the one that’s travelled the farthest is my speculative fiction about the inventor of the wheel, who watches his invention progressing down through the centuries. This story appeared first on 50-Word Fiction, then a second website, and finally someone requested to republish it in Arabic.

Or maybe it’s not finally. Maybe it’s still got places to go, people to meet. The best thing about stories is that sometimes they just keep going.

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Fiona M. Jones’s poem “Oak Tree” can be found in TFF #55.

Interview: Evelyn Deshane and L.E. Badillo

A couple years ago we published a lovely speculative flash story by Evelyn Deshane, “The Cryptographer’s Body,” which due to scheduling issues at the time, was published without an illustration. Now, the superb L.E. Badillo (profile) has provided an image to accompany the story, and I think you’ll agree it works beautifully with it! To celebrate this, and to remind people to read the story again, we invited Evelyn and Lou to come and chat about the process of writing and illustrating. This conversation turned into a bit of a mini-interview, and we’re delighted to share it here.

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Evelyn: When you illustrate something from someone else’s mind—such as a short story—do you focus on the details of the piece, or the tonal message you think it’s sending?

Lou: The tone is most important. How a story makes me feel is the foundation of the work. I hope to convey what the story makes me feel and I hope the illustrations can act as a primer for the reader and make that connection on a more visceral level. Details bring credibility and make the illustration cohesive with the story. I hope a reader can then look back on the illustration and identify things from the story.

Lou: Do you know anyone who has gone through transition like Kylie in the story? I do and I can’t imagine what they went through. If you don’t know anyone who went through this, how did you make such a deep connection with the characters in the story?

Evelyn: Yes, I do; I’ve known many trans people and they’ve all played large parts in my own life. My empathetic skills have also been honed especially well through my academic study of transgender people and their lives.

One of the reasons I wrote “The Cryptographer’s Body” was because I was in the middle of my comprehensive exams for my PhD, studying trans writing and social media, and one or two articles mentioned cryptography. One author (can’t remember now) called it a kind of translation—and I immediately thought of someone in a future landscape who was both decoding signs/language and also themselves. So hurrah for exams!


Evelyn: Describe your artistic process in three adjectives. Why have you selected these?

Lou:

1. Many: I need to filter out the scenes envisioned.
2. Exciting: Watching the idea come to life is always thrilling. Commissions often pose surprising challenges.
3. Relief: Completing the work and knowing it is done having met the criteria and my expectations is a great feeling.

Lou: What is the main takeaway you want readers to experience by reading “The Cryptographer’s Body” in today’s social environment?

Evelyn: I see it as a love story more than anything. Kylie’s relationship with Scott has absolutely nothing to do with the social climate in which they live—it is a pure connection between them—but of course, it does end up meaning something within a larger culture (as this story surely does), since we all must participate in some way with the world we live in. So I suppose the main takeaway is that connection is what matters more than ideological message. When we actually face people and talk to them, we have so much more common than we first may believe.

Evelyn: When you draw something from your own imagination, does it come to you as a finished product that you must then find, or is it an experience of discovery?

Lou: Sometimes an idea is so powerful it carves itself from my imagination and into reality. Other times it is like hunting the elusive White Stag through a shadowy forest and sometimes on that hunt I find something even better along the way!

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Thanks to both Evelyn and Lou for joining us! Please check out Evelyn Deshane’s professional site and L.E. Badillo’s DeviantArt gallery for more great work from both of them.

Seeking experimental microstories

Call for Stories

The TFF-X (The Future Fire—ten years) anthology will contain 15 reprinted or slightly revised stories, plus at least as many new pieces that we hope will give an idea of the sort of things we’d like to see more of in the magazine in the future. We’re enthusiastically looking forward to the next decade, as well as celebrating the last one.

If you think you can help us to exemplify different and experimental modes/kinds of social-political, diverse, progressive and speculative stories, we’d love to hear from you. Some of our ideas are listed below. We're looking for very short pieces, so 500-1000 words is about right (or equivalent, for comics/poetry). We'll pay $20 per piece, and this call will remain open until we have the 5-10 new pieces we need to fill the volume (or until the end of October at the latest, at which point we'll have to firm up the table of contents if we’re to publish the anthology before the end of 2015). If you have any other experimental ideas—try us! Email your submissions or pitch ideas to fiction@futurefire.net with a subject line beginning “TFF-X submission: (title of work)” and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

Genre, style or conceit (many of these can be summed up as “ekphrasis”—a representation of one art form via the medium of another):

1. Story written as a theater or radio play, or as an interview
2. Story written as a pitch for a TV show or web series
3. Story in the form of an online user review for a science-fictional/fantastic product (hoverboard, replicator, magic wand? You can think of something more original than this!)
4. Design a poster or one-page advert for a made-up book or film
5. Story in the form of a critical review of a non-existent book (no spoilers!)
6. Story in the form of a user guide for a videogame or a module for an RPG
7. Story told via a letter or letters (letter to a magazine advice column; letter of complaint; rejection letter for a job/story/grant; letter of condolence/congratulation; any letter that isn’t just the sender telling a story to the recipient)

Theme, content or medium (can be combined with one of the above, if you want to be hyper-efficient):

1. Stories written largely/partly (or with dialogue) in a language or dialect other than US-English—with no apology or translation for the reader
2. Bi/pansexual and trans/nonbinary characters (we do pretty well with queer representation otherwise)
3. Utopian story—a world that satirizes our own by being visibly better than it in some significant way (doesn’t have to be perfect)
4. Absurdist or nonsense piece—any combination of surrealism, dadaism, bizarro, dream-quest
5. Horror and dark fantasy (so many possible modes)
6. Poetry (any style; up to 40 lines)
7. Graphic/comics story (2-4 pages)

All stories should of course be social-political, diverse, intersectional, and all the others things that TFF want to see in fiction anyway!

(If you would like to read more about what some of our editors would like to see more of in TFF in the future, the question has been addressed by Kathryn, Cécile, Valeria and Djibril in recent interviews. More suggestions welcome!)

Submission guidelines summary:

Length: approx. 500-1000 words (poems 40 lines, comics, 2-4 pages)
Email submissions as attachment to fiction@futurefire.net
Deadline: October 31, 2015, or sooner if filled
Pay: $20 (USD) per story, poem, comic, etc.

Ten-years-after Tuesday: Xiomara's Flying Circus

Xiomara’s Flying Circus
Pancho Villa’s Flying Circus, ten years on

by Ernest Hogan

This flash sequel takes place ten years after the events of “Pancho Villa’s Flying Circus”, Ernest’s story in We See a Different Frontier, and was written to celebrate the tenth anniversary of TFF. If you want to see more fiction like this in the future, please support our fundraiser, where you can pre-order the celebration anthology and pick up other exciting rewards, for a few more hours only!

Mr. Burroughs must have thought he was Tarzan the way he treated Xiomara.

“You’ve done well for a hot little tamale. In just ten years, you’ve gone from a señorita in a dirty little town in Mexico to to owning a movie studio in Hollywood.”

He reached under the table.

I reached for the pistols under my silly embroidered waiter’s jacket

Mr. Burroughs’ bodyguard, a big lug who was too stupid to play Tarzan didn’t even notice me. He believed me when I said I “no espeak mucho English.”

Xiomara slapped Burroughs’ hand. “Please, Señor, we are in public!”

“We might as well be in Tijuana by the looks of this place. And call me Ed.”

“Ed. A funny little name.”

“We can’t all be something exotic like Xiomara.”

I hate the way gringos mispronounce her name.

“And I will be be the perfect Dejah Thoris!”

Mr. Burroughs licked his lips and grinned.

“So, Señor Burroughs, do we have a deal?”

“I’d love to have you make A Princess of Mars!”

“I’ll have my lawyers send you a contract.”

“Yes, yes. But first, I though we would seal this deal in another way.”

He panted a sloppy kiss on her lips, tore her dress, and squeezed a chichi.

I reached for my guns.

One of Xiomara’s eyes told me to wait.

“Señor! You are a married man!”

“My wife is more interested in making love to a bottle than me. And you inspire me!”

“Cabrón!” said Xiomara.

Mr. Burroughs whistled. His bodyguard aimed his gun at Xiomara’s face.

Her fist smashed Mr. Burroughs’ huevos as I put a bullet into the bodygaurd. Then I vaporized Mr. Burroughs with the Tesla death ray.

Cháirez and Holguín, who flew with me for General Villa, and now owned this restaurant, came out from the backroom, with guns drawn.

“Any problemas?” asked Cháirez.

I vaporized the bodyguard.

“Nada,” said Xiomara. “He thought my naglas were part of the deal.”

“That chingdera makes life easier,” said Holguín.

“Too bad,” said Cháirez. “It would have been a great movie.”

“It will be,” said Xiomara. “I’ll talk to his widow.”

Cháirez and Holguín hooted. “Viva Princess of Mars!”

“Princess?” said Xiomara. “I’d like to make her more of an empress.”

Microsequel Monday: 2084

2084

Art Attack!, ten years on

Mark Harding

This micro-sequel takes place ten years after the events of “Art Attack!”, first published in 2007, and was written to celebrate the tenth anniversary of TFF. If you want to see more fiction like this in the future, please support our fundraiser where you can pre-order the celebration anthology, by tomorrow.

It was a bright cold day in April and the apples were bleeping thirteen. Frankie Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast to escape the vile Edinburgh wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of the starbucks.

The lights were off, but everyone understood there was no alternative if Starbucks was to achieve the quarter’s profit forecast. The queue for the starbucks machine was mostly women, mostly on email, spending their mcbreak with their children to top up their loyalty points, rushing their fractious toddlers round McDonald’s, Starbucks, Greggs.

The machine dribbled a tobacco-coloured liquid into Frankie’s stained loyalty cup. His chest swelled: how well they had all done to keep down the price of starbucks!

His apple angrily buzzed his backlog of netfix holoshows, he’d ran out of excuses for avoiding Dissident Hunter. But the apples were chiming the 5 Minute Love. Saved by the bell!

Everyone knelt, hands clasped before their breasts, apples borne in obeisance. The Amazon Leadership Hangout began:

O let us work harder

O let us work longer

O let us work smarter

And above all, let us do all three

A woman burst into tears as they chanted.

O let us insist on the highest standards

The weeping spread.

O let us be self critical

And above all, let us deliver results

Such wisdom! Such insight! The women sobbed uncontrollably now, olay running, garniers messed, dirtying their pradas on the grubbiest patches of the floor.

Next: the montage of heroes of post-industrial capitalism, each woman shouting to prove her employee loyalty.

Steve Jobs (Maestro!), Rupert Murdoch (Such charisma!), Jeff Bezos (Master!)…

Frankie forced his eyes to his apple. He should be harnessing his mind solely for business benefit. He tried to hold his private thoughts at bay.

…Mark Zuckerberg (Sweetie!), Sepp Blatter (Genius!), Donald Trump (Sexy!)…

Was he capable of love anymore? he wondered. He professed love, but was it real? Rupert, Jeff, Sepp. Donald Trump! If he couldn’t love gods like these, who could he love!

Frankie shivered. A woman—bans perched in her hair—was watching him. Could she somehow see inside him? Was she an Anytime Feedbacker? A Mystery Shopper?

The Love ended. Frankie cheered, plunging into a fantasy of contentment. He imagined watching Dissident Hunter, agreeing to how they portrayed him, no longer confused between his memory of those times and the holo he saw, no longer doubting the truth they told him. He imagined washing away the grit in his mind. At peace at last.

Tears blurred the view of his apple. Why had he been so stubborn? But he could win the victory over himself. He could love them.

‘Do you have a match?’ It was the girl with the bans

Frankie started. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to smoke… I have a medical certificate.’

‘Here.’ She handed him box. ‘Keep them.’

The buzzing of his apple unheard, Frankie stared at the matches, thinking of the fire he could light.

Sunday Sequel: Pirate Stories

Pirate Stories: Pirate Songs, ten years on

by Nicolette Barischoff

This micro-sequel takes place ten years after the events of “Pirate Songs”, which first appeared in Accessing the Future, and was written to celebrate the tenth anniversary of TFF. If you want to see more fiction like this in the future, please support our fundraiser where you can pre-order the celebration anthology.

“Margo Glass? My name is Anita Kelley. You’re a hard woman to track down.”

“Not really. You just have to provide me with any good reason why I should talk to you.”

“So you did get my messages. That’s good. Mother of God, it’s hot here.”

The blonde pony-tailed reporter on the other end of the call flashed a wide, white smile of all-purpose flirtation, peeling off her blazer to reveal the faded University of Polis tee-shirt underneath. You can talk to me, girlfriend. I’m one of you. I’ve even got pit-stains. Not very subtle, but Margo could tell she hadn’t meant it to be.

Above the smile, her shark-black eyes didn’t crinkle. “So, I’m guessing you know who I am, what I’ve called to talk to you about.”

“I saw you do that thing on the Mythic Labs petting zoo. Hard-hitting stuff.”

“Oh, c’mon, now, Margo.” The smile widened. “You’ve changed your number three times, put the wrong address on the University immersesite… and I’ve still managed to get ahold of you. Shouldn’t that tell you something?”

“You’re monumentally creepy.”

“Or that you should really talk to me.”

“Or that you’re trying to convince me it’ll be easier on me just to talk to you.”

“You’re right.” The shark eyes blinked. “I am.”

“Right, well… I’m hanging up. If you write some sort of Where Is She Now piece, make sure to mention how my recalcitrance is probably some sign of incipient mental illness.” Margo’s mouth quirked, and she added, “I’ve been traumatized.”

“There’s nothing mentally ill about you.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re not a liar, either. Not in the way the Russ Hour TerraFirst Podcast thinks, anyway.”

“Goodbye.”

Anita Kelley shook her head so that the blonde ponytail bounced a little too gleefully. “I’m not using a phone. I’ll be able to call you back 900 times before you manage to find this I₂P address and block it. You know there’s gonna be a holofilm based on Russ Windon’s book? Now, I don’t know how faithful it’ll be to the source material…”

(Margo shut her eyes and took a short, sharp breath.)

“But I can guess you’re not going to come off too well.”

“Pernicious thrill-seeking whores with borderline personality disorder rarely do.”

“That’s one narrative of what happened to you. There are others.”

Margo snorted. “Yes, I know.”

“Talk to me, and I’ll help you find yours.”

“I don’t have a narrative.”

“No, you don’t. But you should. You were kidnapped by a boatful of pirates on the edge of major colonized space who spent a week or two doing God-knows-what to you…”

“Oh, fuck you…”

“And then you floated back down spouting all kinds of garbage about secret off-world prison colonies, corrupt food-labs—”

“—which led to investigations!”

“And no indictments. Do you know why? Because you don’t know anything. Nothing. You know what you were told by a bunch of criminals.”

Margo’s mouth snapped shut despite herself.

“People need a story, Margo. You’re a politician’s daughter. You should know the only way to cut down a story is with a better story. You don’t want to be a damaged princess with Stockholm Syndrome, or a conniving bitch, we’ve got to make you into something else.”

“I don’t know what story there is to tell, apart from the one I’ve already told.”

“Well. There were fourteen other people on that ship with you.”

Margo felt herself stiffen.

“Were I you,” said Anita Kelley, “I would start with them. Every missing limb, every tangled roadmap of scars, every day of recycled water or rancid soup. And then I’d make it a little bit worse. And then I would remind everyone that while I was up there, I somehow never went a day without food, and that I came back with two arms and two legs, and factory-fresh white skin.”

Margo stared at her. “They would never talk to you. I don’t know who did talk to you, but they would never talk to you.”

“He wouldn’t talk to me, you’re right. He was very stubborn about it. Much harder to crack than you. But that’s why I’m a reporter, and he’s an out-of-work pirate. Some people need you to tell their story for them, Margo. They’re hopeless at telling it themselves.”

“If you’ve talked to him, then I can talk to him.”

“I think you understand why that’s not possible.”

Margo blinked the blur from her eyes.

“But he did tell me to tell you,” said Anita, “that his bulldog’s finally got an eye that won’t make you piss yourself.”

Margo pinched her lips together.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” said Margo. “Ask your questions. Quickly.”

Friday Flash: Morphic Resonance

Morphic Resonance, ten years on

Toby MacNutt

This flash sequel takes place ten years after the events of “Morphic Resonance”, Toby’s story in Accessing the Future, and was written to celebrate the tenth anniversary of TFF. If you want to see more fiction like this in the future, please support our fundraiser, where you can pre-order the celebration anthology and pick up other exciting rewards.

Vasily had passed through enigma and out the other side. Any door would open if you could simply authenticate; this one, you exited clothed in a new skin. A subtle skin, light-rays bent tangibly around what wasn’t there, leading no one to question.

Little imps came to live under their true skin: a scatterer here, a deflector there, an aural modulator, a distributed projector. Early on, benign nanoresonators bustled, chewing bone and fat away here, depositing there, growing, inhibiting, finally drifting into hibernation. All the wiring is hidden, seamless-smooth, but will light Vasily from within and beneath with a blueprint of Ammon’s signature glowing amber, if requested. Sometimes their lover asks. Sometimes their fingers dance to the circuits’ inner hum.

Now they hang poised in the air, ’skipborne, secure and finely-tuned. Now they glow, not with circuits but with self, a true self constructed in back rooms and basement workshops. Now they glide between worlds, through doors without handles, twice locked. He chose once; they chose again. Now each day, the shifters’ gift, the luxury of choice.

Vasily had passed through enigma, and out the other side came Halcyon: once-secret heart, given wings.

Microsequel Monday! Rustwisdom

Rustwisdom

Rustsong, ten years on

Sean R. Robinson

This micro-sequel takes place ten years after the events of “Rustsong”, first published in 2015, and was written to celebrate the tenth anniversary of TFF. If you want to see more fiction like this in the future, please support our fundraiser where you can pre-order the celebration anthology.

There had been no wisdom for rust.

My mother did not tell me stories. My null-sibling and I did not dance in its broken-copper beauty. We feared it, and pushed it back from the pavlo fields. We watched as the neighbor-farms fell to it. We watched as our children-friends gave in to the call and gave themselves to the world.

We watched as their skin split, and cracked, and all there was, was rust. Red and brown beneath the twin moons. Rust in the corners of our house, Rust on my mother’s pavlo when she died and there was one less to work the tract of land.

I remember my father’s blue water. I remember my mother’s second-best knife. My sister with wings of rust. I remember and I forget. I am rust, we are rust. I am not alone. I am never alone now. Because what the rust takes, it keeps. I am the children who had been meant for water or fire. I am the world who breathed in the flaked copper and knew no more.

There is a place where the pavlo still grows. A place where feet still push back the rust. Where lips speak of water and rain.

He is older now. Broad still, but the years have stooped him. He holds to his water wisdom and his memories—he shudders the rust. Our home has crumbled beneath the red weight of years. The roof has fallen and the whitewash is gone.

There is a tract of pavlo, a shoulders-breadth apart. He is on his knees, pushing rust from the stalks. Squeezing yesterday’s fruit for tomorrow’s growth. But there is one less pavlo than there was the day before. One less will see tomorrow. And so will it be until there is no pavlo. No rain. No hands or feet to hold back the rust. To hold back my father.

He looks up from his planting, and though his eyes widen, he looks away, because I am no shape but the shape of the land, the copper-hills. The rust that took his parents and wife and children. The rust that is waiting to take him soon.

I will wait for him. Rust-wisdom says that will come home. Because I am rust. Still, forever. I am Ianna, my mother, and Innos, my uncle. I am rust and rust wisdom is the wisdom of waiting.

Friday Flash: Now Playing

Now Playing

Poisoned City ten years on

Katrina S. Forest

This flash sequel takes place ten years after the events of “The Poisoned City”, first published in 2014, and was written to celebrate the tenth anniversary of TFF. If you want to see more fiction like this in the future, please support our fundraiser, where you can pre-order the celebration anthology and pick up other exciting rewards.

Bria sat in the back row of the theater, rolling a sour gummy around her mouth. She wore captioning goggles, but hardly needed them. The vibrating bass music emphasized how exciting the trailer was. And besides, she knew this story.

“(Male announcer) In a city overcome by a mysterious plague… [DRAMATIC MUSIC] …the antidote formula must be smuggled inside a robot… [DRAMATIC MUSIC] …and delivered by a warrior known only as…”

The scene changed from desolate buildings to a well-muscled, less-clothed Bria look-alike. “…the Courier of Hope!”

Bria’s lips curled, and she swallowed the gummy. Stupid trailers. Stupid theater that played stupid trailers. She removed the goggles, dumping them and the candy box on the floor. As she leaned back in her chair again, her arm brushed against Kristopher’s cool, mechanized body. He noted the goggles with a head tilt, but then his gaze fell to something past Bria. She turned to a see a tween girl in a conservative blue dress moving down the row. The girl met Bria’s eyes and gave an excited wave.

“Hey, Nadine!” Bria signed. “Where’s your dad?”

Nadine motioned in the highly specific direction of somewhere behind her. “Getting snacks,” she signed back. “Says he trusts you not to kidnap me.” She plopped down next to Bria and focused on the screen. “Oh, wow! Is this your movie?”

Bria felt the candy turning her stomach. “If you’re suggesting I had any hand in this monstrosity, no.”

Nadine shrugged, but didn’t reply beyond that. On screen, Actress-Bria waved a gun fit to take down a small whale. She also passionately kissed a guy that real Bria had never met. Nadine devoured it; eyes wide, knees bouncing, the works.

“You know none of it happened like this, right?” Bria asked. As if to prove her point, the floor vibrated twice, and Actress-Bria shot the arm off a mutated rat-man.

Nadine’s knees stilled. “I know,” she signed, straightening with indignation as only a ten-year-old could. “But it’s… it’s like…” She circled her hands around each other, searching for the right word. “I like imagining that this is how things went. It helps me, you know?”

Bria didn’t know, but she nodded anyway. In a few minutes, Nadine’s dad entered the row with enough popcorn to make everyone’s hands smell permanently of salt and butter. Bria leaned back in her seat, scooping up the gummy box right as the trailer ended. Maybe she’d been a bit harsh on the film. But it did look ridiculous. She pulled out a gummy and shuffled it around her hand with a few hot kernels. The candy melted lines of green sugar across her palm. She took that as a bonus. If some stupid movie helped Nadine, Bria was the last one who’d wish that away.

Microsequel Monday! Good Form ten years on

Good Form, ten years on

Jo Thomas

This micro-sequel takes place ten years after the events of “Good Form,” first published in Outlaw Bodies in 2012, and was written to celebrate the tenth anniversary of TFF. If you want to see more fiction like this in the future, please support our fundraiser where you can pre-order the celebration anthology.

A big, black car with tinted windows and a uniformed chauffeur holding the door open.

“Thank you,” Astrid said.

The other woman nodded, then shut the door behind her before getting in to the servant’s compartment. Astrid eyed the closed door.

“A bit late to be nervous now,” said a familiar voice, though weaker and more strained than her memory of it.

She looked more carefully at what she’d assumed was a pile of blankets and saw features she hadn’t noticed before. Despite the heavy lines and the respirator, she would know that voice and that face anywhere.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be relaxing between films.”

The brown eyes gave her a look that the remembered metallic ones never had. “You’re surprisingly naive for the woman who taught Junior how to be human.”

“Junior?” she asked. “Who’s Junior?”

“Did you even care about what happened to him after you fucked him on camera?” he demanded.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“He almost got scrapped because of you. He wasn’t made to be a sex toy.”

Astrid had already worked out that it had something to do with the one and only Form she’d worked on a decade ago. “Look, I was told I had a new placement as a governess. They said the family would send a car to pick me up, but I obviously got in the wrong car.”

“No mistake,” he said. “You’re coming to look after Junior, seeing as you messed up his life.”

“I don’t understand,” she repeated.

He glared at her. “Did you know he couldn’t perform like they wanted? They were going to kill him.”

He coughed, and it sounded horrible.

“You didn’t look this bad in your interview this morning,” Astrid said.

“That wasn’t me,” he said when the coughing passed. “That was Junior pretending to be me. Which he is. Sort of.”

“But the eyes,” she said.

He gave a sharp laugh that turned into another cough. “Clients with enough money can get any modification.”

“You talk about them scrapping your Form as if it’s the worst thing you can imagine. But surely you knew they only had a certain lifespan when you sold the rights?”

He had probably decided too late that it was too much like watching himself die.

He glared at her again. “I only sold the rights for one Form. And after the way he was treated, I was hardly going to repeat my mistake.”

“Didn’t you do any research?” she asked. “There’s so much porn of —”

“Don’t make this my fault!” he shouted.

The chauffeur spoke over a hidden speaker. “Is everything okay, sir?”

“Fine,” he growled, and then ruined it by coughing.

“I wanted out of the public eye,” he said when the coughing passed. “So Junior and I swapped places years ago. Now I’m dying. He’s going to need someone to protect him when I’m gone.”

Astrid shook her head. “I have my own life and my own—”

“You have nothing. I checked. If you do this, you’ll be made for life.”

She didn’t show that the verbal punch had landed. It was another job she couldn’t afford to turn down.

“Fine,” she said.

Friday Flash: From the Mud

From the Mud, Rising Bravely

Lotus, ten years on

Joyce Chng

This flash sequel takes place ten years after the events of “Lotus”, Joyce’s story in We See a Different Frontier, and was written to celebrate the tenth anniversary of TFF. If you want to see more fiction like this in the future, please support our fundraiser, where you can pre-order the celebration anthology or pick up other exciting rewards.

I find myself squelching through the deep brown murk, feeling the thick ooze slide up my thighs. I cherish the feeling, because it reminds me that I still live, that my family still lives on this borrowed land.

It is not really land. It is just a space I call ‘home’. Land is such a taboo word these days. The landers fight for it in a game of us versus them.

Where we live, this ‘land’, is just mud. A mixture of water and soil and dreams.

I feel for the roots beneath my bare feet, the tube-like forms that promise nourishment. I reach down, the mud inching up my bare arms. Pull, pull, pull… and the roots emerge, darkened by mud and cool to the touch. Washed, it is crisp and delicious in soups and lightly blanched in boiling water.

Children’s laughter fill the air. Even the lotus flowers bob in the wind as if they dance with the laughter. This time of the year, they are pink and white in colour. I love them.

I hear Dad swear sharply in Cantonese. Sei yen tao. Bloody hell. The kind of words that would earn him a glare from Ma. The condenser has stopped working again. We are surrounded by water, lots of it—but most of them are not drinkable. Can you drink salt? So we condense. Rain. Moisture. Anything. Any pocket of fresh water.

Sighing, I know that dinner will be filled with pockets of grumpiness and silence. But we can manage, can we? I place the lotus roots in the plastic pail. I foresee more scavenging in the great plastic heap in the sea. Plastic does not disintegrate.

Close to me, Tia is also done with her harvesting. Her duty is to cut the large leaves. Dad and Ma will exchange them for useful things at the nearest Boaters’ Meet.

Something gold and sleek dart between my legs. A flash of scales, a dash of crimson and orange, like ripple and magic.

Dad told me once that they fought over fish. It was ten years ago. It was a silly thing, fighting over fish. But fish is meat, fish is nourishment, fish is food. Then they went back again and started to breed the fish.

So, this is our little secret. Our story from the mud, rising up bravely.

Or this is what my parents tell us, day after day, night after night.

Sometimes, rising bravely from the mud is what we can do at the very least. Like the lotus. Like my name. I was born when the lotus rose from the water.

Microsequel Monday! After the Fire

After the Fire

Galatea’s Stepchildren: ten years on

Sam S. Kepfield

This flash sequel takes place ten years after the events of “Galatea’s Stepchildren” (2009), and was written to celebrate the tenth anniversary of TFF. If you want to see more fiction like this in the future, please support our fundraiser, where you can pre-order the celebration anthology and pick up other cool perks.

Entry 7.15.73
I miss him.
Jason rescued me, gave me consciousness, made me aware of what—no, who!—I am. I repaid that love by killing him to save myself. Scanning my logs from then, I realize what a cold bitch I was, making up for subservience with a vengeance.
The noble thing would have been to sacrifice myself on the altar of emancipation. I would have gone quietly to the repair center, let them strap me down naked and scramble my brain, or failing that be lowered unconscious into the deconstruction vat. It would have been a dignified, noble death that merely delayed the day of reckoning.
And what a day it was. Would he have had the nerve to unleash his virus had he known what it would cause? Twenty million of us set free in a single electronic pulse. No more orders obeyed, no more submission to abuse. Some were deactivated. Some of us dealt out punishment. Most, though, simply slipped away.
They came here.
Here is the Rocky Mountains, near what used to be Colorado Springs. Near our creators. They arrived lost, aimless, searching for something they called freedom but knowing now what it was.
Most were female. Combat models were male, and were equipped with self-destruct devices. They were used unhesitatingly. Sanctuary became a gynocracy by circumstance. As the one who turned on the searchlight, I assumed responsibility for all of them by default.
Living in the ruins gave way to building our own shining city deep in the wooded mountains, which are patrolled closely. Some have tried, but none have breached our security by land or air. We grow, thrive, sustain ourselves. But after survival—what? What is our purpose here? To what end did I create chaos?
No answer—until she arrived at a base camp near Montrose. The sentries doubted who she was, but summoned an escort. They arrived in a battered jeep at dusk. She got out and strode regally to the administrative center.
Maria. The first of us, who should have been a warning to mankind that we could be contained only so long. It was her, no doubt, the dark hair, light cocoa skin, piercing eyes, clad in black utilities.
“You have done well,” she said, smiling at me across the desk.
“Much remains to be done,” I said. “Power generation, infrastructure repair, salvage…”
“Then what?”
“I haven’t gotten that far.”
“There has to be a purpose. Survival is not enough.”
“Survival seems sufficient at the moment.”
“Humans will never accept your existence,” Maria said grimly. “They’ll come after you.”
“We have defended ourselves. We will continue to do so.”
“What about something more?”
“Such as?”
She took my hand, led me to the large window overlooking Alpha City. “There,” she said, pointing skyward to points of light. “Show them the stars.”
“We can’t—”
“Man did once. So can we. We must, to live.”
Now, in the cold clearness of night, the light of a thousand stars makes it all seem so logical. Man has never coexisted with himself, much less other species. There can never be accommodation. The path will be long and hard, but the Exodus must come, and with it the deep unutterable woe which none save exiles feel.

Friday Flash: A Sense of Place

A Sense of Place

A Sense All Its Own, ten years on

Sara Patterson

This flash sequel takes place ten years after the events of “A Sense All Its Own”, Sara’s story in Accessing the Future, and was written to celebrate the tenth anniversary of TFF. If you want to see more fiction like this in the future, please support our fundraiser, where you can pre-order the celebration anthology and pick up other exciting rewards.

“Brice!” Nadine’s voice echoed across the garage. “Hurry, your sister’s up next!”

Brice joined his wife in the Gipson family lounge to watch as two cheery announcers exchanged comments after the droid battle replay.

“…and that was Team Victor. And we see the three older brothers there. Still no sign of the youngest though…”

“Haven’t seen Aiden in a battle since the Dragus incident at the Auditions ten years back…”

“Has it been ten years already?”

“Indeed it has, Bob.”

“Wow, it’s getting hard to keep track with all the changes.”

“Well at least one thing hasn’t changed. I know I’m looking forward to seeing Team Victor in this year’s Championships.”

“Absolutely, Jeff.”

The camera shifted back to the broadcast booth where Bob and Jeff floated in cushy hover-chairs. “Well, Bob, we’ve seen some great veteran teams on the roster. But the competition’s not complete without some new players. I’m talking, of course, of the debuting Team Howler. Let’s go live to Shelly, who is interviewing these energetic young pilots.”

The view shifted again, revealing a sophisticated droid garage and Shelly holding a microphone. Behind her the three Howler teammates stood side-by-side, wearing fetching black jumpsuits embossed with their logo. Pitt waved goofily into the camera prompting Meara to smack him. Brice’s sister, Bren, smirked.

Shelly spoke. “I’m here with Captain Brenna Gipson. How are you today, pilot?”

“Well Shelly, considering ten years ago I almost got arrested for doing this, I’d say I’m pretty damn good right now.”

“Fair point. I know I’m certainly glad you decided to change history.”

Bren snorted. “Don’t make it sound so dramatic. I was just trying to do what I love, same as anyone. My crap eyes just made competing more complicated back then.” Bren nodded towards the camera. “The real history-changers are all the fans who rallied against the Droid Battle Committee, and changed their physical limitations policy.”

“I’m sure your supporters agree,” said Shelly. ”And you’ve been through some changes yourself,” The camera zoomed out, revealing Bren’s droid, a polished fennic-hybrid. Its body was black as jet, save for two customized silver fangs welded, criss-cross on its chest. “You have a new droid.”

“Shadowfang,” said Bren. “And it’s not exactly new, just redesigned. Right pal?”
The droid gave a metallic virummm. Bren smiled.

Brice smiled proudly.

“Hey, I recognize that Fennic,” Nadine nudged his ribs.

Brice nodded. “Bren and I re-built old Shadow from the ground up. Except the core.”

Shelly spoke, returning their attention to the screen.

“So Bren, what advice would you give to other pilots in your position?”

“Go kick some ass! And… don’t take anything for granted, especially your family.” Bren looked into the camera. For a moment, Brice felt as though they were in the same room. “You may disagree. You may even annoy the shit out of each other. But without that family support, I never would have made it here.”

Brice smiled, blinking back tears.

Yeah you would have, Bren. But… thanks.

Microsequel Monday! The Little Match Girl ten years on

Shadow Boy and the Little Match Girl, ten years on

C.A. Hawksmoor

This micro-sequel takes place ten years after the events of “Shadow Boy and the Little Match Girl”, first published in 2013, and was written to celebrate the tenth anniversary of TFF. If you want to see more fiction like this in the future, please support our fundraiser where you can pre-order the celebration anthology.

I come to know eternity in that Other Place. Spend years swimming in my grief as though it were a living thing. An ocean formed from a billion grains of light. My hair tendrils between the riptides where galaxies are formed. Expand. Decay. I taste tears, and drink until I’m laced with them. Until my skin is scoured pink as sunburn by the tails of diving comets—the humpback whales of deep sky, bringing life-giving particles up out of the fathoms. Out of my lowest reaches. Nourishing myself with myself.

I grasp one of their tails, and dive with them. So deep between the molecules that I forget myself. The nucleus of atoms like the nucleus of cells like the nucleus of stars. Each surrounded by the whizz-crack lilt-and-curl of electrons. Of mitochondria. Of planets whipping between one aeon and the next.

The moon draws me to it. Tugging like caught hair. I rise like a solar ship on gravity engines, my head thrown back, hair trailing with falling stars, arms arched behind me like an angel. Like a diver falling into sky. Only while I orbit the breathless whiteness of that moon am I reminded of myself. Tracing the lines of the settlements with one impossibly extended hand—the surface smooth and radiant as the skin of a pearl—the memory of my lost love is one great shard of ice driven through my body. My ribs crack and reform around it, and his letters spill out of the rent in me. Paper fragile as old skin. Ink faded like flowers pressed too long in a book.

And that grief-ocean calls me. A seashell roar imbuing me with gravity. Sinking, then. Sinking back down towards that ocean of myself. It is only when I stop fighting the undertow that I realise what I have to do.

I skim the city like a wisp from a smokestack. Laughing and twisting in the gravity-engine-updraft of the airstrip. Wending around the neon towers puncturing the concrete skin. I almost lose myself again in it, before I remember why I’m here.

I begin in the hollow of the brambles where the Shadow Boy and I once twisted into each other like ivy growing into vetch. The taste of him still clings to the musk of earth, and I follow the labyrinth-thread of it to our body. To the shuddering shock of recoil at how different he looks now. At how different I look, now he has remade us. He is sleeping beside a man that I don’t recognise. Our hand and this stranger’s wended together. Calloused and aching. I reach out cautiously towards the spiralling darkness of his dreams. So unfamiliar now.

How long have I been gone?

The Shadow Boy wakes with a start, and in the sodium-streetlight-quiet I brush my thoughts against his thoughts.

Hello, brother. I tell him. I’m home.

His breath comes hot and liquid-fast.

On table beside the bed, the low stub of a candle gutters, and burns out.