Bedfellow

The force field had held through the storm, protecting the small hut from the worst of the wind, hail and rain. Morning finally broke with a battle-weary silence and a watery light.

Ruahan stirred on her modest cot and froze.

Her feet and lower legs were immobilised.

Cautiously raising her head off the pillow, she peered into the gloom towards her legs.

Her vision was snagged by the shredded door.

As she pondered the ferocity of the assault to have caused that damage, she became aware of the yellow eyes curiously watching her.

“Food?” The telepathic link stroked her mind.

100 word stories
©KimMagennis 2016

Interview

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself? Who is Mary?”

“I,” the words tumble through my mind. Things I’ve done? No! I am not defined by them. They are outside of me. Not part of me. Not any more.

“Don’t,” that also isn’t right. I did. A lot of times. A flush of shame, a memory of fear washes through my skin. I sweat. Like I did that time. All those times.

“Know,” how I got here, why I did what I did. What I thought I’d achieve.

I look down at my handcuffed hands, folded demurely in my lap.





100 word stories

©Kim Magennis 2016

Farmer

Picture Source www.wallpapersworldbd.blogspot.com

Harvest was always a bittersweet time for H’rald. Contemplating the results of a full growing season was inclined to both gratify and humble him. Looking at his latest crop, neatly stacked in a mere five stasis crates, it occurred to him that it was a paltry return for the expense of yet another year of his precious life force.


Admittedly, the early days of uncertainty intrinsic to Farming had been mitigated by the innovations that New Science had brought, but it still was a personally expensive way to contribute to the Greater Good.


As much as he loathed it, he knew he reeked of obsequious anxiety when the Crop Committee arrived to collect his offering. It was only when all the paperwork had been completed and stamped, and they had expressed their corporate satisfaction, that he was able to look at their official valuation: Fifty thousand galactic credits. H’rald only realised then that he had been holding his breath.


He was safe from the Debt Hounds for another year, with enough to get the highest quality seed for the new season. And enough to let his field lie fallow for the optimum fifty days. Even enough to get the best fertiliser for the transplanting of his precious seedlings.


Ten days into fallow, H’rald ordered and paid for his new seed. It arrived, by courier, in its special anti-contamination containers, with its certificates of authenticity and all its New Science guarantees.


Preparing and loading the seed trays was his favourite part of the process. Each tiny pearl of life was gently inserted deep into the rooting compound, with a single drop of precious ichor, and then the trays were placed under the germination lamps.


His daily visits to the germination chamber were, to him, his most sacred pilgrimage. As H’rald watched the tiny nubs of life crest through the rooting compound, he had been preparing his field. By the time the seedlings were ready for transplant, it was in prime condition.


Although it was not necessary, he always followed the ancient rituals of his Caste when it came to the night of transplanting. He ended his five day fast with a feast of traditional dishes, redolent with the herbs and spices of his childhood. His utilitarian bathroom was transformed with the light of handmade candles and the bath was filled with a frothy mix of modern minerals and ancient herbs. He lay, submerged in the waters, allowing his recording of the ancient chants to draw him into a deep state of meditation.


Emerging from the water, he dried off, and walked, naked, to the already prepared transplanting chamber.


Standing in the centre of the now sealed glassiform tube, he felt the fine spray of decontaminant and anaesthetic on his skin. The thin mechanical arms of the transplanter emerged, making swift their incisions and insertions. A spray of sealant finished the process.


That night, he dreamed of the burrowing of roots, the emergence of leaves, and the fruiting of exotic life-giving vines.


500 word stories


©Kim Magennis 2016