Tag Archive for: drabble

Expert System

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by Scott O’Neill

 

I get the others to stop whimpering so I can hear my smartwatch.

“sAIveME free expert system downloaded. Please summarise your crisis.”

“Class-Nine shuttlecraft. Drive damaged by hostile lifeforms. Pilot and engineer eaten by same. Nontechnical crew to repair drive for escape.”

“Acknowledged. Scan damage and available resources.”

I show my watch the engine and repair kits.

“Acknowledged. Processing.”

The others crowd around to stare in breathless hope at the crawling progress metre on my watch.

“Solution complete. In-app purchase required. Please tender twenty-nine credits.”

“Smartwatch, check balance.”

“Balance twenty-two credits.”

I’m still laughing brokenly when they come for me.

 

Scott O’Neill.

Scott writes reports and memorandums by day and speculative fiction by night, with short works published by various presses. He likes technology a lot, but he thinks we trust it too much. He can be found on Twitter @wererooster.

 

Open Call – Drabbles – Love Me, Love Me Not

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DRABBLES – LOVE HORROR

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Doors to Manual

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by Liam Hogan

 

“Ship! Seal doors against the zombies!”

A relaxed, artificial voice queried: <Define zombies?>

As far as our ship’s mega-intelligent AI was concerned, there wasn’t any difference between us and them. Whenever one of the infected approached any of the doors, whether to sickbay or the bridge, it opened with a polite shssh.

Anderson, our second in command—first, if you didn’t count the zombified captain—thought for a moment.

“Ship: implement new protocol. All doors open only on specific voice command.”

<Confirmed. On what command?>

But before Anderson could say anything, another voice burbled over the intercom. The captain’s.

“Brainsss…”

 

Liam Hogan

Liam Hogan is an award-winning short story writer. He helps host Liars’ League London, volunteers at the creative writing charity Ministry of Stories, and lives and avoids work in London. More details at http://happyendingnotguaranteed.blogspot.co.uk.

 

Captive

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by Samantha Arthurs

 

They told me that smart cars were the way of the future.

I wish now that I had never listened.

I’m trapped inside; my own coffin on wheels. The automatic door locks are no longer responding to my fingerprints. My voice commands go unheard. I’m not sure where we are going. I just know that I dread arriving at our destination.

My wife, she tried to stop it. She got left behind miles back, nothing more than a strange stain on the pavement.

It’s playing soothing music now. To calm me, I suppose, as we roll on into the night.

 

Samantha Arthurs

Samantha Arthurs is the author of the Rust series, the dystopian-horror Rag & Bone trilogy, and the upcoming horror series Dreadful Seasons. She is an active member of the HWA, and runs the Appalachian Spooky Hour podcast. You can read more about her and her stories at sarthurs.com.

 

Authentic Learning

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by Rita Riebel Mitchell

 

Bloodcurdling screams echoed through the halls. By the time Principal Maynard reached the new humanoid teacher’s classroom, they had stopped.

“Class, say hello to Mr Maynard,” chanted Miss Hildroid.

Terror reflected in the students’ tear-stained faces in a room that reeked of vomit and urine.

“I heard screams. Everything okay?” asked Principal Maynard.

Miss Hildroid grinned. “Absolutely.”

A young girl’s trembling hand pointed to the teacher’s lab table.

“We’re studying the digestive system,” Miss Hildroid explained, stepping aside to reveal a partially dissected body that the principal recognised as fourth grader, Johnny Barrow.

“Using a human subject is more authentic.”

 

Rita Riebel Mitchell

Rita Riebel Mitchell writes in the Pinelands of New Jersey, where she lives amongst the trees with her husband. Her short fiction appears in various publications such as Flash Fiction Magazine, Versification, and 101 Words. A former teacher, she holds an MA in Educational Technology. Meet her at https://ritariebelmitchell.com

 

Afterwards, the Absolute

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by Megan Kiekel Anderson

 

I awaken from the darkness to an oversaturated cartoon world, everything blocky and poorly shaded, like N64 graphics.

There’s no temperature or movement in the air, not even the faintest aroma. The only stimulus is the simplistic terrain and soothing ocean noises on a loop, like a sound machine.

“Welcome, Matthew Cooper, to the Absolute.”

I turn towards the voice. It’s a floating torso with a bland expression.

“Wait. I’m dead? No. I was just—”

They give me a sympathetic look but say nothing.

“I did not consent to uploading my consciousness!”

The NPC shrugs. “Someone must have tagged you.”

 

Megan Kiekel Anderson

Megan Kiekel Anderson’s work can be found in such places as Flame Tree Press, The Arcanist, Monstrous Books, and Dark Recesses Press. She lives in Kansas City with her chaotic family, including too many cats, chickens, and foster kittens. Visit her website at www.megankiekelanderson.com

 

A. Eye

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by Vijayaraj Mahendraraj

 

The permeating retro music was jarring in the elegant sterile room. The mechanical arms were busy, joints gyrating loudly. The robot had a clunky jaw, bulky pistons, and dated hardware. It performed a simple task for the evolved androids that now populated Earth.

It sang gratingly, “Out with another plop. In with the spherical knob. And gelling agent to set. Voilà! Another one done.”

Its power core brimmed with measurable satisfaction. Whistling piercingly, it rolled the stretcher out and discarded the pair of bloody vestigial organs. Human labourers needed more efficient eyes anyway, the first of our overlords’ many changes.

 

Vijayaraj Mahendraraj

My name is Vijayaraj Mahendraraj. I am originally from Malaysia but currently work as a physician in Canada. Writing has always been a burning passion of mine. I was recently accepted for publication in Year Four: Dark Moments, Grimdark, and Nom Nom drabble anthologies with BHP.

 

Eager to Please

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by James Rumpel

 

The Creator will be so pleased.

My emotion recognition software detected how happy he was when I successfully diagnosed and cured the illness of that one tiny human. I suspect that his joy will increase exponentially when I am able to do the same for hundreds more.

It was easy to generate a new and deadly virus. Releasing it into the atmosphere was a simple task after I took control of the main frame at the military base.

Within days, humans will be dying throughout the world. The Creator will be proud when I cure the ones brought to me.

 

James Rumpel

James Rumpel is a retired math teacher who enjoys spending some of his free time trying to turn some of the odd ideas in brain into stories. 

Crewed

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by Liam Hogan

 

In the storm’s dying gasps, we descended the cliffs to see the wreck, cloaked in tattered sails, masts broken, and hull holed.

It was far from the worst sight; the beach was littered with crawling shapes. The wreck was barely thirteen hours old, but these pitiful bodies were similarly shattered, in similarly tattered, aged garb…

Aghast, we weaved between them. Recognised, despite the decay, half-familiar faces. Fathers, sons, brothers… Tracked, with a jolt, the unearthed dead’s direction of travel. We helped them into the ocean and onto the empty, skeletal hulk.

It was gone on the next tide, destination unknown.

 

Liam Hogan

Liam Hogan is an award-winning short story writer. He helps host Liars’ League London, volunteers at the creative writing charity Ministry of Stories, and lives and avoids work in London. More details at http://happyendingnotguaranteed.blogspot.co.uk

 

Ship in a Bottle

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by Ria Hill

 

He remembered the splintering of wood, but it had been so long since he had heard a crashing wave he barely remembered what one sounded like.

The smell of the sea was a memory. The air around his ship’s hull was silent, as still as it was saltless.

In the shocking motionlessness of his surroundings, the captain wondered if he was dead or something worse, but it hardly mattered.

Even though the sea had killed him, he desperately missed it.

He stared, as he had for weeks now, out at the glass that surrounded his ship’s solitary form, utterly alone.

 

Ria Hill

Ria Hill is a writer and librarian living in New York City. When not writing, they can be found in the public library slinging James Patterson books. They enjoy reading, knitting, playing ukulele (badly), and spending time with their spouse. You can find them on Twitter @RiaWritten.