Microdosing Fiction Entries
Regarding Prompts: "Attic," "Morgue," "Service," "Sky," and "Agoraphobia."
WINDSONG
The winds buffeted the side of the house, scattering its flecks of curling paint. Footsteps pattered across the third-floor attic. Enoch slumped on the chesterfield, his knees propping his arms and cupping his hands under his chin. Inclemency always riled the ghost. He shifted his eyes toward the window. A giant oak shrouded the yard with its rustling canopy. Underneath, a tire hung from its limb, swinging from side to side in the flurry of gusts.
Unable to contain the fulminating stress, he snapped erect, slapping his knees, and flew up the stairs. A ladder stood in the corner. He flung open the hatch and poked his head into the jetties of dust. A window laced with cobwebs stood in the gabled wall, spilling its pallid light over the slats of teak growing dingier with time. Beneath, stood an ashen table littered with incense and a centered picture frame of a boy no more than five.
“Quiet!” he shouted in sotto. But he couldn’t shake the guilt of the son he had slain.
TOMB OF AT'THUUL
The oaken door creaked open, its trills staggering through the undercroft below. Feet clattered down the steps. Huckle carefully lit the tallowed fasces, raised it above his head, and slipped into the void. The depths came alive, their ancient murals and otherworldly hieroglyphs manifesting with each step he took. Through a forest of colonnades and pilasters abutting the vaulted walls, the shadow of a subterranean palazzo revealed hints of loggias and finely chiseled reliefs. Huckle proceeded, his apprehension consuming him as the lancet vestibule passed overhead, ominously staring down at the mortal penetrating its realm. A second later, the walls vanished, his torch ineffective, revealing the true size of the antechamber. But a tiny glint ahead told of his journey’s end. Scurrying toward the giant object, Huckle flung his torch every which way, piecing together the various facets exposing themselves in the light. He came to a center piece and balked. A graphical depiction of At’thuul, the founder of the world’s religion, the purveyor of all knowledge and social structure upon which Huckle’s kingdom had built itself, sprawled across the face of the tomb. Inside, lay the remains of the eldest cosmonaut, the alien, to which Huckle paid his final respects.
NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY
The stray add bubble that blipped into view made it clear: “Humans wanted. Companion worker. No experience necessary.”
The job seemed simple enough, and Yìzé’s pecuniary setback gave him little choice. Scanning his psi-credentials, he received a green light of approval and a business address that imprinted into his memory. He jumped for joy, and took the nearest air shuttle.
Upon his reception, the director shook his hand and introduced the client. Confused, Yìzé claimed he didn’t see anyone. The director laughed, and informed him the client had already occupied his body.
“An energy creature from Mu Capricorni. Not too many apply for this job, but I’d wager symbiotic hosting pays pretty well!” He nudged Yìzé’s arm with a broad smile.
3:00 SKY
On our last break at 3PM, I saw good old Hitchins pacing around outside the loading dock as usual, periodically looking up at the sky in beseechment. I don’t know what particularly went through the janitor’s head, but when I had first asked him if anything was wrong, he replied in a long, protracted account of strange heavenly places where discernment outweighed haste and justice trumped iniquity. Observing his state of bemusement, I asked him if he had ever read the Scriptures, to which he glowingly replied in the affirmative. An honest prayer, I thought, even though a little premature, as well as betraying a few insecurities that might have raised an eyebrow. But he added that he was waiting, waiting for the past year and a half when he started gazing at the skies at 3PM.
We all thought him crazy, the towner roaming the streets without any sense of direction, waiting to kiss the angels upon his departure.
One day, curiosity got the best of me. When I pressed him on the issue, his reply confirmed my suspicions. Hitchens, summing up his accounts of the incredible world described without end, said he waited for a giant arc to emerge from the sky and scoop him off this planet. I swung my eyes toward the steely blue dome.
Our good old janitor…
STAR CITY
The ship finally locked into the central hub, slowly adjusting to the spin. The crew disembarked, floating single-file through the bridge and into the terminal. Heads turned. They stared through tubular windows and out into the cavity. The city sprawled around them for miles, dashing their comprehension of distance. A few shut their eyes, their hearts aflutter, but agoraphobia was the price they paid to live in the outer colonies.
They descended the elevator chute. Each second, their feet slowly sunk to the floor. Soon, they walked the streets, despite the vertiginous lag of centripetal force. But in a matter of days, to their relief, the dizziness would pass. Here, civility thrived while Earth plunged into an age of barbarism.
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