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Micro SF/F Posts

The Princess Dragons

When the prince came to the summer castle, it had dragons.
“Begone!”
“But we-”
“It’s my castle.”
“We are homeless. Please.”
“Well… okay.”

There was a princess in the main hall.
“What are you doing here?” the prince asked.
“Dragons, castle, princess. D’oh.”
“But… my holiday!”

The prince sighed. “Fine. You can stay.”
“Ah…” The princess looked embarrassed.
“If you want to, of course.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s not that.”

One of the dragons coughed. “Can the other princess also stay?”
“The other. How many of you are there?”
“Four. Two dragons, two princesses.”

Alone

“Why can’t we work from home?”
“It’s easier to share ideas in the office.”
They grumbled, but he was the boss. And terrified of being alone.

He’d check people’s progress, in a friendly, informal way. Some encouraging words, a little chat about weekend plans, or recent events.

His staff assumed he drank in the weekends, he was so pale and quiet on Mondays. He’d perk up once he’d had a chat by the coffee machine.

Just a reminder that he was there, that he was a person that existed. As long as someone believed, he did.
And he had, for centuries.


After the first part – which was all I had in mind – people complained it wasn’t fiction, or at least not science fiction, so I had to extend it a bit to turn it around. This is the complete four-tweet story, collected.

Power

When I found my superpower,
I couldn’t help but smile.

I smiled when I dug out the costume,
the one I made in case
I ever got a power,
and it still fit.

I smiled when I told my mum,
and she smiled and hugged me,
and told me to do good.

I smiled when I told my friend,
and she smiled with me,
and carried me to town,
using her flying and her superstrength.

Now I walk the tired streets,
and look at people, and smile.
And I tell them:

“You look good today.”
“I like your hat.”
“It will be all right.”
“You can do it.”

And they smile back,
or nod, and feel better.

That?

That is not my superpower.
Anyone can do that.
But they don’t.
They don’t.

My power is to know
who I can smile at,
who I can compliment,
talk to,
look at.

Without fear.

To my love

I do not care who else has had a taste
Of all the pleasures that you offer me;
It matters not. Just this, that you have placed
Your body in my hands, and mine will be.

My fingers softly touch your naked spine,
Caress the curve and feel your supple weight.
I breathe your scent, so fragrant and divine.
My appetite is vast but you will sate

My hunger. How you eagerly unfold,
Invite me to the secrets at your core.
You guide me, let me in, you firmly hold
My heart, my mind, and all I crave is more.

You gave me what I needed, and I took
Such joy in reading you, my favourite book.


This sonnet was written for World Poetry Day 2016.

Every time

Every time
You struggle
To find the words
I listen
Analyse, predict, and guess
I know
What you might say
But listen
Til you haven’t said it


Most single-tweet poems are, like a lot of the single-tweet stories, fire-and-forget. I have an idea, write, post, and that’s it. They don’t usually linger. This one did. [Tweet]

Library

Library kept all humanity’s stories, and told them until there was no child left to ask “Then what?”
It waited eons, until the aliens came.

“…and then what?”

Then Library taught the aliens all its languages, for each language tells different stories.
And the aliens cried.

“…and then what?”

Then the aliens, who could not make stories, searched the stars for others who could, and brought them to Library.

“…And then?”

Gry and the Mountain King

The Mountain King ruled the lands around his lonely mountain, everywhere his goblins and trolls could reach in darkness.

At times, Gry and the other children would look south to the mountain, scare each other with gruesome tales, and giggle.

The village was safe. The slow trolls could not reach it, not even in the longest night. But one day, Gry noticed something.

At noon, when the winter sun hung low over the mountain, the shadow cast on the plain seemed to reach closer than before.

People are

People are people
And girls will be girls
They send goatse to sheeple
Have weapons for toys

Humans are human
With genders galore
They have social acumen
Wear diamonds and pearls

Aliens are alien
And boys will be boys
They blib oozing phtalien
And waft out their spore

Poets are poets
And mix-ups occur
With cliches running through it
Of what people were

What’s their story?

When Creator gets bored and reaches for the Reset, Distractor points at someone and asks “What’s their story?”
Would your story distract?

“What’s their story?”
“That one? They worry about being boring, and have created a whole internal world of could’ve-been. It’s impressive.”

“What’s their story?”
“That’s interesting. They’re quite content with their life, their body, their love and friends. Don’t see that often.”

“What’s their story?”
“That was Christopher Lee. Let me tell you his story.”
Distractor smiled inwardly. This story would last a long time.


Posted as four tweets, on hearing that Christopher Lee had died.

Seeing herself

She began walking the mirrors as a child, swapping worlds with her other selves. She became ambidextrous before she knew it was unusual.

She was in her teens when she realised nobody else could move through mirrors like she did. And that not all loved mirrors like she did.

She tried to see like they did, to see the reflected world, not the one on the other side. To see herself, not her other. She succeeded.

She saw herself. She seemed unreal, strange to her. Faintly, behind her own reflection, she saw her other self look surprised, afraid.

As she stared, completely still, she saw her other self lift a hand and touch the mirror. And then she faded, and she saw only herself.

It has been a long time now; she is not always sure it was not just a childhood game, a make-believe. She tries to believe it was real.

She looks in mirrors, and tucks her hair away with either hand. One day, she sees her other self use the other hand. And they smile.


This is a rare serial tweet story, in that I wrote the whole thing before posting any of it.