THE GUN
by
O. Westin
CHARACTERS
BOSS – A wealthy person
ROBOT – A golden robot
by
O. Westin
No story too short to tell
No story too short to tell
BOSS – A wealthy person
ROBOT – A golden robot
At the border:
“Do you love your country?”
“No. I am an emotionless murder robot.”
“Ah… Let me check with my superior. Wait here.”
“Do you love your country?”
“Yes.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, it’s true.”
“What’s its favourite colour?”
“It’s ‘color’.”
“Welcome!”
“Do you love your country?”
“No.”
“Do you love your flag?”
“No.”
“You got to love something! Do you, I dunno, love your eyes?”
“Sure!”
“OK.”
Nobody knew where it came from, who brought it, but it was there; behind decorations, among empty glasses, under tinsel and lights.
It was small and quick, and shone kindly. Some tried to catch it, without success. Some tried to kill it, and it giggled at their folly.
Some did not see it, or refused to, but children held out their hands, and it rested in their palms. It was small, but strong.
A Hope.
The tweets were posted on New Year’s Eve, 2016, even though I didn’t post the collection until the day after.
The fire had died when Unn woke; even the embers were gone. She found the flint and steel on the shelf and lit an oil lamp.
There was a patch of ice by the hearth, and hairy frost around the door. Unn sighed, put her coat on, and built a new fire.
“Not dead yet?” a voice called from the smoke-hole in the thatch.
Unn looked up, but only saw the dark sky.
“Who’s there?”
There was a rustle from above, then silence. Unn woke her father, who went out to check.
“Nobody, no footprints, nothing.”
They say,
In the end,
When followed back,
It all comes down to
Sex and blood.
That every ritual,
All sacraments,
And blessings,
Follow.
I think
There’s a lot
Of truth in that,
But it’s too basic.
Sex and blood
In Elseworld a scholar pored
Over tomes of ancient lore;
Seeking wisdom in their store,
Seeking ways to call and beck,
To call and beck a friend.
Gone without a trace or spoor,
Flew the friend to alien shore.
Called by some portent of yore,
Called to take that lonely trek,
A lonely trek he’d wend.
Untouched bowls of gut and gore,
Like a tidy field of war,
Stood forgotten on the floor;
Stood in wait for hungry peck,
A hungry peck to rend.
“What cruel fate so sudden tore,
You away, my Nevermore?”
Scholar cried, her soul a-sore.
The scholar cried, and bent her neck.
Her feathered neck she’d bend.
With apologies and thanks to E.A. Poe.
My cat will torment mice.
It isn’t very nice.
But mousy hate
Will not abate
So my cat torments mice.
When my cat kills a mouse
It squeaks and haunts my house.
Its ghost will stay,
Annoyed, afraid,
And skitter round my house.
Now shades of cats long dead
Are circling round my bed
To chase the mice
Whose cruel demise
Has bound them here instead.
The ghost cats have such fun,
They chase as ghost mice run.
I can’t decide
If mousicide
Was kind or cruelly done.
When aliens landed,
We said “Go away!
Our planet’s untidy,
Society’s frayed.”
They wouldn’t obey.
“We have come help you,”
the aliens said.
We were so embarrassed
We wished we were dead.
And hid in our beds.
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.”
“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.