Singularity - a short story

 Singularity (Fiction 101 Series)

The crew was halfway through the blackhole. Streaks of light swirled and flashed past them like their memories of home. The gravity sheers were real when they first approached the event horizon. But they had to protect each other and protect the mission – at all costs. Their last radio transmission to Earth was filled with a singular focus – their respective families, who wouldn’t receive it within their lifetime. But the message wasn’t for them – it was for their descendants. How many generations was unknown. How many other descendants was unknown. But the message was clear, “Protect the crew. At all costs.”

(See the other side, the other story by clicking here.)

Singularity, Dark Manifestation - a short story

Singularity, Dark Manifestation (Fiction 101 Series)

The solo occupant was halfway through the blackhole. Streaks of light swirled and flashed past him like the deceased crew across his fading memory. The mutiny was real when they first approached the event horizon. He had to save the ship, save the mission – at all costs. His last radio transmission to Earth was filled with a singular focus – his daughter. She wouldn’t receive it within her lifetime, but the message wasn’t entirely for her – but her descendants. How many generations and other descendants was unknown. Just as his ship was breaking apart he reported, “Save the ship. At all costs.”

(See the other side, the other story by clicking here.)

Arrow of Time - a short story

Fiction 101 Series

Arrow of Time 

(Or The Results of Present-Indefinite When Attempting to Cheat Entropy)

Today, I sit behind the controls of my time machine. Not to travel to the past and correct a mistake, but to the future. Safely cloaked, I see the thousands of autonomous people oblivious to the horrors of the news flashing on the giant TSX Broadway screen of Times Square.

A decade past. Eventually five. Inside the ship, only one day. My goal, to reach the future Gene Roddenberry envisioned. However, when I disengage, I return to just one day after I had left.

 

And the only thing I gain, my present is redefined by the end of today. Or was.

 
~
 
Inspired by the Charles Yu novel, How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe, and inadvertently, by the previously written poem of the same title. 

The Unsolved Mystery - a short story

An experiment to see if I can accurately portray two of the most famous characters in literature.

~

The Unsolved Mystery

With pen in hand, I reflected on past cases of Sherlock Holmes, which have to my fortune reached the public in print over the many years. But it was today that held a singular significance. The embers of his pipe had gone out as I saw my friend in a state like none other. Outbursts of frustration or revelation had been an outlet in the past, but it wasn’t in his nature to allow violence to pacify his anger. However, the corner of his desk suffered the most when he struck it with the poker.

He shouted, “Watson! It is not this case. But it is the reasoning, or the lack thereof, that has forced me to trod along in such a precarious manner.” He turned toward me, “Good doctor, is my brain that far gone?” He paused, then forced an answer, “I think not!” He stepped toward the window.

“My dear Holmes. Need I remind you, today you reached a significant birthday.”

“Please don’t,” he brooded. “Death is a mystery never to be solved.” He lifted his finger toward the heavens.

“I wasn’t speaking of your end.” I tried to relay some comfort.

“But age has a cruel way of reminding us of our pending exit. It is unavoidable.”

“Then tell me, why do you try?”

His wiry smile flashed his answer before he spoke, “If not my mind, then the rare superior intellect of the next generation may live on – if that is even possible.”

I simply replied, “But probable, Holmes.”

He lifted a curious brow in my direction and then toward the window as he gazed up and down Baker Street. And as if he could see through the flats across the street, he peered over the London skyline as if the future would never provide a mind that would contain his abilities.  “Can it? Is it possible to pass down what I hold?” He pointed at his head. “Perhaps, what I have learned. But knowledge is not a gift with which we are born.” He paused as his hand drifted to his chin. He then let out a loud guffaw and, in opposition to his previous outburst, he quietly returned his attention toward the inner workings of his flat, as he reignited his pipe and with a new illumination in his eyes on the case presented before him.

I returned to my comprehensive writing for all posterity – to keep my friend alive. 

~

Born this day in 1854. Happy birthday to the greatest consulting detective to have ever lived! 

The Thief of Time - a short story

The Thief of Time (Fiction 101 Series)

Thad was looking around the bookstore near the Science Fiction section adjacent to the corner shelf of the calendars. It was only June, but his life revolved around the new calendars. And they didn’t arrive until August. Two months later he returned to his favorite corner – no calendars. September, then January – no calendars. He couldn’t figure it out. The store manager was no help.

As he sat brooding on a stool next to the Science Fiction section he spotted a new book called, “The Thief of Time.” Crying, he frantically ran to his mom at the other end of the bookstore.

~

The phrase “Procrastination is the thief of time” was coined by the English poet Edward Young in his 1742-45 work Night Thoughts (or The Complaint), though Charles Dickens later popularized a similar sentiment in David Copperfield: “Never do tomorrow what you can do today. Procrastination is the thief of time.” 

Like Kris Kringle - a short story

Like Kris Kringle (Fiction 101 Series)

Love is like a Kris Kringle gift exchange at Christmas time.

“Let’s just open these damn presents!” An angry Calvin plopped himself on his mother’s red velvet sofa.

“Can’t you just be civil for once.” A frustrated Lorraine chastised as she sat next to her younger brother.

Mom, joined by aunts and uncles and cousins sat around the tree. They opened their gifts. Each one filled with Love. Some shared their gift. Others didn’t want to part with their gift.

Calvin opened his, “What’s this? I got Crazy!”

Mom peeked at the open package, “No it’s not. You also got Love.”

~

"When it's hard and you are doubtful, give more." - Francis Chan

The Art of Procrastination - a short story

The Art of Procrastination (Fiction 101 Series)

Aaron stood from his chair. He made another pot of coffee. He poured a little whiskey in the coffee. He stared out the window. He poked at the fire. He sat down again. He examined the blank page. He stared through the fibers. He set his pen down and picked up his laptop. He stared through the blank pixels. He stood from his chair and stared out the window and poked at the fire. He did everything and anything other than the one thing he should be doing. Or he did nothing. And he thought of nothing. And nothing was done.

~

The phrase “Procrastination is the thief of time” was coined by the English poet Edward Young in his 1742-45 work Night Thoughts (or The Complaint), though Charles Dickens later popularized a similar sentiment in David Copperfield: “Never do tomorrow what you can do today. Procrastination is the thief of time.”