Tag Archives: SciFi

Magical Emporium

A light hearted piece of old fashion flash fiction to raise a smile.
Inspired by stories from Philip K Dick.

Magical Emporium

Mary wiped the kitchen sink and stared out of the window at the dull, dark clouds. Rain was on the way. Her entire world seemed miserable, as if a screw was loose and she wasn’t sure how to fix it.

The fridge motor interrupted her despondency, and its humming became a rhythmic beat of da–daa–dum–dum. She imagined herself in a Viennese Waltz cavorting with a tall hussar, so she twirled around the table.

The hoover in the corner perked up. “May I have the pleasure?”
“Delighted.” Mary curtsied. She took the hoover by the handle and they danced around, flowing with the music.

Rain streamed against the window like violin strings as the fridge rumbled on; the slow-cooker gurgled, and the kettle whistled. Her washing machine shuddered out the bass of beating drums and the Dolce Gusto went whoosh, whoosh, sending aromatic plumes of percolating coffee into the air.

Mary skipped and spun, swinging on the arm of her handsome Mr Hoover, waltzing around her ballroom. A spectator in the clock sprang out and called cuckoo, cuckoo—just as the timer on the oven played an allegro bleeping in consonance with the kitchen orchestra.

She heard the front door slam. Her music stopped. Quickly, Mary shuffled the hoover into the cupboard. She strode into the hall.

“I am shattered,” her husband said, “and completely worn out.” He gave her a pitiable peck on the cheek. She hung his jacket on a peg as he slouched into the living room and slumped onto the sofa.

“Did I hear our white goods singing?”
“No,” said Mary. “We don’t call them white anymore.” 
“What!” He kicked off his shoes and laid back. “I am too tired to argue.”
“They are called appliances,” she said, reaching into his trousers’ pocket for a long flex cord and she plugged it into a battery recharging pack.
“Ah! That’s better.” He closed his eyes.

Mary returned to the kitchen and made a call on her mobile.
A loud voice answered. “Mr Wong’s Magical Electrical Emporium.”
“Mr Wong, it’s Mary.”
All the appliances rumbled, and the Dolce Gusto hissed.
“Yes, Mary, do you need a repair?”
“Sort of Mr Wong. Do you have any hussars?”

The appliances sighed. They were safe. She wasn’t disposing of them.

“A new man? Why not repair the one you have?”
“Mr Wong. My husband has degenerated. He’s worn out and completely flat.”
“We can fit a new battery.”
“It’s no use. I want one with style and stamina.”
“Okay, I will bring a fresh one tomorrow. Anything else?”

“Yes, I seem to have a screw loose in my head. It hurts.” 
“An emergency!” said Mr Wong.
“It is! Oh yes, an emergency. Oh, it really is.”
“I’ll bring some spare parts immediately.”

Mary grinned. Mr Wong was always gentle with her parts, and his tuning was so invigorating.
She smiled and felt so cheery already. 

The Guiding Beacon

This week’s photo prompt reminds me of the NATO early warning system domes that once were situated on some of the hilltops.

More stories from Friday Fictioneers inspired by the Photo can be read HERE.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

The Guiding Beacon

Mary-Anne gave out sandwiches and coffee from the back of her van to the destitute. She received a licence to expand her enterprise and has added fries and seafood dips.

‘My unique Bubble,’ she says. ‘Well, that’s just storage and an attraction for the town.’

Her assistant sniggered. He maintained the space array beacon hidden by the dome, and his team operated from the sub-terrain control centre.

The Nymerana were creating a network on Earth to guide their people towards safety from the Asteroid shower destroying their constellation.

Humans are naïve, although accommodating, thought Mary-Anne. They taste like scrumptious chicken.

The Portal to the Future

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers

Read all the stories; Here – on inlinkz

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

The Portal To The Future

This building is the architectural symbolism of harmonious and cultural coherence of Earth’s civilisation, the official view.

In reality, it conceals the Portal between the present and the future.

As the guardian I hold the key.

I am tired, and before my passing, I will reveal some dark secrets; nations will disintegrate into anarchy, and great men mauled to their death. Those people trusted me with their souls, and safe-keeping of wealth stolen by their evil deeds of injustice.  They abused the power of the future.

I have locked the gates and taken the Portal with me.
Goodbye.

 

Morgs are from Venus

Friday Fictioneers.

gold-tipped-anniversary-rose

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Morgs are from Venus

The creature was here.
Malky dusted the frost from his Morg Detector.
The reading showed ten in a thousand parts of nitrogen dioxide
and traces of nitric oxide.
A trace!
Malky locked his visor, sealed his suit and turned on its heater.
His knees began to shake.
He saw the frosted roses in a vase of water pellets.
What was the Morg after?
Was this a Valentine’s gift and attempt at amorous flattery?
Or a trap.
Were there frosted chocolates?
A lyrical voice called, ‘Malky’.
His detector bleeped nitric warning.  Too late.
She was beautiful. He was frozen in love.

Lonely Planet

Lonely Planet

Friday Fictioneers

dinner-table-prior

PHOTO PROMPT © Priorhouse

Where is everyone! Such diplomatic bad manners.
The Ehevan envoy, Sil Chasack, switched to transmit, she strode around
the table.
No sign of the humanoids, she reported. Typical arrogance.
She was sent by the Galactic Federation to instruct ‘Earth’ on environmental sustainability for their survival.
Where were they, don’t they care about trading coffee?
Measurements showed the Blue Planet was deteriorating in a self-consuming infestation, the Mollaks are considering a cleansing cull; as a warning.
Sil wiped the window and looked out, there were no signs of biological life in the dark poisonous atmosphere.
Pity, this Mocha Djimmah tastes superb.

110817-MOCHA_DJIMMAH_125G-1

Malcolm

Friday Fictioneers

cafc3a9-terrasse-dale-r

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Malcolm

It’s okay Malcolm, if you want to cry.
I’m so scared.
Tell me, Malcolm, what makes you feel so afraid?
I see colours, following me.
Now Malcolm, I am here to help, tell me what things?
I can’t, you’ll think I am . . .
Here’s a tissue, Malcolm. I understand. I am here to help.
Do you? I think you are one of THEM!
Don’t shout, Malcolm, we are all the same.
No, we’re not, you’re weird.
Malcolm, you are the one who is different.
SEE! am I the only one?
Please Malcolm, join us, be an umbrella person.


My new book cover – The Listener (0.99p)

Version 2

The Trappist Zone

Friday Fictioneers

dawn-in-montreal

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

The Trappist Zone

George, the transporter is landing.
Will I miss this place?
We did our best George, we must start over, a new beginning.
I feel a failure; all the destruction and greed.
Oh, George, remember the woolly mammoth.
Downhill since then. Where did we go wrong?
We gave them dreams and intelligence. Our experiment had potential.
Yes, we did very well, but should we just abandon them?
It’s too late, they are out of control; a self-consuming infestation.
George, the bag?
Yes, all human goodness, fully packed.
Think of our next creation; “Mensch”.
A perfect ideal; the Trappist Zone is ready.

Endangered Species

Friday Fictioneers

meep-by-the-window

PHOTO PROMPT © Jean L. Hays

Endangered Species

It was hot and stuffy hiding in the cellar and after days of waiting Marcie saw one.
It sauntered past, composed, confident and majestic in a fine metallic plumage.
Marcie and Mary shuddered, the trap was set.
The Pheasant paced back and forth guarding the building, it had alerted Species Control about the find. Hurry, it had reported, before the humans attempt an escape.
Mary gripped Marcie’s hand, to stop her shaking. Why did these giant Pheasants find female flesh such an addictive delicacy?
Worse; why had they volunteered to bait them?
A man’s idea! The last women on Earth.