It’s August, so I went through my social media feeds and grabbed all the MicroStories I’d tweeted during the month of July.
As a reminder, these represent story-essences composed using no more than 129 characters (so I could tweet them with the hashtag #MicroStory.)
Usually, I only tweet Science Fiction and Fantasy #MicroStories. July was pretty much no exception.
For really great #MicroStory action, please follow @MicroSFF, the Twitter account that inspired me to participate in this minimalist writing exercise. That feed puts out great science fiction and fantasy MicroStories all the time.
(I want to make it clear that @MicroSFF is *not* a Twitter account of mine. Their flash-fiction tweets are excellent. Mine are okay.)
Boormann singularities were hard to detect, it was easier to find the dead research vessels and scavenger ships around them
The robots of the science cities saw no reason to share their electricity with the ancient constructor bots.
The Mars colonials reassured worried Earth leaders:
The alien ship en route was a long-expected guest to an exclusive meet.
Sociology couldn’t explain it but all agreed: after 50 years of successful Mars colonization, neo-Martians were just the worst.
I approached the high council.
“I must report that I have no more magic.”
The council stirred.
“Neither do we anymore. Join us.”
Ignorance is the basis on which all magic is built
With that in mind, the mage surrendered his tomes to the Dark Lord
The masses didn’t need an education to know the historical lessons that the educated aristocrats were ignoring.
“So, are you a vampire with cybernetics, or were you a bionic man, and turned undead?”
It paused, & I triggered the device.
“I admire your ability to fly,” I said.
The dragon shrugged.
“I admire the human ability to forget. I’d trade wings for that.”
9 days into the flight & 2 days after the distress call, I read the warning on the fogged mirror.
“Don’t trust Paxton”
We undead don’t let the necromancers know this, but the more annoying they are, the more we “mindless” minions sabotage the plan
“Meat is murder” the cowmmander bellowed. “Stampede!”
Cyber-gloves, covering hooves, gripped and shook assault rifles.
The villains-in-training audience applauded as I took my bow.
The professors would have to agree: I’d earned my dishonorarium.
There weren’t enough men to defend against the growing golem army from Thinland. But there were captive liches to conscript.
“Kinslayer,” the orc named me, its blood on my blade.
My father laughed & said some orcs make that joke.
A joke. If only…
© Patrick Sponaugle 2014 Some Rights Reserved