Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

The twig was just a dead branch once, sank down, found sustenance, began to grow. The mound climbed slower than the tree, but underground dried bones drank sacred fill of chlorophyll and gray turned green. One winter, when the sap flows deep, these creeping roots shall rise, no more asleep.

They close doors quietly, think we don’t see—warm inside like the womb; I’m fleeing; tombs haunt me. They think we don’t know; click a lock and you’re held till forever. Hand out the meds, tell us we’ve got to be good. One day you’ll be free—shouldn’t taunt me.

He pointed. Far ahead, it sparkled, shimmering, dark, too hard for her to recognize. She turned to flee but found she couldn’t leave. “What is it?” she asked. He didn’t move, just pointed steadily. Then, slowly, it appeared still shimmering, still sparkling, growing clear. They pointed, came together. She… disappeared. Another challenge--to write a 50-word story with no nouns.

It’s not so strange, these days, for the kids to attend the wedding. Jessica strewed roses along the path—white ones, not red. Jake carried the ring on a cushion of blood. John was best “man.” Dad placed a fang on Mom’s finger and bit, then the vampire rejoicing began.

“So the game crashes?” Mystic asks. “No. The world,” says Mystic_5. “What, like my keyboard shoots out sparks.” Mystic’s keyboard being state-of-the-art, not even spilled coffee can harm it. “No,” says Mystic_5. “Think matter and anti-matter. If identical meet…” “Boom.” End of the universe, just like Mom and Dad’s books.

Mystic’s her screen name—Mystic_25734 to be precise, but who’s counting. Mystic’s parents wish she’d spend less time on the computer. Mystic wishes they’d spend less time reading end-of-the-universe novels. And Mystic’s screen-companion, Mystic_5, just wants to play. Parallel universes are very enticing when your own one’s driving you mad.

“The problem with too much explanation is too little sticks.” Mystic’s hooked on Parallel , but could learn more of the rules. Pretty soon Mystic_25734 will meet Mystic_5, a bot who knows it all. And while “Like calls to like,” “Identicals must never meet.” So what happened to Mystics_1 through 4?

Liz checked her watch; she’d miss her curfew if she didn’t rush; ran for the trees. Twigs crackled underfoot. Cobwebbed leaves brushed her face. Then she froze. Sharp rustling; whispered crunch; Liz drew breath and fled. Footsteps pounded behind her; distant street-lights shone ahead; hand on her shoulder; curfew missed.