Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

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.

“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?

He stood guard over nothingness, weary, bored. Sometimes lights flashed. Then nothing. Bored. Till the soldier heard her cry “Save me!” Save who, he wondered. Who else was here, trapped on the outer limb of a Christmas tree? Then he saw her, dancing angel, glorious, bright. “Save me,” he cried.

The forest trapped her, green all round and branches tight at her knees. A canyon loomed, deep nothing where ground should have been. She shrugged slim shoulders, cape stretched high like angel’s wings, with upturned scarf a halo in her hair. Tin soldier looked bored. “Save me!” the dancer cried.

Bob put Tom’s car-keys in the blender. Meanwhile Tom’s car disappeared. Tom sent for the police while Bob drove a miniature car round the Christmas tree. “Nee-naw” he sang. “Stick-em-up.” Not tactful. Tom was fit to explode. Then Bob, the elf, put a strand of Tom’s hair in the blender.

White-haired Zinnia led the way, scrambling over rocks and rubble to the child. We watched, knowing our world was already lost. “This one,” Zinnia said. Red-haired Columbine held the bag. Blue Belle wrote the tag. “Where to now?” Buttercup asked, aiming a wink at Daisy’s green hair. Then Zinnia turned. “Revenants,” she said. “Back to our own time. And the little child will lead us.” We could have told Buttercup and Daisy not to stay, but we didn’t. And as the others vanished in the colored glow of their stones, the rebel pair turned to flowers, incandescence in our gray.