A Flash in the Pan?
Mark Webb
3rd Edition
Copyright 2016 Mark Webb
www.markwebb.name
License Statement
A Flash in the Pan? by Mark Webb is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available. Please contact the author at
[email protected].
For Kate, Mollie and Archie
Table of Contents
Introduction
Beware Antipodean Shores
Shipwrecked
The Gloriously Cunning Plan
Make Mine a Macchiato
Striking Twice
In the Service of the Public
The Devil Wears Shapeless Ugly Garments Covered in Dog Hair
The Regersek Zone
Hindsight is a Bitch
Authentic Empathy
Wefting the Warp
Showdown
About the Author
Introduction – 2016 (3rd Edition)
My writing has really slowed down over the last couple of years, as the demands of family and day job life eclipse my writing time. I’ve still kept working on my longer work, finishing a first draft of the novel I was working on in 2014, and having a good stab at a few other longer pieces. But in that time, I have had a couple of short stories published, and I thought I’d keep this book up to date as those stories exit their “exclusive” period with the original publication.
In 2015, Antipodean SF had its 200th issue, and I was very fortunate to have a story selected for the special bonus length edition. “Authentic Empathy” was the result.
I also had two longer short stories published, where I actually got paid! Those two stories, “Wefting the Warp” and “Showdown” are included in this edition.
Mark Webb
May 2016
Introduction – 2014 (2nd Edition)
In 2013 I was focused on longer short stories and working on a first draft of a novel length work. However, Antipodean SF was still kind enough to publish two of my pieces - one flash fiction piece and another 50 worder. I've decided to add them into Flash in the Pan? to keep it as a log of my Antipodean SF publications.
Mark Webb
April 2014
Introduction - 2012
2012 was a big year for me. Having decided in 2011 to do some writing and slogging away at it for a while, I had my first publication with Antipodean SF in January 2012. Antipodean SF is an Australian speculative fiction website maintained by long time industry veteran Ion Newcombe (Nuke to his friends). Nuke was kind enough to give me some feedback on and eventually publish my work.
In 2012 Antipodean SF published six of my 500 word speculative flash fiction pieces and another 50 word piece, both online and narrated on the Antipodean SF podcast. It was a fantastic experience to both work with an editor and to know that there is at least one other person out there that likes my work. Publishing with Antipodean SF lead me to submit those same six flash pieces with the Beam Me Up podcast in the US, where the host of the show Paul Cole was also generous enough to feature my work.
My experience with Antipodean has given me enough confidence to tackle longer works. It helped turn a vague interest in someday writing something across the various speculative fiction genres into an actual pastime that I dedicate time to. And it introduced an element of creativity into my life at a time where I was feeling about as unimaginative as I think a person could feel.
Thanks Nuke!
The stories themselves are short and to the point, as all flash fiction stories are. Antipodean SF has a 500 word limit, and it was challenging finding ways to tell a story with that kind of limitation. I hope you enjoy them.
Mark Webb
November 2012
Beware Antipodean Shores
Hunger twists and curls, smooth eucalyptus desires replaced with saltier yearnings.
Confusing circles move below, patterns that bewilder and blind.
Then the harsh syllables of prey.
'No I won’t buy a Drop-Bear-O-Matic protective hat. I may have just landed but I’m no rube'.
Triumphantly anticipating satiation.
Author’s Note
Beware Antipodean Shores came out of an email conversation with Beam Me Up podcast host Paul Cole, where Paul expressed some of the usual American concerns with the dangerous wildlife in Australia. I mentioned drop bears, and this story followed.
Shipwrecked
Danic sat humming mindless, tension-relieving tri-harmonies. Being chosen as Advocate for Intervention was an honour, but as the years rolled on the Breenic seemed further away than ever from deciding how they would interact with humanity. Direct contact had been ruled out almost as soon as they arrived. The most advanced civilisations on the planet still sailed their seas in wooden boats. No, the Breenic had too much experience in inadvertently ruining civilisations to act in haste.
In their long voyage amongst the stars, the Breenic had refined their methods for dealing with primitive natives like humanity. They could leave behind technological marvels that would reveal themselves when the human race sufficiently matured. Alternatively, if humans were deemed too great a threat -- well, aggressive races had met a premature end before. But never before had the Breenic been so divided on the fate of a civilisation. For every observed act of tyranny, there was one of benevolence. For every brutal impulse, a creation of stunning beauty. They could foresee the human race adding to galactic art and culture. They could also imagine them unleashing a firestorm of destruction. The Consensus was torn.
Even by their long-lived standards the Breenic had dallied here, and many were eager to begin the journey again. Without Intervention, their best scientists predicted that humanity was centuries away from slipping the bonds of their solar system. Danic felt his opportunity to convince the Consensus evaporating. Influenced perhaps by the antics of the race he had spent the past decade investigating, he decided to risk all in one final, desperate roll of the dice.
He suggested a test.
His fellow Advocates were intrigued. They knew that such a test was the only way Danic could sway the Consensus, but they also knew it would bring quick resolution. And quick resolution was what the Breenic now yearned for.
Once decided, it was the effort of a moment to shipwreck one of those quaint wooden ships. Marooned with little hope of rescue, the behaviour of the stranded humans would decide the watching Breenic.
Danic watched with mounting hope as the valiant commander headed off on a perilous journey to summon help, and revelled in the courage with which the remaining crew faced their fate.
But that hope soon melted like ice exposed to the searing light of an approaching star. Bravery twisted into ruthlessness. Power corrupted, and soon acts of stunningly savage barbarism left the Breenic reeling. Only some small acts of courage and sympathy for the suffering of the abused prevented the Breenic bringing humanity's creeping evolution to an abrupt stop.
Mourning lost potential, the Sol system was marked on interstellar charts with signs that warned, "here be dragons". As the fleet moved on and Danic prepared for the big sleep, he looked back at the slowly fading light of Earth -- marooned and set adrift from all other intelligent life -- and hoped that the fate of that shipwrecked crew did not represent, for humanity, prophecy.
Author’s Note
This was the first story I had published in Antipodean SF, in issue 163 (January 2012). I originally wrote Shipwrecked for an 800 word writing competition in mid 2011, but didn’t finish it by the deadline. When I first decided to submit to Antipodean SF, I polished and cut it back to 500 words then sent it in. I still remember the excitement of getting the accepta
nce from Nuke and the interesting experience of working through editorial notes on my work.
The story itself came from the unoriginal thought that if there are alien civilisations out there, why haven’t they contacted us? Perhaps they’ve been warned away…
The Gloriously Cunning Plan
Second Lieutenant Sanders hovered in perfect equilibrium between oblivion and suffering. He longed to let go and allow the breaking waves of pain to drag him back into a sea of blissful unconsciousness. But a nagging sense of some important task left undone wouldn't let him rest. That, and the bloody distracting siren that someone insisted on blasting into his eardrums.
One eye opened as a lifetime's experience of eyelid manipulation had led him to believe it would. The other was... sticky. Gummy -- clearly refusing to toggle as required. Already feeling put upon, Sanders tried not to take this additional injustice personally.
Activating muscles that protested being press-ganged into service, he raised a hand to paw at his face. He smeared enough blood away to restore minimal function. The harsh artificial light of the shuttle pod's interior clashed in headache-inducing splendour with the flickering flames of the uncontrolled fires that burned in the console. Meanwhile, the smell of burning plastic assaulted his nose as thoroughly as the light ambushed his eyes.
Time to leave.
Sanders rose, his body reeling like a tired scarecrow left too long to the mercy of crows. He stumbled forward and collapsed his weight onto the door control, executing a clumsy escape from the increasingly smoky confines of the forward cabin.
One glance at the outside of the shuttle confirmed what his injuries had led him to suspect -- it hadn't been an easy flight from the Odyssey.
The Odyssey! The mayday call from the military freighter. The Captain's decision to respond. The many, many enemy ships that surrounded them. The gloriously cunning plan of the Captain, that relied on...
...that relied on Sanders getting to the bridge of this run down freighter. The blurry clock icon in his peripheral HUD painted the time in crimson neon across his vision. Sanders focused. Three minutes to go. If the missiles weren't fired at exactly the right time and in exactly the right pattern the plan would fail, ensuring the destruction of the Odyssey and the almost certain capture of the freighter. But Sanders had served two tours with the Captain. He had seen enough rabbits pulled out of enough hats to feed a small army.
External communications were jammed, and internal communications unresponsive. Sanders raced down grey corridors filled with flickering lights, alarms, and barely repressed panic. These freighters didn't exactly attract the best of the best. No security stopped him as he burst onto the main bridge with barely 20 seconds remaining.
'Captain, I'm Lieutenant Sanders from the Odyssey', he barked. 'We need a full spread of missiles, attack pattern delta-epilson-five to coordinates 165 by 234. On my mark…'
The frazzled freighter Captain looked up at Sanders, his expression bemused. 'No can do. All class seven freighters had their missiles confiscated as a part of the last efficiency dividend process', he said.
Sanders sighed and slumped to the ground as the forward screen flashed. It was awash with light from the exploding Odyssey.
Bloody bureaucracy, Sanders thought, and waited patiently for the oblivion he once again hoped would follow.
Author’s Note
In my day job I deal with bureaucracy a lot. The Gloriously Cunning Plan stemmed from this concern - what would happen if one of those last minute heroic plans I always see on TV came face to face with the kind of red tape I see in real government work.
Make Mine a Macchiato
Jack was used to tickles of insight that warned him when things weren't quite right. His talents didn't lie in proper prognostication -- even the thought of tracking the probabilities of multiple potential futures gave him a headache. But every now and then he got a nudge, an inkling that things were about to get ugly. Mostly, those flashes were frustrating and vague. Fortunately, the crushing waves of terror helped him pinpoint the problem this time.
A portal hung open in the middle of the footpath, like a malicious shimmering eye. Through it Jack could see the hazy image of a person. Well, perspective was a little tricky. Perhaps larger than a person. In fact, if he wasn't an avowed atheist Jack could have sworn he was looking at...
'A demon?' Jack muttered.
'Come on, Jack', the purported demon said. 'You don't believe in all that supernatural bullshit. Psionics are a completely natural phenomenon. Why would this be any different?'
Jack squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose in the universally acknowledged mechanism for dispelling hallucinations.
It didn't work. Some form of response seemed in order.
'If you are human that's a bloody good disguise,' Jack managed. 'You seem to have more horns than I'm used to seeing on the average pedestrian, and the red marbling throughout your suspiciously stony skin…'
'Yes, well, I'm sure there are plenty of rational explanations', it interrupted. 'Anything from a complicated government conspiracy involving a new form of sensory mind control through to that dodgy kebab you ate last night. Does it really matter?'
Jack supposed not, although interpretations that pointed to mental instability would be of concern. The fact that no passersby were freaking out seemed to lend that branch of thought credence and Jack said as much.
'Look, Jacky boy,' the devil shaped entity said. 'I’m really just looking for someone to buy me a macchiato. The cafe across the road is my favourite, and it isn't every day that a certified level 17 psionic walks by. Do a demon a favour and pick me up one would you?'
Jack remembered enough stories to know that he was in dangerous bargaining territory. But he didn't believe in demons. So why was he still standing here? He started to back away, slowly.
The as yet unproved daemon raised its hands in placation.
'Jack. Mate. Look at it this way. Right now you're worried you might be crazy. If you hand over the coffee and it actually disappears you'll know you're sane. If it doesn't, well...early psychiatric intervention can only be a good thing.'
The apparition made a reasonable point. Jack shrugged, crossed the road, and purchased a macchiato for it -- and a flat white for himself. He used the cardboard carrying tray to pass the small cup through the portal's glistening threshold to the eagerly waiting fiend on the other side, then stood back to find out if demons were real.
Author’s Note
I wanted to try something a little away from science fiction as well as something a little silly. Make Mine a Macchiato was the result. It was also the first time I showed a story in progress to a non-writer friend. While I didn’t agree with all the feedback, I did gain an appreciation for the benefit of better understanding what your potential audience might like. In this instance, my friend wasn’t a big fan of the ambiguity at the end of the story. I liked it so in the end I kept it, but it was a good reminder that you can’t please all of the people all of the time.
Striking Twice
Roy sat in the delivery room clutching his wife's hand while the surgeon worked. Breech birth. It was a good sign. The original pregnancy had been breech.
Yes. The right day, and the right time at the culmination of a similar pregnancy. An excellent match as far as his fuzzy and somewhat overloaded memory could tell.
'Here she comes!' cried the surgeon with her professional, practiced enthusiasm.
Roy looked up, a wild, desperate hope clutching at his heart. The baby emerged -- first the legs, then the stomach and chest, and finally the head. She was beautiful: perfectly formed, and already filling her lungs to scream her displeasure at the world.
Roy slumped, disappointment and despair vying for supremacy. It wasn't Ella.
He raised leaden fingers to the device on his wrist and tapped a few keys. The room shimmered, then faded away. As his existence unraveled, he wondered how it was that a disembodied consciousness could feel so sic
k to its stomach.
After a period of time that was both instantaneous and infinite, the world snapped back into focus.
Roy felt the strength and energy of his reduced years flood into him. He was always 18 after the transition -- there didn't seem to be any way to avoid that. Since he had created that first connection it was as if his consciousness had no choice but to follow the same path whenever he activated the device.
That first journey had been unforgettable. He had abandoned his ancient and ravaged body, and regained the glory of youth with a whole life stretched out before him -- one where he essentially knew the future. Wealth, power, wine, women and song -- Roy had loved every minute of it. This time he had invented the device much earlier, and lived in the sure knowledge that if anything truly bad happened he could go back and start again.
But as Roy's 20s faded into the distance and he marched confidently into his 30s, he found himself thinking more and more about his daughter Ella. He hadn't considered her potential lack of existence when he'd jumped. Anxious, Roy had sought out his former, and hopefully future, wife. But his new über-confident personality had cooled her interest. When the original date of Ella's birth came and went, he decided to try again, and fired up the device.
Since then Roy had lived a hundred partial lifetimes, trying in each one to recreate the circumstances that had brought Ella into his life. He'd soon worked out how to match the broad events, but the critical detail proved tricky.
It all came down to Roy's sperm. The average man carries billions of the little buggers. Which one makes it over the line to fertilisation depends on fragile, delicately balanced factors -- factors that had so far frustrated his efforts at replication.
Roy squinted into the bright sunlight, squared his shoulders, and set out on yet another attempt to make lightning strike twice.
Author’s Note