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Showing posts from August, 2012
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Flash fiction

I responded to this post on io9 with this story:

               It was called the Pimple, and Henry Ford hated it.  He hated it as much as he hated his name, tainted as it was with the stink of history – an irony if ever there was one, since his namesake had once referred to history as “bunk.”  Like his namesake, and the industrial society he had created, whoever created the Pimple died off long ago.

Within the sphere of engineered atmosphere, winged creatures breathed the oxygen, shat in the flat oceans, and procreated on updrafts high in the troposphere, swooping around the vast columns of frozen DNA in a paroxysmal dance.

Henry dug his boot spike into the ice and hoisted himself up the rope to the midsection of the column.  One of the winged things flew close to him and shrieked.  Henry cursed and almost slipped.  He kept his eye firmly glued to the outcropping about twenty crons up, where something new glinted in the green light diffused into the Pimple by the sun and the illuminat…