TerraformingLynn Bey |
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Second Place, Very Short Fiction Contest
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Should she appear unscarred or lacking in relief, one would do well to remember that in her 77th life she took on a lover. His acrobatics were impressive but he rarely came down from the tin-patterned ceiling, not even when she did as he bade and sliced up a cloud so it spelled out charisma in garamond bold. When at last she grew weary and curled up to sleep, he, unprepared for such tricks, soon disappeared.
In No. 87 she looked down at the ground and saw that her feet were not there. She'd heard rumors, of course, of flaws in this model, but still she was irked. When the blind was raised on the fading sun, a street she believed had been fastened securely imploded beside her. She dove headfirst into the marble-black shaft, composing with the rapture of double-beat fusion an aria to which a name has been given and so can't be unsung. Too late she remembered that No. 87 did not come with wings. There was nothing to do but imagine the soil. There was nothing to do but lie back and smile, assured as she was that her yellowing bones were the finest grade tilth that this world or the next or the one after that would one day know. She has come to be called an Essential Hydrocarbon, a designation, one suspects, that will stick in her craw.
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© 2001 Lynn Bey
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© 2001, 2002 Max E. Keele. All Rights Reserved.