Short fiction challenge
In my series of short fiction challenges, I post short pieces I wrote for my Masters in Science Fiction and Fantasy at Anglia Ruskin University. We were set a challenge every fortnight, to practise writing in a particular style or genre, and (with permission from my tutor) I’ve decided to share them here.
This week’s challenge was to choose a ‘what if?’ question and explore it some more. I chose: ‘What if electricity and any other power source was unavailable for a full week? What would happen?’
New neighbour called round again today. Thought he was asking for yet another ‘cup of sugar’ (yeah, right mate, you’re fooling no-one, we know you’ve got the hots for my sister) – but no. Not this time.
Weird – I never knew he was from There. Never met anyone from There before, though, so not sure what I was expecting. Anyways, he looked perfectly normal. Standing there at the door, hair a bit dishevelled in a geekily sexy kind of way (to be fair, Cathy could do – and has done – a lot worse).
And he said, ‘Um, I wanted to ask if it’s just me, or has your power gone off too? Don’t know if it’s a street-wide thing…’
He let the sentence hang, much in the same way as my jaw was by now hanging open. Seriously? I mean, I get that people from There do sometimes move to Here, and you can’t expect them to understand all our little quirks – but to not know something as fundamental as that? Don’t their relocation agencies tell them anything? Like, ‘Every month, for one week, the residents of Here experience a total power blackout. Ensure you take adequate supplies of tinned food, etcetera. Do not ask why. Do not draw attention to yourself.’ Do not pass go, do not collect £200, do not feed the trolls, for all I know.
But this guy was not only asking the big question, he didn’t even know it was a question he shouldn’t be asking.
Holy mother of fuck. Did this mean he was a fugitive? And if so, what the hell was I supposed to do?
Law states that, if we discover someone from There living here illegally, we must turn them in forthwith. (It actually says that in the literature: ‘forthwith’. Some mad bastard in Government must have a penchant for, I dunno, Shakespeare? – not that it makes any less sense than some of the other language they use. Ye olde worlde fascists are just the worst, aren’t they?)
But here Neighbour was, looking – as I might have mentioned – all geekily sexy, hair flopping over his eyes in a way that made me seriously envious of my sister for the first time in, like, ever; and I found myself, not saying, ‘Piss off!’ and slamming the door in his face, but smiling coyly and saying, ‘You’d better come in.’
One of these days my fucking hormones are going to get me killed.
© Gwyneth Marshman 2018.