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 write a scene that comes after the one already written for SFF tropes and themes.
The lab reeked. Acrid blue smoke lay thick across the benches, and out of this haze a figure came stumbling, wafting a hand in front of his face, coughing.
The figure’s name was Frank. He collapsed on to a stool, gutturally hawking up the smoke that was coiling itself like a snake around his lungs, and groaned in pain. Well, that didn’t go as planned, he thought. What had started out as a tentative experiment had turned into a huge mistake that threatened to wipe out his entire operation. Not only had his stock of blueberries gone up – literally – in smoke, he half expected the Enforcers to be knocking on his door at any second. Betrayed by a misjudgement. All of his efforts wasted.
He glanced at his wrist, and let out a sigh of relief. His clock hadn’t moved. Not that it should have done: contrary to what the cynics thought, lifespans weren’t controlled by the State. They were a purely biological phenomenon that the State merely used to its own advantage. There was absolutely no reason to suspect that any wrongdoing would result in a hastening of one’s own Doomsday. He, as a scientist, knew this, and yet fear still lurked in the murky abyss of his mind. His chest hacking with the last of the inhaled smoke, he eyed the door and strained his ears for sound.
Nothing. Frank pulled himself together. Safe for now, boyo. Best get back to work. He gazed around and realised that he could once again see the back of his lab. The smoke was dissipating, and a strong aroma of burnt fruit pervaded the air. Grumbling, he mooched over to his desk and pulled out a battered journal; searched for a pencil; began to write.
‘Resveratrol experiment, phase 1: chemical testing. Elements not compatible. Experiment aborted. More stock needed.’
In frustration he stopped and slammed the pencil down. He picked up the journal, sat on the desk and riffled back to an entry from the previous week:
‘Carnosine experiment, phase 3: trials in humans.’
He couldn’t bear to read on. This trial had been an abject failure. So close, and then it had all fallen apart.
He thought back to that night. There she was, standing at the bar, clearly on the verge of her own personal Doomsday (he’d learned to read the signs a long time ago), and half cut already. It had been so easy to offer her a drink, to slip the sachet of powder into her glass, to chink and say ‘Cheers!’
And then the Enforcers. As usual, no warning: a rain of bullets through the window, everyone scattering, terrified; and that fear, that deep-down, primeval, incapacitating fear: maybe it’s me they’re after, even when you know you haven’t done anything. Except, this time, he knew that wasn’t true.
Diving for cover. Running. The girl? No idea. Maybe she got caught by the bullets; maybe she escaped. No time to find her; no time to look; need to get away. Back to the lab. Lie low for a bit. Regroup.
And so he had regrouped. But with his next big idea up in smoke, his mind turned once again to the girl. Maybe – and now the thought washed over him like a sudden cold shower – maybe she was still out there somewhere. Maybe it did work after all, and I’ve been sitting here exploding fruit.
Seconds later the smell of scorched blueberries was drifting up the corridor behind him.
© Gwyneth Marshman 2018.