Author: Robin Anderson

Female Trouble

She was leaking.  Again.  It seemed only to happen in public.  At home it was never a problem.  She could sit for hours reading or working out mathematical equations.  Even when staring at the clouds or stars and theorizing, there was no seepage.

But out shopping, at tea, in a ballroom and especially at the subscription library, she had only to open her mouth and the trickle, then torrent, of her words, opinions and knowledge flooded the air.

Her intelligence on hideous display and before she could ratchet her jaw shut, the whispers began all round.

“Bluestocking.”

Image: Portrait of MME De Graffigny by Pierre Mignard via flickr commons

1816

It would be the fight of his life.  A duel but not over a woman or an accusation of cheating at cards or even because some Pink of the Ton had cast aspersions upon the arrangement of his cravat.  No, it was far more serious.  The control of his fortune, his title, his estate, his very future was at stake.  And he had no choice of weapons, was unarmed, unmanned, with only his twelve year old brother as his second.  But he must face the challenge.

Bile rose in his throat as he turned to confront his opponent.

“Hello, Mother.”

Embellishment for Haiku

Image:  Portrait of a Young Gentleman via flickr commons

Z’Doom

She was stuck.  None of the buttons at the bottom of her screen were operative.  Eventually they all disappeared.   Why shouldn’t she leave the meeting?  No one moved, no one spoke.  A thin trickle of moisture snaked down her back.  Her palms were wet.  But she continued to stare straight ahead.

Resolved to stand, she found her butt glued to the chair, her feet fused to the floor.  She could not un-rivet her gaze from the screen.  She was frozen as were all of her fellow zoomers.  They stared into each other’s blank, motionless eyes and prayed for unstable internet.

Image by Arteum-ro via Unsplash.com

Many Questions

“Should those plants be touching?”

“What?”

“Should those two plants be touching each other?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No! Should they be touching? Their leaves are mingling.”

“ Why are you concerned about that?”

“It doesn’t seem right. Is it healthy?”

“Are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems bizarre to be concerned about the mingling of leaves. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just wondered if its okay for those leaves to mingle.”

<silence>

“Why are you so dismissive of my concerns?”

“Fine. Sorry.  It is okay for those plants to touch. Better?”

 

“Yes, thank you . . . what about those two plants?”

 

Image by Robin Anderson

Power Down

Tonight I write by candlelight.  A scheduled outage they said.

No light, no heat, no electronic hum but in the shadows story pours from my pen.  Stream of consciousness, words flow like water or wine or my own blood.

Now I know I should have contrived a blackout long ago.

Image by Robin Anderson

Power Down originally published at fiftywordstories.com on 

Brain Fog

Have you ever driven on a foggy morning?  Diffuse grey light wraps around trees, utility poles and buildings.  No hard edges to alert you.  Are you traveling fast? Or slowly?  Time is compressed, attenuated or smoothed out.  Your brain eventually tricks you into seeing black and white dots swimming in the fuzzy air.

Pandemic is like that.  Time becomes flat and we are all dots floating in space.  Getting nowhere fast.  Or slowly.

Image by Jason Strull via Unsplash.com

Quiet Like Sunday

Listen.

Quiet like Sunday on the first of Spring.  No traffic, no voices, no airplanes.  Only birdsong or a dog barking.

Listen.

Humanity withdraws and the world settles into silence.  People in houses gaze through closed windows.  They can hear sunlight drip off buildings and roar down empty streets.

Listen.

Image by Harrison Fulop

This story also appears at fiftywordstories.com