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Snippet from Preet's
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I had seen a lot of people since I sat down. They passed me in a steady stream to and from the lav. Happy hour had been going long enough I’d even started to see people come by twice. They were uniformly dressed in work coveralls, mostly dirty, clearly just coming off-shift. They were all genders, all races the galaxy had yet unveiled to the Consortium, and all ages. I’d seen their like in a score of stations around a score of worlds. I didn’t want to get to know any of them.
I was about to check my comm when she walked past me. She was leaving the lav though I hadn’t seen her enter. And I would’ve remembered.
She was a Hult, with her clawed third upper limb fully extended above her left shoulder, the extra hump of muscle on her back rippling under an iridescent blue-green gown that hugged all of her curves. Her black hair was twisted above her head, nearly matching the claw-arm in height, with tiny lights chasing themselves up and down the twists. The current style in the upper echelons of station society.
As you probably know Hults look very much like Terrans, except for the third upper extremity. They have a vestigial third leg too, don’t ask me how I know. The claw is an adaptation for clipping stipple fruits in an environment where the ground is in constant motion. The third leg for balance was apparently less important than the movement flexibility gained by having only two. Since the two species are so similar we have similar ideas of beauty. This Hult was gorgeous.
In her right hand she held a blaster; her left rested on the hilt of a dagger, the scabbard clipped to an energy belt which pulsed with a yellow that enhanced the color of her gown. The claw turned slowly back and forth, as if it had eyes and was scanning the crowd.
As often happens when the classes mix, the sea of lower crust workers parted, despite the very cramped space, to allow the upper crust Hult a clear path. She did not touch another patron as she walked even though everyone who had passed me before had caromed off at least a dozen others on their way to or from the lav. For her part the Hult seemed to not even notice the people she walked past or the ticking of her shoes as they unstuck themselves from the floor with every step.
My eyes followed her. Even though the crowd sprang back to fill the space after she passed, her claw and hair protruded above the crowd and were easy to follow, the blinking lights like tiny beacons in the gloom. She stopped maybe twenty meters away. There was the flash of a blaster and its accompanying boom of sound. The smell of scorched cloth and flesh added its sickly presence to the ambient stink.
Preet's now available on Amazon for 99 cents (Kindle only)
I was about to check my comm when she walked past me. She was leaving the lav though I hadn’t seen her enter. And I would’ve remembered.
She was a Hult, with her clawed third upper limb fully extended above her left shoulder, the extra hump of muscle on her back rippling under an iridescent blue-green gown that hugged all of her curves. Her black hair was twisted above her head, nearly matching the claw-arm in height, with tiny lights chasing themselves up and down the twists. The current style in the upper echelons of station society.
As you probably know Hults look very much like Terrans, except for the third upper extremity. They have a vestigial third leg too, don’t ask me how I know. The claw is an adaptation for clipping stipple fruits in an environment where the ground is in constant motion. The third leg for balance was apparently less important than the movement flexibility gained by having only two. Since the two species are so similar we have similar ideas of beauty. This Hult was gorgeous.
In her right hand she held a blaster; her left rested on the hilt of a dagger, the scabbard clipped to an energy belt which pulsed with a yellow that enhanced the color of her gown. The claw turned slowly back and forth, as if it had eyes and was scanning the crowd.
As often happens when the classes mix, the sea of lower crust workers parted, despite the very cramped space, to allow the upper crust Hult a clear path. She did not touch another patron as she walked even though everyone who had passed me before had caromed off at least a dozen others on their way to or from the lav. For her part the Hult seemed to not even notice the people she walked past or the ticking of her shoes as they unstuck themselves from the floor with every step.
My eyes followed her. Even though the crowd sprang back to fill the space after she passed, her claw and hair protruded above the crowd and were easy to follow, the blinking lights like tiny beacons in the gloom. She stopped maybe twenty meters away. There was the flash of a blaster and its accompanying boom of sound. The smell of scorched cloth and flesh added its sickly presence to the ambient stink.
Preet's now available on Amazon for 99 cents (Kindle only)
Poetry Sampler
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Dreams
You're my dream Impossible at it seems Possible as it is Every day changes flood a life Some to be ignored Some to be embraced Some to be investigated Dreams are bombarded by these changes Themselves added to, subtracted from Discarded, rebuilt, built anew Mine, nascent, submerged, resurfaced Bent, broken, rebuilt Strangely constant; maybe not so odd To have, to hold, to share You, my dream? A creative partner Foil, stimulus, help I've held you, my dream Ever since I remember Surviving the vicissitudes Of change, in the whole Unlike so many others And now given physical form Substance, I embrace you With all the affection Saved for you through all life's changes Because, at the core is one's truth You, my dream, have found mine. Part of Viewpoints now available in Paperback and Kindle |
June 6
The day began like any other Clocks striking midnight Waves and sand, wind and land No different a minute before No different a minute after But men would talk of this day From this day and who was there On the coast of northern Fance On this henceforth known as The Longest Day. Emotions still run high For those who now remember Though those there then will soon Be gone, their deeds live on And if we remember Their reasons and their valor We shall not suffer nor have cause To repeat their great endeavor. Part of Viewpoints now available in Paperback and Kindle |
Flash Fiction - Annisette
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Annisette sat cross-legged on the grass peering through the stalks of the zinnias waving gently in the summer breeze. Her eyes were just below the level of the blossoms. She could hear the bees working busily but could not really see them until they slowly hovered from one flower to the next.
Her vision anyway was locked on her brother on the other side of the yard looking painstakingly through the rhododendron and lilacs. She could almost hear his whistling over the hum of the bees. She knew it was the theme to The Andy Griffith Show even though she never thought his whistling and the song sounded remotely similar. She waited until he made it to the pump house and the small white building blocked him from her view. She sprang up and dashed ten feet to suddenly sit again, this time behind the bed of snapdragons, the multi-colored flowers now waving at eye level. Jeremy emerged from the far side of the pump house and looked right at her without seeing. Her print dress blended perfectly with the flowers screening her from his view. His gaze passed to the zinnias and then even further to the sunflower bed. He started to amble in that direction. Annisette took her chance, jumping up and racing for the giant sycamore. Jeremy shouted “Ha!” and burst into a run on an intersecting path. She started to giggle as her bare feet pounded across the soft grass. She could hear him gaining ground, his much-longer legs eating up the distance between them, but, like often, his steps seemed to slow as they all closed together – Annisette, the sycamore, and Jeremy. She reached the tree. “Safe!” she squealed. And then he reached it, and her, and one finger tickled her ribs, expanding the giggle to peals of laughter. She collapsed to the ground out of his reach, still laughing, and a grin split his face. “You are so-o-o-o fast.” “And tricky!” she giggled. “And tricky” he agreed. “Next time I’m going to start looking at the zinnias!” “OK! Count!” and she started to run into the middle of the yard, the giggling stopping with the seriousness of the next hiding place. Jeremy hid his face in the tree and started counting, loudly, and peeking to see where she went, “One! Two!...” Unpublished, (c) by Greg Schroeder |
Prompt: History of a Place
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Take a look at my published works and projects
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