Microstory 1756: Bee of Paradise

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I’ve moved past the most traumatic experience of my life, and I’ve been able to reach some semblance of normalcy. I can’t say that it no longer affects me, but it at least no longer consumes me. I have prosthetic feet now, and while I can’t feel sensations down there anymore, I can walk just fine. I don’t even tell people my situation anymore, because it’s not relevant, and they can’t tell. I’m happy now. I have a better job than before, with better benefits. My boss calls me her busy bee, so she forced me to take a vacation, which is why I’ve agreed to this island getaway. I still find it rather difficult to trust others, which is one reason I’ve come alone, but I decided that I’m okay with that. This is about recharging my batteries, and remembering what I want out of life. It goes well at first, but then I start to get a bad feeling as I’m walking around the resort, and my excursions. I can’t point to an actual reason for my spidey senses sounding sirens, but I don’t think I’m imagining it. There is an evolutionary advantage to detecting the presence of a potential threat even when you can’t pin it down. Something or someone is out there who doesn’t want to be seen.  They’re watching me, and making me nervous. I keep telling myself that I might just be paranoid, but the sirens don’t go away. I really don’t think I’m making this up. I can’t ask for help, of course, because what is who going to do? The staff isn’t qualified to suss out a hypothetical stalker, and the police never help. I have no proof, just my instincts. I try to shrug it off, but the feeling grows worse, and I catch a glimpse of a shadow every once in a while. Finally, I cancel all of the activities I had planned for one day, and lock myself in the room. It’s not enough.

Presumably having decided he’s ready to show himself, my stalker breaks down the door, and enters my room. I didn’t come with pepper spray, or anything, so I’m helpless to fight him off. I head for the balcony, but I’m on the eleventh floor, so I don’t know where I thought I was going with that. It’s him. It’s the one who abducted me from my own home, and burned my feet so badly that they had to amputate both of them. They said they caught him, and he committed suicide by cop. How could they have been so wrong? Did they not look for evidence after the incident? Did they just assume they shot the right guy, and let it go? Who did they actually shoot? Obviously I shouldn’t be worrying about any of this right now; I just need to get away from him. I don’t know how he found me. I don’t even know what he wants with me, or how he knows me. But I know it’s the same man, and I know I can’t just run away. I won’t let him hurt me again, though. I’m going to fight back. I’m going to fight back hard. Not doing that before has been my greatest regret, and while I can’t go back in time and change it, I can do better this time. First, I scream. No one comes running before he manages to cover my mouth with his gloved hand, but that doesn’t mean they never will. It’s the off-season, but there are plenty of other guests here, and hopefully they’re not all at the bonfire. My attacker is stronger, so it’s not hard for him to overpower me, gag me, and start dragging me down the emergency stairs. My right foot gets caught on the edge of a step, and falls off, which gives me an idea. When we’re on a landing, I swing my left leg up, and take hold of my remaining foot. Hitting him once in the face is enough to get him to let go. Then I start bashing him over and over again until he stops moving. Only then does someone come to my rescue, but it’s too late. This time, I’m here to make sure he’s dead.

Microstory 749: Puppy Foot

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When Almevary Balik was but a few months old, as her parents claim it, her first words were puppy foot. As impressive as it was that she spoke at such a young age, and that the utterance was composed of two words, it was even more impressive when considering how unlikely it is she even once heard the pair combined. Puppies have paws, rather than feet, and her family was made up of strictly cat people. She had essentially come up with a term on her own, which is something adults do every day, but infants, not so much. The phrase stuck with her, as family members would brag to anyone within earshot how intelligent and precocious Alma was. She herself couldn’t hear the end of it either, and when her rock band was trying to decide on a name of themselves, it was the obvious choice. Alma was the band’s frontwoman, and business leader. There were many small venues available to perform in, but she knew which ones to accept, and which to turn down. She did her homework, researching bigger and bigger names that were at all involved in the music industry, tracking their movement. Basically, she was looking for them to be discovered without it being obvious. Though the gigs they chose did not necessarily pay well up front, knowing who was in the audience paid off later. In months, they were skyrocketing to stardom, first by being an opening act for Peter Fireblood, and then being invited to tour with You’re Bad Grammar. Puppy Foot was soon a global phenomenon, but good things are never meant to last. Alma started receiving uncomfortable messages from one of her fans. In once sentence, he would speak of their destiny together, then her brutal death in the next. She contacted the authorities, but they were unable to do anything about it without a name. Over time, her stalker grew bolder, showing up as a shadow behind her on the street, and then sneaking into her trailer to move objects around. Still, the police could not catch him, because he did not so much as show his face to her once. Theoretically because this distant gaslighting was becoming too impersonal, one night, he decided to take things to the next level, and confront her directly. She was alone in her apartment when a werewolf burst through her window, and started growling at her. She tried to reason with him, but he refused to back down. We may never know exactly what the stalker werewolf intended to do, for as he stood up and prepared to attack, Almevary Balik grabbed the nearest object; an elvish star flute. She swung it towards him, and sliced off his whole front paw. This distracted the stalker long enough for her to get away, and find help. He bled out in her livingroom before he could be arrested.

Microstory 205: New Measurements

I realize that I’ve mentioned a few what you must believe to be measurements, but are not completely sure. You see, my stories take place in a universe where such things are part of common knowledge, and very few people can act as “audience proxies”. I try to go over things, but at the same time, I want to organically bring them up, rather than just spell them out. If you were telling a story about Barack Obama, you wouldn’t first explain that Obama was the President of the United States of America between the common era years of 2009 to 2016. Everybody knows that...mostly. But since the secondary purpose of this site is to give you an introduction to my new world, I’m just going to go at it; in this case, giving you highlights of a fictional (or is it?) measurement system. The smallest positive unit of measurement is the yoem. It is equal to 2.442 millimeters. Multiply that by 10 and you get the deam which is 2.442 centimeters. Multiply by 10 and we have a sheam: 24.42 centimeters. Get the picture? Continue to multiply by 10 for a geara: 2.670603674541 yards (8.011811023623 feet); demra: 26.70603674541 yards (80.11811023623 feet); shemra: 267.0603674541 yards (801.1811023623 feet); and nayko: 2.442 kilometers (8,011.811023623 feet). That last one is what my characters use in place of a mile, and naykos per hour are informally referred to as neels. Units of mass follow a similar linguistic and mathematical structure starting with the yoemtra: 2.442 grams; deamtra: 0.86139 ounces; sheamtra (sheels): 0.538369 pounds; gearatra: 5.38369 pounds; demratra: 53.8369 pounds; shemratra: 538.369 pounds; and naykotra: 2.691845 tons (5,383.69 pounds). So the next time someone asks you how tall you are and how much you weigh, after punching them in the face for being rude, you can say something like 7 sheaman and 24 gearatran. Oh yeah, by the way, if you want to pluralize something, you add -an to the end (or just -n if the singular ends in a vowel). Did you not already know that?

Microstory 24: Japanese Puzzle Box

The cashier at the Asian Fusion restaurant gives me this weird smile as she hands me my change. I shake it from my head, grab my food, and leave. Once I'm finished eating, I look in the bag to see if there's a fortune cookie. Instead, I find a miniature Japanese puzzle box. A few minutes later, I manage to reach the final step. As I slide the piece over, the box explodes. After recovering from the shock, I look down to find a larger puzzle box. How did it fit inside? The urge to open this next box overpowers my fear of what might happen at the end. A half hour later, I  can tell that I'm nearly there. I grab a meter stick from the closet and use it to move the last piece. Just like before, this box explodes to reveal a box that is larger still. I laugh with excitement. How many are there? I spend the rest of the night opening boxes, eventually wearing gloves, safety goggles, and a heavy coat for protection. The largest box yet is about two feet wide and three feet long. It takes me hours, but I succeed. This time, it doesn't explode. The boards fall away, revealing a man curled up in a ball. He breathes a sigh of relief and hands me another miniature puzzle box, apologizing for it having to be this way. Before I can react, the box breaks open, stretching and unfolding until it’s large enough to encompass my entire body. It closes up and begins to shrink back down. I’m trapped.

Microstory 23: Three Dimes

When I arrived at my friend’s apartment complex, I discovered there to be no more free parking spaces left. The only ones available were at meters. I tossed my car, looking for change, and was fortunate to find three dimes, hashtag-thestruggle. This would get me to the three-hour limit, which was still a problem. “Feeding the meter” was illegal. I had to finish up there in the allotted time, or I would go to jail. As soon as I got upstairs, my friend asked me if I would drive him to a chick he met online who was getting rid of her old TV. I did as he asked, but hurried him along, fearful that I would lose my precious parking spot. But luck was on my side. When we got back, the space was still open. We stopped by the door to get the TV out. Just then, I looked over and saw someone park next to my spot. When he got out to pay his meter, I could tell that he saw that my meter was already running. He stepped back into his car. I dropped the TV on my friend’s foot, breaking it in two places, and cracking the TV screen. I then jumped back in my car and raced across the lot, slipping back into my birthright! The guy who wanted it was disappointed. So he stabbed me. I was arrested at the hospital for parking illegally.