THE TRADITION.
A new commander of a military training camp arrived at his destination. He inspected the facilities and found something strange, a couple of soldiers standing guard next to a wooden bench.
Surprised, he asked what they were doing there. "I don't know, sir," one of them replied. "The previous commander ordered us to do it. Apparently it's a camp tradition."
Interested in the strange custom, he called the previous commander, who informed him that the previous command had arranged such a guard and that he followed the tradition. More intrigued, the commander kept tugging at the thread and, after consulting three other previous commanders, came in contact with a 100-year-old former general, now retired. He said to him:
"Excuse me, sir. I am in command of the training camp you were in charge of a long time ago. There are two guards assigned to guard a wooden bench and I would like to know the history of this bench and this curious tradition".
The general replies: "Hasn't the paint dried yet?!"

Headhunter

Silence blared through the empty room. Filled with guilt, desperation, torment… You know what they
say, “Fear is the mind-killer.” But it’s never easy, you know, examining and reassembling one’s history in
order to explain the present moment, but coherence is needed if one’s identity is to remain intact.

Coherence…

Heh, my head’s in as many pieces as the gent’s is on the floor. It’s funny, so much of life, of experience, depends on one’s ability to reanimate dead memories. To find vitality through necromancy. In the end we become nothing more than a Frankenstein’s monster. A deluded, wretched creature who’s cursed to chase ghosts until we ourselves become one. Left to ruminate on ruin.

It’s strange how we walk through life half-conscious, half-aware and then find ourselves perplexed as to our current predicament. “How did this happen,” we ask. “How did I end up here, like this, lying dead on the floor? Blood slowly beginning to stain.” The answers remain utterly elusive, at least in any meaningful sense. It’s as if we’re actors that never read the script; improvising our way into the next scene. Always so surprised where our actions have led us. A curtain call to an empty audience.

But even in this spectral form I now occupy, it’s difficult to see this temple of flesh I once worshiped in defiled… desecrated… relegated to nothing more than a lifeless heap of mass, and not ask these trivial questions. “How did this happen?” It seems painfully obvious at this present state that the weapon of my demise never left my own hands. The tension. The stress. The stubborn wrongheadedness. All just self inflicted wounds.

And now this. The final resolution. Or so I once thought, when thoughts were easy and time was cheap. But now things seem different somehow. The freedom from the constraints of flesh have a way to shift one’s perspective. “What is life,” you might ask. “What does it mean to an entity such as I, recently disembodied?”

“Nothing,” is all that I can reply. For life is simply a prolonged dirge. A celebration of death, for the past is never truly alive. And the present? Trivial. Inconsequential. Simply the last exhalation of that which came before it. The future? Undecided. Undetermined. Ultimately unnecessary. And I’m now beginning to question whether or not this funeral song will ever end.

Prisoner Without Bars

The fall was inexplicable in cause and devastating in effect. A twofold break, radius and ulnar, with lateral and dorsal displacement. I was there to witness the screaming reset and felt an amalgamation of shame and sympathy. What crime is deserving of this punishment? Age, simply, with perhaps the misdemeanor offense of sloth.

The term of her confinement has yet to be determined. It could be temporary, a matter of weeks, or a life sentence. However long it is she’ll be brought food and whatever else she needs. Visiting hours are limited by her inability to hear or converse well. She can walk the halls with supervision but cannot be allowed to escape her confinement further, her legs being unreliable.

There is no escape.

Oops!

Oops!...
Shit!...
Ouch!...
Will somebody please get the phone.

Good hyper short story. I liked it because I can't stop imaging the specific picture where a family express those interjections while the phone is ringing. A very simple and original scene :up:

Good hyper short story. — javi2541997

Thank you.

TRAILS

Vibrant jungles and flourishing waters encompass the entire Earth, except for the scarce ice-covered north. The Natives of jungles often warn each other: "Stay along a path or feel the Gods' wrath." Four men awaken tied to each other, far from any trail; criminals drugged to forget the past six days and be led astray without defiance. Two have no recollection of the violent acts that brought them to exile.

Tilor talks a mile a minute, Bellrose puts on a hard front, Dando speaks gibberish, and Yhurt, a drug addict dying of withdrawals, thinks of a way to untie him and the three other agitators from their binds.

The men quickly build and equip weapons for protection from predators. The four offenders follow a slightly visible track to the volunteers who brought them to justice, two men and two women from their tribe who relate closely to the deceased or badly injured victims of the accused. Pressured by the interceptors, the banishers convince the culprits they will return them to society and expunge them of guilt. Instead, the eight Natives journey deep into jungles perilous and unexplored by humans.

The next morning, the four felons recall what occurred two days ago. The day after that, the misdoers reminisce on the second most recent date missing from their consciousness. Each day, for six days, the drug the outlaws were forced to ingest fades. The memories of their actions return in sequence.

I neglected to include in my initial post this concurrent side story from TRAILS (and forgot to mention an alternate title I'm considering for these two combined plots: DOVETAIL):

Within the icy northern regions, a young man, Cimp, searches for new hunting waters with his father, Tunk. The duo locates a patch of sun-drenched ice thin enough to smash. Cimp and Tunk break through the hard surface and dive into the freezing cold water. Using permafrost spears fashioned by them in their younger years during solitary rights of passage for hunting permits, the pair of providers skewer dozens of sea creatures and gather them in netting. Father and son trek back to their encampment and return with food for their hungry family. Two other hunters, brothers by blood, die that night from pneumonia, the most common form of death for members of ice colonies.

Cimp dreams of simple and safer lives for himself and his people. The young idealist convinces many guardians from his clan to send their most healthy and energetic family members, their juvenile children, to journey with him to faraway lands. The expedition led by Cimp, a team of nearly thirty strong, hopes to reach better and more bountiful surroundings for willing members of their tribe to attempt to migrate.

GAP

Carly reaches her arms straight out at her opposition, Master Indigna. She exaggerates broad deliberate steps closer and closer to her master across the arena. Indigna manipulates his protégé in motion. The articles of clothing on Carly shred and fall from her body. She presses on, naked.

Carly tromps halfway out of her skin. She exits fully in her next step.

Carly keeps on going, skinless, toward her enemy with outstretched arms. A line of barbed wire appears out of thin air and binds to her muscles. Sharp thin wire materializes in a continuous line and clings onto her body from her feet up to her head. Back down and up. Carly champs on, trailing her blood.

More razor wire spirals around her body and drags her down. It tightens. More pointed-wire looms.

Nine yards from Indigna, she locks onto her target.

Carly pulls back her arms intensely in a desperate effort to remove the head of her master. Not enough strength, she yanks out all his teeth instead. Bloodied teeth fly from the mouth of Indigna and scatter far across the floor, past Carly’s feet. The bladed wire actualizes and wraps Carly up faster in retribution for the pain the master felt. Almost completely veiled with tapered wire, the protégé slows. She stops.

Poster

Warning!: the building is under construction. All electronic materials are not operative.

I have read while I got stuck in the elevator...

POOR SAM

PART ONE:

Inside a caliginous conference room, uninspired inventor Dr. Sam Warder was seated at the base of a hefty hardwood table shaped like an isosceles triangle. A dim light was cast down from the ceiling onto the doctor. Across from him sat the six business conductors who bought his invention. Three suits to his left, three to his right. The providers of the doctor's inimitable wage, shadows concealed.
A business broker leaned forward laggardly and said, "The decision was unanimous, Sam."
Dr. Warder glared daggers at the person. "I tell you this once. Dr. Warder is my title. Never call me Sam again," he warned.
The company consuls looked at each other and gave slight nods of agreement. A second business vendor ensured the doctor they would abide by his rule. A third confirmed what the doctor feared. His invention, the Arti-Limb, was in the process of discontinuation. Dr. Warder staked his claim to the marketeers that he and his team would fix the malfunction that arose and any future conk outs of his invention. A fourth business agent stated there would be no reversal of the ceased production anytime soon. The doctor tried to keep his fury in check. No use hiding. Dr. Warder overflowed with rage, his face contorted tight.
He jolted from his chair and slammed his fists on the table. "Have you considered the profits I provide this company?" asked Dr. Warder, voice louder with each stilted word he delivered. "The money? The blood?" he continued, his cadence brimming with frenzied disbelief, lacking curiosity. Dr. Warder barked his final contention with all he could muster, "Supplies you hold dire flow to you by me because of my invention!"
A fifth dealer in business explained that contributions from Dr. Warder were calculated. He felled to accumulate enough earnings for the business partners to extend their contract with him. The doctor was commended with a tinge of condescension for the figures he did procure the company.
Dr. Warder went from bitter to crestfallen. "How do you expect me to live?" he timidly asked the benefactors.
"You should know by now, doctor. That was never our concern," the sixth corporate envoy replied.
Dr. Warder gazed down at the tabletop and contemplated.
He stared back up at his newfound nemeses, his eyes slit. "You traitorous abominations!" shouted the doctor. "Simpleminded leeches!" he lashed out. To the six people, Dr. Warder swore in a deep growl, "You all will die by what my mind envisions!"

WHITE ELEPHANTS

Tad-advanced machines, built by socialite humans, torture and kill all grand descendants of rich authoritative people overthrown centuries ago. Male descendants, would-be manipulators, are tortured until murdered leading up to or during their second birthday. Female descendants, would-be influencers, face torture until their murder on their twelfth birthday, if not before.

On Halloween night, clusters of newborn babies are delivered to the sexing chamber, where an odd-looking mobile machine with some tendrils clumsily examines each baby for gender. Sometimes, the robot accidentally kills them. Newborn females are put in their place, a solitary cubby, where a tube-like machine force-feeds them occasionally for three years or until death. Newborn and recently-born males, those still alive, are killed one of three ways after midnight.

Almost twelve years later, on Halloween, a robot saves an enslaved eleven-year-old female human from imprisonment. For over one decade, the bot experienced disarray from witnessing, learning about, and participating in the torment human slaves go through. A year ago, the bot developed compassion. It befriended the human slave it would later rescue, and together, they formulated a plan to revolt.

In search of infant twin siblings, one male and one female, the automaton and the being destroy multitudes of violent machines and devastate segments of the gargantuan-sized robotic establishment. The neonates the unlikely sentinel and sentient couple seek are the only inmates known by a select few to be non-descendants of prominent parents from a bygone era. The twin babes of humble birth, mistaken for evil, are the key, perhaps, to saving the presently imprisoned grand descendants.

BARN OF CONFESS

A rectangular cowshed is devoid of captive cows. Fresh-picked straw spread thinly across the cold, pristine concrete floor. No cows, none of their manure and piss across most surfaces. The space is free from filth and without the clutter of junk.

A perimeter lined with cow pens. Inside each stable stands a slender iron candleholder. Fifty-six pens, fifty-six holders. Old vivid candle wax clings to the iron and outlines their unique shapes. Wax piles up from the bases of certain shafts. At least one lit candle adorns every holder. Extra iron stems from most shafts to attach more burning candles to them. No holder carries more than nine candles aflame.

The small flickering fires cast light on 18th-century industry owners:

ROYAL FARMERS of fifty-one men and five boys.

The farmers wear different outfits similar to the typical clothes of average farm workers, albeit more streamlined. All the farmers except for one, the MC, occupy wicker-woven aluminum seats, custom to fit their weights and statures. Chair legs bolted to the floor, a slight bend from the seats next to them. The chairs form the shape of a tight spiral.

Half the farmers are young adults. Many of them do daily rigorous farm work and have some big muscles to prove it. Nearly all of the other farmers are middle age or seniors. Given the option to retire, most have. Five adolescent farmhands sit among the more mature farmers. Two elder-status farmers, recent retirees, sit side-by-side. At the centre of the winding chairs stands MC.

MC:
In Confess. Tonight. We collect. Discusses of the well-being of us, the Royal Farmers of the Present States. Concern it is our deaths, most immature. Subject relevances royals in past, relays to futures.

Surprised, the audience of farmers murmurs back and forth.

MC:
Numbers dwindle, worst terms ever. We half-discovery the sources of mourns. Place blames on animals.

Louder murmurs back and forth between the seated farmers.

ROYAL FARMER:
Outrageous!

MC:
The scientific half-discovered specifies the consumption of foods, of drinks derived from animals hunted or farmed, is it makes sick, dramatics ills, odds far end near.

The majority appears stunned. Some turn and view the faces of bewilderment or concern to feel better.

A few stare at MC and snarl or mumble swear words.

MC:
Realize the finalization. How punish who dropped far the number of ours. Well, good newest. Animals who dipped us, dip them. The species, bred, kept, ingested, properties who upended, make-massive through born-force. Forever them slaves of grand proportion.

The seated farmers clap, whistle, and shout with glee and the cheers do not end.

The noises from the farmers build.

MC:
Since their conception, nowhere to face away torture given them before using them. At ages equivalent of infants, their sole escape it is death unkind! The slow, the painful! Unto their kin, then unto them, slaughters on revolve! What it is called the slaughtering!

GOD AGAINST GOD (OR METHOD FOR OPTIMUM EDEN)

GOD IS GOD UNTIL GOD LOSES SANITY AND PRODUCES A BAD SITUATION ON PURPOSE OR MAKES A MISTAKE THAT RESULTS IN BAD BY ACCIDENT. IN EITHER OUTCOME, GOD'S CREATIONS ARE PUT ON HOLD FOR GOD 2.0 TO AWAKEN INSIDE THE REALM OF GODS AND OUTPERFORM OLD GOD IN A TEST OF RIGHT, PROOF OF BEING NEXT-GOD WORTHY. EXCEPTION YET TO ARISE, NEW GOD SCORES PERFECT ON THE TEST OF RIGHT AND AT LEAST ONE QUESTION, OLD GOD ANSWERS WRONG ON. IF NEED BE, GOD 3.0 REPLACES GOD 2.0, WITH GOD 4.0 ON STANDBY TO REPLACE GOD 3.0, AND SO ON AND SO FORTH FOR AN ETERNITY, HOPEFULLY.

*THERE ARE INFINITE NEW GODS AND INFINITE TESTS OF RIGHT.

**TEST OF RIGHT COMPLETION TIMES PERHAPS VARIATE.

THERE ARE INFINITE NEW GODS — Bug Biro

Look, like in Ancient Greek mythology or Ancient Egypt empire.

Look, like in Ancient Greek mythology or Ancient Egypt empire. — javi2541997

Essentially, this Hyper Short Story is a satirical symbol of my belief that God does not exist or is not all-powerful or not all-loving (or used to be before creating and controlling Satan). Replacing God involves tests of righteousness, a reference to Simulation Theory. Each test simulates the conception of human reality and challenges God to conduct until bad occurs. Upon completion of the challenge, New God moves on to control actual existence, while Old God continues to orchestrate a simulation.

The idea that any number of Gods exist and impact life apart from figuratively is a disruptive decline. Divinities are metaphors that dare humans to strive for perfection with coincidental implications the feat is daunting or impossible. They are deterrents that invoke insignificance and fear rather than good behaviour. Their invention was likely a diversion for leaders of many, people with power comparable to a God, to avoid disciplinary action. Citizens and soldiers blame unruly deities for disastrous conduct and omit deduction on what mortal decision, and whose, prompted the tragedy. Prehistorically, belief in the intangible is cogent. Eventually, humans evolved. Their intelligence grew enough to discern reality from claims with no telling. Somehow at some point, religious faith reverted to mistaking parables for true stories of creators to appease. A resurgence both laughable and nightmarish that allows rulers to manipulate life to favour them and disregard or victimize others. Religious people are taught ethereal determines evil and follow convenient instructions to contend bodiless wickedness in selfish indirect ways. Non-religious people deny sins originate from a small faction of humans to convince themselves they are not weak for not repelling manageable evil. Religious and non-religious alike adhere to the societal standards of where they reside to be turned into legions of unmotivated who consent to and oblige suffering. A supreme construct would presumably be disgusted by our extraordinarily nefarious and idiotic ways of being. Rules administered to us are unfair to practically all people. The levels of injustice for some reach Hellish degrees. We fail to act accordingly. We embrace and succumb to evil.

THE CANADIAN GRAND STRIKE
OR
A QUICK ADHERENCE TO DEMANDS OF NOBLE CHANGES

PRIME DIRECTIVE gives unemployed Canadians fair payment. Cancels impediments and supports uprooting of crimeful communities.

STEP #1:
Most people within Canada quit their job simultaneously.

STEP #2:
the Canadian government is uncertain how to respond. Stands to lose money and cannot support its unemployed residents sufficiently. Reputation is at risk.

STEP #3:
Looting begins for both survival and criminal intent.

STEP #4:
An undetermined number of Canadians are killed during the criminal act of looting or other crimes.

STEP #5:
The Canadian government enacts the demands of its citizens or offers a separate concession of greater or equal potential for betterment.

SOMEWHERE DIFFERENT, BETTER

Downtown, a celebration. Hundreds of spectators cheered along a street. Xuex'L stood in the road, wearing a large knapsack. He waved at the boisterous crowds. His father, Kaspa'T, and his mother, S’Rio, stood with him. Xuex’L extended his arms toward his parents. The audience cheered even louder. The mother hugged her son.
"Good luck," S'Rio said.
"Thank you."
Kaspa’T shook hands with his son. "Proud of you," the father said steadily.
"Honoured."
"Ready to begin your thousandth journey?"
"Yes."
Xuex’L turned and walked. The road traversed reached straight through downtown, past the horizon. Cannons lining the sidewalks shot colourful confetti into the sky.

Xuex'L travelled the road further. At his back, civilization appeared less abundant. He stopped and looked back.
He said to his home, to those he knew, to all unknown, "Love you."
Xuex’L resumed his retreat.

Xuex’L continued along the road.
"This time, arrive somewhere different."

Xuex’L sat in the road. An electric lantern was beside him and shone light potently. His hands held otherworldly fruit and bread. He bit into the food, chewed, and swallowed. He looked his meal over.
"Oh, what a luxury food is! Deserve to feast while others go on, hungry? Hope somewhere different, nobody starves."

Rain struck the tiny tent set on the road. Within it lay Xuex’L. He watched the rain pummel onto the roof.
"An abode, humble or not, is useful. Comfort and freedom from harsh elements. Should not all be entitled to shelter? Somewhere different offers homes to all citizens."

Xuex’L paused at the edge of the road and watched a grassy plain. An animal chased another. The two animals fought. One killed the other and ate them. Xuex’L stared curiously.
"Some animals must kill to survive. The same cannot be said of my species. We advanced to the point violence is undue. Why, then, some of my kind lie, steal, murder, and abuse?"
Xuex’L ignored the violence and journeyed on.
"Somewhere different, morals guide individuals. Their goodness, they never abandon. No neighbour suffers. None resort to harmful behaviour."

Xuex’L walked nearly the entire road. He stared, disappointed, at the end of the city opposite where he departed from.
"Next time, will reach somewhere different."

Xuex’L reached the edge of the city. Hundreds were gathered. His parents were among the flocks, brimming with joy.
Xuex'L said to the collective loudly, "A surprise."
The mayor, Maqmo’X, clutched a scroll. He and Xuex’L’s parents stepped onto the road.
Maqmo'X solemnly said, "Xuex’L, you walked the road one thousand times. One other accomplished, Mayor P'Ritz, nearly one century ago. Thus earning her the right to be mayor. You earned the same."
"Welcome this honour?" the mayor asked.
Tears dropped from Xuex’L’s eyes.
"Yes."
Maqmo’X strode forward. So did Xuex’L. The mayor handed the scroll off, his designation. The crowds erupted with cheers. Claps, whistles, and shouts. Xuex’L hurried to his parents. They hugged.
Xuex'L stated for his forebears, "Promise to make our city better."

MOLT

Around the year 2050, global warming nears its peak. Billions of human lives are lost to nature. Survivors are recruited to construct and reside inside an enormous space station near Earth called the Trillion Star Motel (The Disco). Due to limited room on The Disco, out of two billion people alive, one hundred million are transported to the space station. Residents learn that those deemed responsible for the rapid decline of Earth, high-ranking politicians, are aboard the station. A mob of residents murders them.

SEVENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER:

A child, Rendall Regent, is excused from school by his father to view his first race-car event. Rendall is captivated by the sport. Near the end of the final race, The Disco suddenly shuts down its power, causing pitch-blackness. The drivers of the race quickly switch on their headlights to see, yet many cars collide and burst into flames. Minutes later, The Disco ignites its backup generator for light, far-dimmer. Rendall is scared to learn all life aboard the space station was set up for sabotage.

Scientists reveal that the residents now breathe reserve oxygen that depletes in approximately one-third of a century. The oldest-living scientists inform that seventy-five years ago, during the resident uprise against politicians, the final ruler wielded The Disco's mainframe for retribution. Said to be activated is the Irrevocable Motivation Fail-Safe, an input to rouse residents of The Disco to save Earth before its total destruction. The scientists claim Earth needs salvaging to prevent the demise of all residents.

Almost a teen, Rendall falls in love with Hover-Car driving. He excels at illegal races. The legitimization of the dangerous sport sees Rendall prove himself to be the best driver. After winning an important race, Rendall is approached by scientists. For his exposure to high-velocities, Rendall is asked to save Earth.

THE MISSION:

Five small machines, Climate Converters, are designed to be planted deep into the Earth. Five converters, five quadrants. Burial coordinates are spaced evenly apart and uniquely altered by unbearable heat. Upon activation, the convertors bring a new Ice Age to the planet. For better timing, to better their odds of success, the five volunteers fly around the globe in milliseconds thousands of times, stopping above each destination point for a fraction of a millisecond before resuming trips around the Earth. This splinters the ship and the members aboard four times, five of each.

Each spacecraft with each duplicated teammate touches down on a quadrant. Rendall and the captain of the mission, retired astronaut Annie Free-Wolf, are unaffected by light-speed travel, while each version of the three other volunteers experiences a shared psychosis. The meteorologist Cameron Argover, geologist Nate Yvex, and survival tactician Nicole Moon interfere with the mission. The three crazed teammates endeavour to kill Rendall and Annie for not going through the fanatical change they did.

ANTI-ACTIVATED

IN THE YEAR 2025, THE INVENTION OF ROBOTS FOR SEXUAL PLEASURE.
PERSONAL PLEASURE DEVICES, OR PPDS, ARE THE HIGHEST-SELLING PRODUCT OF THE YEAR.

Inside an auditorium, hundreds of spectators sit overlooking a stage.
Theo Kaska steps on stage.
The audience erupts with cheers.
Theo raises his hand.
The audience ceases their sounds.
A male and female PPDS walk on stage, naked.
The PPDS do various poses for the audience.

At a PPDS Customer Centre, people sit at desks and answer questionnaires.
Anthony is one of them.
He is taken to a readily-sterilized room.
A registered nurse inserts a needle into his arm and extracts his blood.

Anthony stands on the porch of his home.
A delivery person wheels a big wooden crate on a dolly toward Anthony.
The courier lifts the cart and the crate up the porch steps.

Anthony stands, crowbar in hand, in his foyer with the tall crate.
He removes the lid using the crowbar.
Lots of tiny pieces of foam pour out.
In the box stands a nude, smiling female PPDS.
The PPDS walks out from the crate.
It extends its hand to exchange a handshake with Anthony.

NEARLY ALL PEOPLE BUY AT LEAST ONE PPDS, NEW OR RECYCLED.

Beth stands in an alley with a man.
She hands him a stack of cash.
The man whistles.
A male PPDS steps out from behind a dumpster.
The man pulls aside a flap of artificial skin on the PPDS's right hip.
Behind it is a tiny circular keyhole.
The man removes a paperclip from his pocket.
He straightens it and pushes it inside the keyhole.
The PPDS reboots.
The robot's eyes go white.
Its body goes slightly limp.
Its eyes turn blue.
Its posture straightens.
It raises its left pointer finger.
A centimetre-long needle extends from its fingertip.
Beth steps forward and reaches her right pointer finger.
She presses the pad of her finger against the needle.
She winces and pulls her finger away.
She places her wounded finger in her mouth.
The needle retracts back inside the PPDS.
Its eyes turn typical colours of human eyes.
It looks at its newest partner and smiles.
It reaches its hand.
Beth reluctantly gives the robot her injured hand.
Her PPDS blows on where she was pricked.
She smiles too.

LESS THAN A DECADE AFTER THEIR UNVEIL, PPDS ARE THE MOST PROFITABLE PRODUCT EVER.
DECADES LATER, THE HUMAN POPULATION TRANSITIONS FATALLY.

Police officers raid Beth's home and place her PPDS in handcuffs.
The cops lead the PPDS to exit the building.
Beth collapses.
She cries for her PPDS not to leave her.
Her PPDS breaks the chain on the handcuffs.
It fights the officers using non-lethal force.
The officers retreat.

MOST PEOPLE REFUSE TO SURRENDER THEIR ROBOTIC COMPANIONS.
CIVIL UNREST LED TO CIVIL WAR.

Countless dead humans and broken PPDS cover the ground.
Blood and guts splayed.
Black oil and colour-coded wires are exposed.

THE PPDS AND THEIR LOVED ONES LOST THE WAR.
SOCIETY GRADUALLY REVERTS TO NORMAL.

He went out to the garden. Silence.
A whistling in the distance, louder as it morphs into a howl.
My shadow on the floor shows the sun above quickly being blocked.
I look up, wide eyes.

POOR SAM

PART TWO:

Sunlight shined into a pyramidal conference room through two towering attached walls, mostly windowed. Half the space was occupied by a table, looking rectangular yet shaped like a trapezoid. Business representatives sat along the lengthier sides of the table, three on the left and three on the right. The publicized inventor Sam Warder was gestured to sit at the shortest end of the table. He strode from the doors to a chair. Sam sat down. One business broker unlocked his fingers and set his hands palms down on the table.
He bent justly toward the innovator and said solemnly, "We love the Arti-Limb, Sam. It will change lives."
The second spokesperson grinning since Sam entered, remarked, "We wish to secure its twin-national shipment across Canada and the United States."
Sam expected the appraisals. "Very good," he said, closely interrupted by the third consul with interjection so fast Sam flinched.
Nearly nulled, then told languidly of hesitance to sponsor his contraption concerning what was vaguely declared "the cost." The inventor was deeply bothered. Sam played coy and compelled himself to smirk. He inferred, reminding the panel that bulk manufacturing his invention totals affordable. The fourth diplomat cleared the muzzy. The misgiving was Sam's demand for the sales cost of his product to echo its cheap construction. The same reluctance was cited by all prior groups on behalf of interested investors. Save for the proxies he conferred with that very moment, Sam embodied confidence for all who heard his defence of the scruple. Then and there, he wavered.
"Every person who needs their limb or limbs replaced needs my invention," Sam struggled to convey.
For fractals of seconds, Sam glimpsed faces of surprise or amusement. His feebleness affirmed. He wondered the extent of the mightiness of the committee before him. The business people on the left side of the table slid a piece of paper on its way to Sam.
The fifth delegate explained to Sam the page detailed a sales price compiled by budgeteers in their enterprise. "Do read it carefully," he instructed.
The document reached Sam. He turned it over and read from top to bottom.
He returned the paper to the tabletop and stared back at the business conductors. "Your proposal disturbs me, to say the least," Sam commented. "I do not condone it," he verified.
The sixth emissary tapped on paper one-eighth the size of the first and stated, "We are prepared to pay you one exorbitant inaugural amount for appropriation."
The corporate agents on the right side of the table pushed the paper, relaying to Sam, one after the other. Sam flipped the small piece of paper and read the figure. His mouth watered. His eyes widened. Before his invitation to the first of many trade meetings, Sam promised himself the denial of his provision was a dealbreaker. His promise was broken.

I have not been reading this thread. I will comment once I read them.

De comer: filetes rusos y patatas fritas.

Hidden among the leaves. Even a whirlwind cannot move it from its place. It's always there. Sometimes ochre, other times green. My dog barks at it often.
Gervasio, the cock of my neighbour.

Some people would have a filthy mind after reading this hyper-short story, while others would not.

THE END.

Man's Best Friend

Fred jumped on the couch right before I sat down, not because he wanted to steal it, but because he wanted to sit with me.

Fred is a good boy. :cheer: