First, wordpress has decided what we really need as bloggers is a dorky question at the top of the blog, which it won’t let us remove.
It’s obvious from the question it thinks we’re all 20 somethings with our heads full of mush and leftism (BIRM.) So it asks questions on the ethics of eating meat or such rot. It also would like kompromat, so it asks what thing we’re most sorry/embarrassed by. Or what we’re most envious of.
Let’s say I’d need to be really blocked on blog posts to write to the world’s stupidest prompts. I wish they’d stop coming u with crazy stuff like that, and just make posting and themes and stuff EASIER.
Today I’m not blocked at all. I’m still tired and moving slow from the great coughening, and I probably should put a tree up sometime, plus I have curtains to finish, and three stories just hanging.
On top of which husband is working all the hours G-d gives again, which means he won’t come to bed till midnight, and gets up at six, which wakes me. I’m all right. I just don’t function well with sleep deprivation.
Anyway, I thought I’d put up some pretty SF pictures, but of course mind is stuck in short story mode, so some of these have titles, some have beginnings, and some I will write. Others not, of course. The not first….
The one above is a definitely not, unless my brain really breaks. Title: When aliens are late with their gift shopping on Christmas eve.
Probably not, but if I wrote it it would start with “Princesses on Earth, in the dark ages, thought it was terrible to be locked in a tower. They had no idea how bad it would be, when your father could put you in a whole other planet and never allow you to meet anyone.”
Likely not. “Myvara had had just about enough of Christmas. The entire trade station was hip deep in Christmas trees and kitchy ornaments. Ever astronaut that docked wore a Santa hat. And late at night, even in the most disreputable dives, there were sing alongs to the tune of “It came upon a midnight clear” as though any of them space born — had ever seen a midnight, or knew it by anything but an hour on the clock. She was going to build herself an isolation sphere and stay there till this madness passed.”
Likely not, because sad, but “The little Robot had walked the entire asteroid he’d been abandoned in, looking for someone, anyone. Just because he was old and obsolete it didn’t mean he didn’t want company. It had been made by social apes, and it was a social little fellow.
After months alone, he found a blue rose, growing out of the cracked, dry surface of the planet. It didn’t talk, and it didn’t think. But the question was, who had planted it, and how did it grow?”
By the time the aliens came, humans were gone and long dead or gone elsewhere. After centuries of experimentation, they’d recreated a pair from DNA left behind.
Now on the eve of opening the gestator, the aliens paused. The Earth was a harsh, unforgiving environment compared to their own. What would these creatures be like? And if unleashed upon the universe, what would they do?
Why the heck was a clock at the end of the bridge? Bob drove it every day, and normally there was … well, the other side of the bridge, a downtown street. There was a Greek Diner there, he wanted to go to.
So, what was with the clock, the weird portal, and definitely the lightening.
Bob had a feeling December 24 was late.
Spaceships were no place for cats and dogs. Not yet, at least. Later, when the price per pound of transport wasn’t so prohibitive, maybe.
But humans wanted pets. Even if they had to build them themselves from spare parts, working feverishly in off-duty hours.
Fuzzy came into being that way. A stainless steel cat, without the slightest bit of fur. But he walked silently on tiny cat feet, and as though form dictated function, he sat at Imrald’s feet and purred.