Ronald Micci
The Rainbow God
(for Logan)
This was the way the horizon swept, with sheer puffs of clouds, and he felt swept along with it, taken in the soft white plumes, out over the breakers and the pristine waves. This was the way the beach swerved beyond the shifting waters and joined the edges of the horizon, with the clouds like great soft pillows above his head.
He waited there, on the beach, and watched, and any moment now the school bus would shift and grunt and turn the corner and he would have to catch up to it, and run with his backpack, and leave all of this soft sea and sky behind.
His hair was the color of straw, or sometimes, in a certain light, like spun gold, a perfect little mop on a perfect head, and his eyes were a dark piercing blue. But it was his smile, wrinkled at the corners, that brightened the world. There was a sharpness there, and yet there was the jubilation and warmth of wide-eyed joy, the joy of being eight years old with the world spread out in all its vastness like a banquet before him.
Many times he had asked his father about the ocean, the wide Pacific. "What's on the other side?" he asked. And his father paused for a moment, and shook his head – “One day,” he said. “We’ll look see.”
Today he felt caught up in the mystery of it all, drawn to the tides, feeling the wind on his face, and as the school bus grunted on its way without him, he shed his backpack and advanced toward the clear blue-green water. His sneakers felt the soft sand beneath his feet, and as he moved down the way and closer to the water he could see the pier that was certainly within walking distance. Already, there was activity on it – fishing lines that dangled, shops preparing to open at an early hour.
The seagulls were doing their squawking and strutting. In some odd way they were majestic as they flapped and flew and seem to descend from the heavens, and they seemed oblivious to anyone or anything that might disturb the territory they had staked out. Be gone, they seemed to shriek, as they flapped and retreated when some beachgoer came their way. This is our home is what they felt, though they dwelt in the ledges and caves along the shoreline.
The boy wondered, are there seagull gods? For the wavering waters lapping up against the sand, for all of the creatures that made their homes within these waters? Are there separate gods for all manner of creation?
He leant forward and picked up a piece of driftwood – did it, too, have its own separate god? The workings of time had rotted its insides, but surely it must be looked after and loved and cared for by some deity.
Did the surfers that dotted the beaches and rode the waves have gods? Were their surfboards under the protection of heavenly forces? The rock ‘n roll posters in his bedroom back home were they too blessed from on high?
He was an only child, but with so many gods to look after each and everyone and all things on earth, there was never reason to feel lonely.
His parents would worry if they got wind of the fact that he’d missed that school bus, but it wasn’t his intention to alarm them. He was taken by the mystery of Sun and sea on this particular morning, by the bright magic of the world spread before him, and he could not fight the impulse to embrace it.
He’d make out for the pier and mingle with its cast of characters – the bearded ones, the young ones, the cashiers and merchants, those who peddled the trinkets and objects of the mysterious sea.
As he headed up the way, his parents received a phone call from the school. Had their son missed the bus? Their worst fears – snatched! – momentarily flooded over them. But they would go in search of him, kids being kids, hooky being hooky. And deep within them they had a sense that God himself would protect the boy.
On the pier, there was a grizzled old man hunched over the railing with a fishing pole, and the boy found him intriguing. The old man looked at him, scratched his beard and shrugged. “Sometimes they bite, sometimes they don’t.”
Was there a god watching over the old man, and one keeping watch on the fish and creatures of the sea themselves?
“See down there,” the old man said pointing to the wooden pilings that supported the piers. “Sea wash and barnacles. Tides come in, tides go out. Time is eternal.”
The boy departed the railing and walked past the little shacks that formed a column in the center of the pier, that were just opening and unshuttering for the day, and he wondered about all of the odd little items being sold, and the tourists who would soon gather to peruse them. So many items, so many gods to watch over them.
He could pick up the scent of breakfast meals being cooked, of eggs and bacon crackling over grills.
He thought, as he turned his gaze again toward the ocean, that there must be islands out there, islands in the distance that he could not see, but that also bore life and a multitude of creatures. Were there sea-dwelling creatures that sought refuge in the nooks and crannies and caves of those islands? If so, did they have their own little gods to look after them?
His imagination caught fire – breakers rocking boats, large hissing serpents, and men with harpoons to subdue them, and in friendlier waters, boat basins, leisure men in bright slacks on their white yachts, all part of the mysterious bouillabaisse of man and sea creatures, surf and seagulls, inhabiting this wide expanse of basin called the Pacific Ocean.
He had even heard of experiments with radioactive explosions somewhere far out there, though these had taken place long before his time, and indeed even his parents’ time, or so they had told him.
Paradise was so filled with contradictions and creatures and mysteries, all of it overseen by rich sea and sky, joined neatly along the horizon. He wondered, if sea and sky were zippered neatly together, what would occur if you tugged on the zipper and allowed them to separate. What would emerge in the space between them – other worlds, other realms?
“Want one?” a voice asked, coming from behind him. He turned, and a jovial middle-aged man with a ripe tan and bright smile handed him a seashell, and with it a couple of beautiful bright, polished gemstones. “Souvenirs. Free. From my own private collection. It’s okay, take them.”
Up the way from where he had come, his parents had appeared and chanced upon his backpack. It was a greenish olive drab with canvas straps.
“His for sure. Same color, and a number of these baseball cards I’m sure are his.”
They peered into the distance. “That’s him, gotta be, on the pier.”
At just that very moment, storm clouds swept overhead, and rumblings could be heard and sun showers suddenly burst forth in a smattering of rain.
Undeterred, the boy’s parents hot-footed it through the squishy sand in the direction of the pier, and by the time they reached it, the rain had stopped. In the distance, a gorgeous rainbow had appeared like a halo stretching the length of the horizon. It was miraculous.
“Thank heavens you’re okay,” they said.
The boy was pointing an outstretched finger at the horizon. “Look,” he said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes,” his mother said. Before she could clutch him in her arms, he squirmed out of her grasp and pointed.
“Don’t you see?” he said.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“It has come to bless us. It’s the Rainbow God.”
(for Logan)
This was the way the horizon swept, with sheer puffs of clouds, and he felt swept along with it, taken in the soft white plumes, out over the breakers and the pristine waves. This was the way the beach swerved beyond the shifting waters and joined the edges of the horizon, with the clouds like great soft pillows above his head.
He waited there, on the beach, and watched, and any moment now the school bus would shift and grunt and turn the corner and he would have to catch up to it, and run with his backpack, and leave all of this soft sea and sky behind.
His hair was the color of straw, or sometimes, in a certain light, like spun gold, a perfect little mop on a perfect head, and his eyes were a dark piercing blue. But it was his smile, wrinkled at the corners, that brightened the world. There was a sharpness there, and yet there was the jubilation and warmth of wide-eyed joy, the joy of being eight years old with the world spread out in all its vastness like a banquet before him.
Many times he had asked his father about the ocean, the wide Pacific. "What's on the other side?" he asked. And his father paused for a moment, and shook his head – “One day,” he said. “We’ll look see.”
Today he felt caught up in the mystery of it all, drawn to the tides, feeling the wind on his face, and as the school bus grunted on its way without him, he shed his backpack and advanced toward the clear blue-green water. His sneakers felt the soft sand beneath his feet, and as he moved down the way and closer to the water he could see the pier that was certainly within walking distance. Already, there was activity on it – fishing lines that dangled, shops preparing to open at an early hour.
The seagulls were doing their squawking and strutting. In some odd way they were majestic as they flapped and flew and seem to descend from the heavens, and they seemed oblivious to anyone or anything that might disturb the territory they had staked out. Be gone, they seemed to shriek, as they flapped and retreated when some beachgoer came their way. This is our home is what they felt, though they dwelt in the ledges and caves along the shoreline.
The boy wondered, are there seagull gods? For the wavering waters lapping up against the sand, for all of the creatures that made their homes within these waters? Are there separate gods for all manner of creation?
He leant forward and picked up a piece of driftwood – did it, too, have its own separate god? The workings of time had rotted its insides, but surely it must be looked after and loved and cared for by some deity.
Did the surfers that dotted the beaches and rode the waves have gods? Were their surfboards under the protection of heavenly forces? The rock ‘n roll posters in his bedroom back home were they too blessed from on high?
He was an only child, but with so many gods to look after each and everyone and all things on earth, there was never reason to feel lonely.
His parents would worry if they got wind of the fact that he’d missed that school bus, but it wasn’t his intention to alarm them. He was taken by the mystery of Sun and sea on this particular morning, by the bright magic of the world spread before him, and he could not fight the impulse to embrace it.
He’d make out for the pier and mingle with its cast of characters – the bearded ones, the young ones, the cashiers and merchants, those who peddled the trinkets and objects of the mysterious sea.
As he headed up the way, his parents received a phone call from the school. Had their son missed the bus? Their worst fears – snatched! – momentarily flooded over them. But they would go in search of him, kids being kids, hooky being hooky. And deep within them they had a sense that God himself would protect the boy.
On the pier, there was a grizzled old man hunched over the railing with a fishing pole, and the boy found him intriguing. The old man looked at him, scratched his beard and shrugged. “Sometimes they bite, sometimes they don’t.”
Was there a god watching over the old man, and one keeping watch on the fish and creatures of the sea themselves?
“See down there,” the old man said pointing to the wooden pilings that supported the piers. “Sea wash and barnacles. Tides come in, tides go out. Time is eternal.”
The boy departed the railing and walked past the little shacks that formed a column in the center of the pier, that were just opening and unshuttering for the day, and he wondered about all of the odd little items being sold, and the tourists who would soon gather to peruse them. So many items, so many gods to watch over them.
He could pick up the scent of breakfast meals being cooked, of eggs and bacon crackling over grills.
He thought, as he turned his gaze again toward the ocean, that there must be islands out there, islands in the distance that he could not see, but that also bore life and a multitude of creatures. Were there sea-dwelling creatures that sought refuge in the nooks and crannies and caves of those islands? If so, did they have their own little gods to look after them?
His imagination caught fire – breakers rocking boats, large hissing serpents, and men with harpoons to subdue them, and in friendlier waters, boat basins, leisure men in bright slacks on their white yachts, all part of the mysterious bouillabaisse of man and sea creatures, surf and seagulls, inhabiting this wide expanse of basin called the Pacific Ocean.
He had even heard of experiments with radioactive explosions somewhere far out there, though these had taken place long before his time, and indeed even his parents’ time, or so they had told him.
Paradise was so filled with contradictions and creatures and mysteries, all of it overseen by rich sea and sky, joined neatly along the horizon. He wondered, if sea and sky were zippered neatly together, what would occur if you tugged on the zipper and allowed them to separate. What would emerge in the space between them – other worlds, other realms?
“Want one?” a voice asked, coming from behind him. He turned, and a jovial middle-aged man with a ripe tan and bright smile handed him a seashell, and with it a couple of beautiful bright, polished gemstones. “Souvenirs. Free. From my own private collection. It’s okay, take them.”
Up the way from where he had come, his parents had appeared and chanced upon his backpack. It was a greenish olive drab with canvas straps.
“His for sure. Same color, and a number of these baseball cards I’m sure are his.”
They peered into the distance. “That’s him, gotta be, on the pier.”
At just that very moment, storm clouds swept overhead, and rumblings could be heard and sun showers suddenly burst forth in a smattering of rain.
Undeterred, the boy’s parents hot-footed it through the squishy sand in the direction of the pier, and by the time they reached it, the rain had stopped. In the distance, a gorgeous rainbow had appeared like a halo stretching the length of the horizon. It was miraculous.
“Thank heavens you’re okay,” they said.
The boy was pointing an outstretched finger at the horizon. “Look,” he said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes,” his mother said. Before she could clutch him in her arms, he squirmed out of her grasp and pointed.
“Don’t you see?” he said.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“It has come to bless us. It’s the Rainbow God.”
A native New Yorker, Ron is a prolific author of plays, screenplays, novels, and short stories, from the sublime to the irreverent, many available for perusal on the Booksie website. A published playwright (Brooklyn/Heuer Publishers), former magazine editor and advertising proofreader, his one-act plays have been staged in Manhattan and throughout the country. His piece “My Redacted Life” will be published on the Confetti website in November.
Douglas Johnston
My Dream, My Creation
I open my eyes and look around in wonder. I'm in a primal forest with immense trees that stretch up for hundreds of feet. My bare feet sink into thick moss that is damp but warm, as thick, and comfortable as walking on a sheepskin rug. Soft sunlight dapples through the trees. Ferns everywhere give way to flowers of every imaginable shade as I enter a large clearing. The flowers smell of summer and tropical fruit. Butterflies and bees fill the air with their colour and industry.
I stop, awestruck, at a small lake with wading birds feeding near the edge, their plumage ranging from stark white through blues and pinks to red. Their cacophony of voices rises and falls like a choir. There is a waterfall in the distance, creating a dull roar as the water tumbles into the lake. At the top of the waterfall, through the mist, some vermillion clouds approach with an ozone smell that hints at rain. I cup some water near the falls in my hands and take a drink. The water is so cool and clean, so fresh. As I drink, I feel a buzz in my ear and see a flash of colour out of the corner of my eye. Small hummingbirds flit past, all cobalt, emerald and lapis lazuli in hue.
As I take in this wondrous place, I look down at my side to see a large cat-sized purple and violet frog sitting beside me.
"Such a beautiful place, isn't it? My little friend." I venture.
"I would have done it a different way," he replies.
"A talking frog? Wow, who would have thought?"
"You obviously, and what's a frog?"
"You are, and what's wrong with my creation?"
"You naked doesn't help."
"Oh, sorry." As I imagine, some clothes.
"Gee, thanks awfully." He says sarcastically.
"I thought you might be a little more respectful to your creator."
"What do you want? A medal?"
"Smart ass," I mutter.
"Jackass." He mutters.
"What?" We say at once.
Annoyed, I point my finger at the frog and think to erase him.
“You would destroy me just because I annoy you? My, humans are so cruel.” The frog was more curious than anything else.
“You are my creation. Surely I can do as I wish.” I was suddenly uncertain.
“Then, by all means, do so. I will not beg for my life. You should consider that all things are interconnected, like in the real world. Who knows what havoc you could cause – what damage your kind cause every day. Consider your actions.”
“You are right. I apologize. I don’t want to be cruel. I am only new to this creation stuff.” I lower my hand and turn to view my creation once more.
“Then you may have potential. I’m not really one of your creations, but a visitor. I’ve been at this creation stuff far longer than you. Who knows? Perhaps your kind is worthy of saving.” The frog’s voice had deepened and changed to that of an old man.
I turned in surprise to see an elderly man in a white robe walking away from me. His long white hair and beard glowed, as did the robe, brighter and brighter until he disappeared in a flash of brilliance.
I open my eyes and look around in wonder. I'm in a primal forest with immense trees that stretch up for hundreds of feet. My bare feet sink into thick moss that is damp but warm, as thick, and comfortable as walking on a sheepskin rug. Soft sunlight dapples through the trees. Ferns everywhere give way to flowers of every imaginable shade as I enter a large clearing. The flowers smell of summer and tropical fruit. Butterflies and bees fill the air with their colour and industry.
I stop, awestruck, at a small lake with wading birds feeding near the edge, their plumage ranging from stark white through blues and pinks to red. Their cacophony of voices rises and falls like a choir. There is a waterfall in the distance, creating a dull roar as the water tumbles into the lake. At the top of the waterfall, through the mist, some vermillion clouds approach with an ozone smell that hints at rain. I cup some water near the falls in my hands and take a drink. The water is so cool and clean, so fresh. As I drink, I feel a buzz in my ear and see a flash of colour out of the corner of my eye. Small hummingbirds flit past, all cobalt, emerald and lapis lazuli in hue.
As I take in this wondrous place, I look down at my side to see a large cat-sized purple and violet frog sitting beside me.
"Such a beautiful place, isn't it? My little friend." I venture.
"I would have done it a different way," he replies.
"A talking frog? Wow, who would have thought?"
"You obviously, and what's a frog?"
"You are, and what's wrong with my creation?"
"You naked doesn't help."
"Oh, sorry." As I imagine, some clothes.
"Gee, thanks awfully." He says sarcastically.
"I thought you might be a little more respectful to your creator."
"What do you want? A medal?"
"Smart ass," I mutter.
"Jackass." He mutters.
"What?" We say at once.
Annoyed, I point my finger at the frog and think to erase him.
“You would destroy me just because I annoy you? My, humans are so cruel.” The frog was more curious than anything else.
“You are my creation. Surely I can do as I wish.” I was suddenly uncertain.
“Then, by all means, do so. I will not beg for my life. You should consider that all things are interconnected, like in the real world. Who knows what havoc you could cause – what damage your kind cause every day. Consider your actions.”
“You are right. I apologize. I don’t want to be cruel. I am only new to this creation stuff.” I lower my hand and turn to view my creation once more.
“Then you may have potential. I’m not really one of your creations, but a visitor. I’ve been at this creation stuff far longer than you. Who knows? Perhaps your kind is worthy of saving.” The frog’s voice had deepened and changed to that of an old man.
I turned in surprise to see an elderly man in a white robe walking away from me. His long white hair and beard glowed, as did the robe, brighter and brighter until he disappeared in a flash of brilliance.
Douglas Perenara Johnston lives in Oamaru, Janet Frame’s “Kingdom by the Sea” in New Zealand. Educated at Otago University, Douglas is of Māori, Scottish, Irish, German, and Scandinavian descent. He is a graduate of the Applied Writing programme at NorthTec and tries to incorporate his cultural identity into his writing where possible. He is a published poet and author of short stories, flash fiction, and creative nonfiction. Pavlova Press (NZ), CultureCult Press, Wicked Shadow Press (India), and Kinsman Quarterly (New York) have included his work. Douglas was a Top 6 Finalist in the Iridescence Award 2024 for Writing (New York).
Claire Kroening
Kyoto Summerhouse
Shoji screens ponder half-open, their frames tattooed in dust. Moonlight carves delicate webs between the reeds; where shadows drape over splintered bamboo and patch the gaps with fine-silver. Silence settles like a skin in the rice-pooled countryside—light as ash yet carrying wordless weight. Outside, herons stir within thin and reedy tarns—a voice, a leaf echoing its final rest to the ferns, a last exhale.
Crickets spin twilight into lace in untouched corridors—each filament taut, drawing dusk tighter over flattened hills. Soon, the stone lanterns blink awake, threading acres of light through looming branches bent with their own weight. Breath catches amongst the gauzy air, slipping like river-silk around roots and suiseki, caught by the cool grip of moss for the world to take notice.
Shoji screens ponder half-open, their frames tattooed in dust. Moonlight carves delicate webs between the reeds; where shadows drape over splintered bamboo and patch the gaps with fine-silver. Silence settles like a skin in the rice-pooled countryside—light as ash yet carrying wordless weight. Outside, herons stir within thin and reedy tarns—a voice, a leaf echoing its final rest to the ferns, a last exhale.
Crickets spin twilight into lace in untouched corridors—each filament taut, drawing dusk tighter over flattened hills. Soon, the stone lanterns blink awake, threading acres of light through looming branches bent with their own weight. Breath catches amongst the gauzy air, slipping like river-silk around roots and suiseki, caught by the cool grip of moss for the world to take notice.
Claire Kroening is a writer of picturesque poetry and prose based in the upper midwest. Their work has appeared in a multitude of publications worldwide, including Vellichor Literary Magazine, Young Writers Journal, and Bitter Melon Review, among others. When not working on their latest endeavors, they appreciate visiting art museums and exploring the coastlines of The Great Lakes. More of their writing can be found on their Instagram @clairerosek.
Simon Ward
The next Lockdown will be very different
Peering out from my bedroom window, I watched the house party over the road. Some forty or so revellers were drinking and dancing in the garden. They were ignoring the government restrictions which had confined people to their homes. Without social interaction, it was no wonder they’d gone stir crazy and needed to let off steam. They must have known they’d get caught, but didn’t seem to care, as music shamelessly boomed. Party like it’s 1999 had become an anthem for those who wanted to ignore the law. The desire to live an active life is stronger than concern over another deadly virus.
They didn’t hear four matte black low loaders ease around the corner and come to rest alongside the tall, fenced garden. I’d seen some clips on social media before someone had removed them but seeing them for real drove a chill right through me. I wanted to look away, but mobile in hand, I couldn’t stop myself from capturing the sight of the virus containment squad, a newly gained droid police unit.
Filing out of the extended vans in perfect unison, ten, twenty and yet more made a wall of dark grey metal bodies along the fence. The platinum coloured leader stood away from them and surveyed his troops before he glanced in my direction. I dropped straight to the floor.
Recording of the containment division was illegal. I immediately deleted my recording as a cold sweat rang through me. The fear of a knock on my door stopped my breath.
Uncontrollably drawn, I lifted myself from the floor to peer out again. Menacing, yet perfectly still, droids had spaced themselves out, two metres from the fence as they waited patiently like a noose ready to snare its prey. The revellers were still in full flow, unaware of their fate as they sang along to another party tune.
The leader approached the front door with a further ten spaced around the house, as music and jollity continued. A universal key avoided the requirement to bash their way in. Like a husband arriving home from work, they let themselves in. Ten droids followed, wheeling in a large flight case.
The music played on. Men and women danced without a care. Guys drank from bottles around a makeshift bar, whilst some couples shared intimate moments.
The music stopped.
Jeers of “get the music back on!” were short-lived as silence returned as the lead droid entered the garden.
An eerie silence held.
There was no announcement from the platinum figure of authority. No defiant proclamations. No screams. The leader stood firm, his hands of steel on his hips.
One brave, or rather inebriated, guy spoke first. “We are sick of this shit. We don’t care about the virus.”
“If it kills us, it kills us. We want to live our lives,” another guy said.
A bottle of beer smashed as it hit the breastplate of the droid. A round of cheers followed with derisory remarks.
Unmoved and silent, the leader waited.
The remarks ceased, and the crowd hushed, awaiting a response, before finally, clear and true, he spoke. “You are all under arrest for breaking social gathering laws. The containment vans are ready to deliver you to the central holding area.”
“Not bloody likely.” Several more bottles broke on impact against the platinum droid as further shouts of annoyance rang out.
The leader was unmoved and silent.
The front door opened, and two members of the squad led four guys and two girls quietly out. Chained together, they’d accepted their fate as they stepped into the first van. The other eight droids filed into the garden to join the leader, and all hell broke loose.
Four of the bigger guys charged at one and took it down in typical rugger fashion. Their victory was short-lived as two other droids pinned them to the floor whilst the upended bot regained his ground to collect chains from the flight case. Another couple of guys charged an enforcer, but a solid swipe left them stunned on the ground.
Women screamed and huddled together as other revellers scrambled over the fence. Each assailant grabbed as they landed. One guy evaded capture and took flight, but a Taser jolt turned him into a twitching wreck on the tarmac. The remaining alcohol fuelled confident few tried to push past the leader to regain access to the house. He stood firm, calmly pushing each to the floor and delivering a quieter message.
One wiry, shaggy-haired character hid in the refuse bin at the bottom of the garden and three girls crouched behind the shed. I couldn’t help but smile at the guys around the bar. They were unaffected by the madness around them and continued swigging their beer. One guy grabbed another bottle and chinked it into the others before opening it. It was like they were wearing invisibility coats and were mere voyeurs of the scene.
The perimeter squad split as they bundled away the would-be assailants. A wider line now surrounded the house. The platinum droid moved back into the house and appeared at the doorway. He stepped outside and held out a guiding hand, pointing to the vans. The revellers left the house, some still singing and holding beers defiantly aloft. The squad ignored their chants as they filed into the vans. A blond in heels attempted to flee, but a sprightly enforcer easily apprehended her. The knee she shoved into its groin had no effect other than on herself. She hobbled, assisted to meet her fate.
Two vans pulled away, and the garden became empty. They led away the petrified girls from behind the shed. A single droid did a last check over the garden. One guy remained still in the bin. I rooted for him. The remaining droid stood patiently in the garden as the third van and most of the unit left. Silence had returned.
I fixed my eyes on the bin and the remaining droid in the garden. I willed the guy to remain still. My eyes grew tired as time passed. The leader re-entered the garden and relieved the guard to join the rest of the crew in the final van.
The platinum leader strolled to the rear of the garden and planted himself in front of the refuse bin. Ten minutes later, he hadn’t moved. The wiry guy held firm. It knew he was there. Why didn’t he open the lid? Why would a droid enjoy teasing its prey? He must have received a message. He walked back through the house and into the street. My focus again returned to the garden as the lid moved. I wanted to scream out for him to hold steady for another five minutes, but a firm knock on my front door took my attention.
Every ounce of blood drained right out of me. I looked to see the platinum figure of strength knock again at my door. I was innocent. Why was he knocking on my door? I wanted to ask him, but my last glance saw the lid open and the shaggy-haired guy emerge. I looked down again at my front door and my eyes met the glare of the piercing blue eyes staring back at me.
The desire to run halted as my chances of escape were slim. Attempting to flee would also be a clear sign of guilt. I descended the last flight of stairs, which led to my door. It shook as another firm knock connected. Two more anxious steps and another impatient knock rattled both me and the door. My nerves couldn’t take another knock. I blurted, “Coming.”
My body was cold and beaten with fear as I released the catch to open the door. He towered above me, much taller up close. I waited for his judgement, unable to breathe or speak myself. He studied me for what seemed like an hour, but must have been barely a minute.
He spoke with a clear yet soft tone, “I noticed you watching from the window. Has the person in the bin moved?”
“I-I- think he just m-moved when I c-came downstairs.” I had not stammered since school, but this would have made my headteacher of stone turn to jelly.
He briefly touched his temple, and I heard figures drop from the van. He returned his gaze to me. “You are under arrest for recording the containment unit.”
“I didn’t record it. I deleted it.”
He paused, then spoke politely, “you cannot delete something you did not record.”
“I recorded it, then deleted it.”
“You, therefore, admit to recording the containment unit.”
“Yes. Sorry.” I bowed my head in surrender before a spark ignited my voice. My head rose hopefully as I pleaded, “I told you about the bin guy.”
“You did.” He replied. He glanced behind to see the wiry guy being led to the van.
The guy’s narrowing eyes met mine as he spat on the floor. The leader returned his focus to me. “Where is your mobile?”
It was in my pocket; I tried to pull it out quickly, but the harder I tried, the clumsier I became. It slipped from my grasp onto the floor. “Sorry.” I bent down and presented it to the droid.
His hand clenched and crushed the phone effortlessly in his hand. With controlled aggression, he sounded out each word, “The law is not for breaking!”
He left me frozen to the spot as he turned and left. I would never break the law again
Peering out from my bedroom window, I watched the house party over the road. Some forty or so revellers were drinking and dancing in the garden. They were ignoring the government restrictions which had confined people to their homes. Without social interaction, it was no wonder they’d gone stir crazy and needed to let off steam. They must have known they’d get caught, but didn’t seem to care, as music shamelessly boomed. Party like it’s 1999 had become an anthem for those who wanted to ignore the law. The desire to live an active life is stronger than concern over another deadly virus.
They didn’t hear four matte black low loaders ease around the corner and come to rest alongside the tall, fenced garden. I’d seen some clips on social media before someone had removed them but seeing them for real drove a chill right through me. I wanted to look away, but mobile in hand, I couldn’t stop myself from capturing the sight of the virus containment squad, a newly gained droid police unit.
Filing out of the extended vans in perfect unison, ten, twenty and yet more made a wall of dark grey metal bodies along the fence. The platinum coloured leader stood away from them and surveyed his troops before he glanced in my direction. I dropped straight to the floor.
Recording of the containment division was illegal. I immediately deleted my recording as a cold sweat rang through me. The fear of a knock on my door stopped my breath.
Uncontrollably drawn, I lifted myself from the floor to peer out again. Menacing, yet perfectly still, droids had spaced themselves out, two metres from the fence as they waited patiently like a noose ready to snare its prey. The revellers were still in full flow, unaware of their fate as they sang along to another party tune.
The leader approached the front door with a further ten spaced around the house, as music and jollity continued. A universal key avoided the requirement to bash their way in. Like a husband arriving home from work, they let themselves in. Ten droids followed, wheeling in a large flight case.
The music played on. Men and women danced without a care. Guys drank from bottles around a makeshift bar, whilst some couples shared intimate moments.
The music stopped.
Jeers of “get the music back on!” were short-lived as silence returned as the lead droid entered the garden.
An eerie silence held.
There was no announcement from the platinum figure of authority. No defiant proclamations. No screams. The leader stood firm, his hands of steel on his hips.
One brave, or rather inebriated, guy spoke first. “We are sick of this shit. We don’t care about the virus.”
“If it kills us, it kills us. We want to live our lives,” another guy said.
A bottle of beer smashed as it hit the breastplate of the droid. A round of cheers followed with derisory remarks.
Unmoved and silent, the leader waited.
The remarks ceased, and the crowd hushed, awaiting a response, before finally, clear and true, he spoke. “You are all under arrest for breaking social gathering laws. The containment vans are ready to deliver you to the central holding area.”
“Not bloody likely.” Several more bottles broke on impact against the platinum droid as further shouts of annoyance rang out.
The leader was unmoved and silent.
The front door opened, and two members of the squad led four guys and two girls quietly out. Chained together, they’d accepted their fate as they stepped into the first van. The other eight droids filed into the garden to join the leader, and all hell broke loose.
Four of the bigger guys charged at one and took it down in typical rugger fashion. Their victory was short-lived as two other droids pinned them to the floor whilst the upended bot regained his ground to collect chains from the flight case. Another couple of guys charged an enforcer, but a solid swipe left them stunned on the ground.
Women screamed and huddled together as other revellers scrambled over the fence. Each assailant grabbed as they landed. One guy evaded capture and took flight, but a Taser jolt turned him into a twitching wreck on the tarmac. The remaining alcohol fuelled confident few tried to push past the leader to regain access to the house. He stood firm, calmly pushing each to the floor and delivering a quieter message.
One wiry, shaggy-haired character hid in the refuse bin at the bottom of the garden and three girls crouched behind the shed. I couldn’t help but smile at the guys around the bar. They were unaffected by the madness around them and continued swigging their beer. One guy grabbed another bottle and chinked it into the others before opening it. It was like they were wearing invisibility coats and were mere voyeurs of the scene.
The perimeter squad split as they bundled away the would-be assailants. A wider line now surrounded the house. The platinum droid moved back into the house and appeared at the doorway. He stepped outside and held out a guiding hand, pointing to the vans. The revellers left the house, some still singing and holding beers defiantly aloft. The squad ignored their chants as they filed into the vans. A blond in heels attempted to flee, but a sprightly enforcer easily apprehended her. The knee she shoved into its groin had no effect other than on herself. She hobbled, assisted to meet her fate.
Two vans pulled away, and the garden became empty. They led away the petrified girls from behind the shed. A single droid did a last check over the garden. One guy remained still in the bin. I rooted for him. The remaining droid stood patiently in the garden as the third van and most of the unit left. Silence had returned.
I fixed my eyes on the bin and the remaining droid in the garden. I willed the guy to remain still. My eyes grew tired as time passed. The leader re-entered the garden and relieved the guard to join the rest of the crew in the final van.
The platinum leader strolled to the rear of the garden and planted himself in front of the refuse bin. Ten minutes later, he hadn’t moved. The wiry guy held firm. It knew he was there. Why didn’t he open the lid? Why would a droid enjoy teasing its prey? He must have received a message. He walked back through the house and into the street. My focus again returned to the garden as the lid moved. I wanted to scream out for him to hold steady for another five minutes, but a firm knock on my front door took my attention.
Every ounce of blood drained right out of me. I looked to see the platinum figure of strength knock again at my door. I was innocent. Why was he knocking on my door? I wanted to ask him, but my last glance saw the lid open and the shaggy-haired guy emerge. I looked down again at my front door and my eyes met the glare of the piercing blue eyes staring back at me.
The desire to run halted as my chances of escape were slim. Attempting to flee would also be a clear sign of guilt. I descended the last flight of stairs, which led to my door. It shook as another firm knock connected. Two more anxious steps and another impatient knock rattled both me and the door. My nerves couldn’t take another knock. I blurted, “Coming.”
My body was cold and beaten with fear as I released the catch to open the door. He towered above me, much taller up close. I waited for his judgement, unable to breathe or speak myself. He studied me for what seemed like an hour, but must have been barely a minute.
He spoke with a clear yet soft tone, “I noticed you watching from the window. Has the person in the bin moved?”
“I-I- think he just m-moved when I c-came downstairs.” I had not stammered since school, but this would have made my headteacher of stone turn to jelly.
He briefly touched his temple, and I heard figures drop from the van. He returned his gaze to me. “You are under arrest for recording the containment unit.”
“I didn’t record it. I deleted it.”
He paused, then spoke politely, “you cannot delete something you did not record.”
“I recorded it, then deleted it.”
“You, therefore, admit to recording the containment unit.”
“Yes. Sorry.” I bowed my head in surrender before a spark ignited my voice. My head rose hopefully as I pleaded, “I told you about the bin guy.”
“You did.” He replied. He glanced behind to see the wiry guy being led to the van.
The guy’s narrowing eyes met mine as he spat on the floor. The leader returned his focus to me. “Where is your mobile?”
It was in my pocket; I tried to pull it out quickly, but the harder I tried, the clumsier I became. It slipped from my grasp onto the floor. “Sorry.” I bent down and presented it to the droid.
His hand clenched and crushed the phone effortlessly in his hand. With controlled aggression, he sounded out each word, “The law is not for breaking!”
He left me frozen to the spot as he turned and left. I would never break the law again
As host of the Budding Author Podcast. Simon regularly speaks to experienced authors who share his passion for writing. He enjoys hearing and sharing their journey, advice and tips they’ve picked up on the way and has gained a great deal of inspiration from them.
After the success with “Finding love in 2045,” and the rest of the Sci-fi Awakenings series, Simon is working on some YA projects, including the supernatural fantasy series, the life of Billy Spark and the novella, the Healer.
Simon sharpens his writing skills with short stories.
After the success with “Finding love in 2045,” and the rest of the Sci-fi Awakenings series, Simon is working on some YA projects, including the supernatural fantasy series, the life of Billy Spark and the novella, the Healer.
Simon sharpens his writing skills with short stories.