Today's microfiction is a glorious piece of fake reportage that uses Dylan Thomas's Under Milkwood style to tell the story. Craig Cormick is an Australian author of over 25 books of fiction and non-fiction. His most recent works are the Shadow Master series, published in the UK and USA by Angry Robot Books. www.craigcormick.com
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Dylan Thomas visits the Doctor Who exhibition in Cardiff before it closes

by Craig Cormick


To begin at the beginning.

It is an autumn, cloudy afternoon in the sea-side, bayside, country-side small city of Cardiff.

Hush. The Pilgrims are coming. The geeks, the fans, the fanatics and the devoted. Filled with expectation and Time Lord happiness. Queuing with the space-time patience of the true believers.

Listen. You can hear the awe in their whispers and the Shadow Proclamation-solemness as they come face-to-something-like-a-face with K-9, Cybermen, Zygons, Silurians, the Ood, Weeping Angels and the Daleks. Always the Daleks.

Listen. The hushed arguments over which companion was the best. Leela or Ace or Cedric or Jamie or Sarah-Jane or Peri or Ace or Amy or Martha or Clara or Bill or Rose. Always Rose.

Listen. As they argue over who was, or will be, the best Doctor. David Tennant, John Pertwee, Christopher Eccleston, Peter Capaldi, Paul McGann, Matt Smith, that new actress what’s-her-name-again, Patrick Troughton, Tom Baker. Never Colin Baker.

Come closer now.

Refuse to see the costume seams and scuffs on the body prosthetics and aliens, as unseen as the Lost moon of Poosh.

Listen. To the soft-foot stepping, slow-shuffle of those in costume. Awandering through the exhibits as if they have found themselves and come home. If at least for a clock-slowing moment. For time always passes.

Until it is night time. Dark and black.

Time pocket black. Deep-space black. Silence-black. And the curators finally call, ‘Time folks.’

Time to depart. Time to close one last time. Time to remember.

All the wild time-travelling, time-unravelling, timey-wimey, universe-saving adventures had.
Time passes. Listen. Time passes.

For today's flash fiction we head into the realms of cyberpunk with Bubblegum Botress by D.A. Xiaolin Spires, a tale of love lost and lust at a drive-thru burger joint. 

D.A. Xiaolin Spires currently lives in Taipei, Taiwan. You can find her huddled in a mosquito net, speeding through night markets and trudging up the escheresque subway stairs scattered across this urban landscape. Her works appear or are forthcoming in publications such as Clarkesworld, Analog Science Fiction and Fact, Retro Future, LONTAR, Eye to the Telescope and several anthologies. Find her on Twitter @spireswriter or at her website: daxiaolinspires.wordpress.com.



​​Bubblegum Botress
by D.A. Xiaolin Spires

We pull up in our two-door convertible. Akari is a great driver. She works the levers on the slick cherry Cadillac like extensions of her body. The engine quiets, as the rounded wings pull in. She touches down just as she makes a call through the telecom at the burger joint. She’s hardly done speaking when the food appears on a tray carried toward us. 

The botress is chewing on bubble gum and blows it in my face as she passes me my burger. The gum is bright pink, reflected on her silver chin. Pop. She scoops gum bits that have burst onto her metal chin and puts them back between her lips with a highly segmented finger.

I’m eyeing Akari as she’s eyeing the botress. The botress now moves the gum to the right side of her mouth, with the left side turned up into a wry grin. Do they manufacture bots to flirt now? I can feel my face getting red. I swear the bot winks at Akari. A deliberate swish of her eyelashes, probably made of airplane sheet metal for all I know. But, they look real and lush. Can botresses afford human hair implants? Probably a mix of synthetics plus generous dabs of mascara. Akari tries to be subtle, but I see her eyes dart to check out her pink mini-hoop skirt. The botress’s hips generously fill the tiny skirt, leaving not much room for imagination.

I grab the burger, take a big bite and let the juices dribble down my face. Akari barely notices me.

The botress turns and leaves. Akari’s pretending to scan the menu but I see her watching the botress as she glides away. Akari places a hefty ten-dollar bill down the tipping tube. Her face is shadowed under the freight-liner floating above us. But, even with the curved shadow cast on her face, I can see something close to lust. Animal energy emanates from her eyes. 

I pull off my silver gloves and rub her cheeks. She’s distracted. I let go and fall back into my seat. There is a mountain at the far edge of the megacity, where there are no globe fountains and no twin skyscrapers. There is no burger joint and no bot ladies at your beck and call.

I secretly want to hide there where no one can find me. I want to crawl up the mountain on my own two legs without the help of an air taxi or its faithful automaton driver. 

Akari now turns to me and looks into my eyes. “You got something there on your cheek,” she says, brushing away the ketchup and flecks of meat. Her pupils are dilated, black as deep space and I can see the whole of the megacity reflected there, bright and energetic like stars. 

I want to break up, I say. But I’m not sure she hears me. I could shout into the city itself and the glass domes and sleek buildings would only echo my words hollow. 

Two new poems – Reboot City and Who Was That Masked Woman? – for you now from Ian Hunter. Ian is a children's author, short story writer, poet, editor and occasional book reviewer. He's a member of the Glasgow Science Fiction Writers Circle, a director of the Scottish writers collective Read Raw, and poetry editor of the British Fantasy Society Journal.


Reboot City

I am the girlfriend
Sometimes the girl next door
Exchanging glances
Awkward moments
We almost got married
I’ve been kidnapped several times
Even died, once

I am the police commissioner
Who never gets to retire
Sometimes doddering
Sometimes overweight
Sometimes steely, like my moustache
Once I’ve been black
I might be a woman next

I am the sidekick
My parents are dead
A suspicious road accident
or horribly murdered by a masked fiend
but I had my revenge
even though it killed me
Then I came back, as a girl

I am the hero
I never age
I never change
I can never escape this life
All these reboots
No wonder,  I hate this city
almost as much
as I hate myself


Who Was That Masked Woman?

I unblock the vacuum cleaner
She prevents a North Sea oil spillage

I hang out the washing
She stops a runaway train

I do the weekly shopping
She frees a whale from shallow water

I make the children’s school lunches
She holds up a broken bridge

I paint the kitchen ceiling
She diverts the lava flow

I iron the school shirts 
She stops the landslide crushing the village

I attend the parent’s night
She catches the falling cable car

I make a romantic dinner for two
She grimaces at the sound of her beeper