Sharon’s Comments (group member since Oct 28, 2015)

Sharon’s comments from the Science Fiction Microstory Contest group.

An anthology is a heavy lift. If we are interested in doing one, we'd need to plan ahead for it so the people involved can schedule for the time. I know for my own part, I wouldn't have the time right now. Perhaps we revisit this in a couple months to see if there is enough current interest and at the point if there is, we can assemble an editorial team and set some deadlines. But I do like the idea of the stories being recorded. 'Portable and in the ear' is a definite added value to any book these days.

An interesting experiment.

Well done, gentlemen! Two of my top three as well.

Sent my vote to author.jot

I kept getting notifications from goodreads about you guys, so I peeked in.
Love this months theme and a story popped into my head.
I've missed you guys!
Story is posted.

Blind Justice
©2021 by S.M. Kraftchak


A woman in a crimson cloak with a cowl hood positioned to hide everything but her mouth, like a mask, appeared at the end of the street. Four white cloaked and hooded individuals stood two steps behind and to either side of her, creating a chevron. I watched from my safe place; a derelict air shaft hidden behind a rusty steel grate. “More do-gooders come to save Gamorra,” I whispered. We’d renamed our street after the real street sign had been stolen for someone’s armor. I wanted to call out and warn them. I’d seen too many try to rescue or redeem the inhabitants of Gamorra and die trying.

I secured my grate and eased back into the shadows as scabbers emerged from alleys and doorways, that only the bold or the foolish would dare enter, to stare at the visitors like hungry wolves slavering over their next meal. I had enough street cred that I might claim one of the visitors for my own and later secretly release them, but I’d pay an awful price if MacaB found out, so I watched as the lady in crimson took one step forward.

With no signal, the four white cloaked assistants reversed the chevron so the woman in crimson stood behind them. I cringed as hunting whistles and aye-yi-yi-yi calls echoed. I knew what was coming. The scabbers would have their sport, before...

I caught myself leaning forward. When a pair of teenaged scabbers prematurely launched at the nearest white cloak. I withdrew and squeezed my eyes shut. I’d seen too much blood. When the street abruptly silenced, I opened one eye and saw the two young scabbers sprawled on the ground, open mouthed and eyes rolled back in their heads. There was no blood.

“You have nothing to fear.” The call of the woman in crimson melted the stunned silence with her strangely comforting tone, how I'd imagined my mother’s voice. “Come to us with open hands and open hearts and you’ll never want for anything again.” The chevron glided forward two steps and halted.

“You’re going to pay for Rhodie and Wisco!” I recognized MacaB’s ragged voice shouting down from his third-story command window. “Atta—”

The woman in crimson raised two slender fingers. Her voice rose, muting the call to attack. “We are here to help. Only one of you needs come with us and no one else will be harmed.” The silence wobbled after her words as the poised scabbers looked to each other, wondering who would attack first, or asking if they should run. As if on cue, ten pairs of scabbers launched at once.

“No!” my fingers curled through the squares of the grate; my voice trampled by battle cries.

The white cloaks turned to face their assailants, open hands redirecting would be thrusts and punches away with no apparent contact. Slowly they backed toward each other as bodies dully thudded the pavement at their feet, splattering their cloaks with dirt and spittle. Within minutes, bodies lay like sandbags ready to divert a flood in front of the white cloaks who breathed heavily. Their efforts hadn’t been without cost.

The new silence shivered when my grate clanged on the cement. As I walked to the middle of the street, I surveyed the fallen. Few were friends, most had brutalized me. It didn’t matter. I couldn’t stand hiding any longer. I was going to be free or die.

“Don’t do it, Pennsy,” MacaB called. “If they don’t kill you, I will.”

The four white cloaks turned to face me. I stared into the darkness beneath the crimson cowl and opened my hands at my sides. I started walking. “I come to you with open hands and an open heart.” I ignored the cat-calls and threats and walked to the woman in crimson.

“Will you sacrifice for the good?”

“Yes.”

“Then kneel and accept our gifts.”

My heart pounded as the woman placed her hands on my head.

“Great power requires great sacrifice. I take your eyes and give you a new vision and power.”

I felt my forehead tighten. Coolness whispered across my bald head when she lifted her hands. My heart had calmed and I ‘looked’ up into the crimson woman’s cowl. She had no eyes. I rose and turned toward MacaB. I ignored the screams of horror and calls, “She’s a mutant!”, raised one hand toward MacaB and brushed the air. I turned and walked away before his body hit the cement.

All,
For those who have been here for a while, I found out on facebook this morning that one of our fellow writers has embarked on his final voyage. He passed away on May 11th surrounded by family. There is much more information on his Facebook page, posted there by his family.

I will always remember him for his well written stories that connected with the heart, his thoughtful interactions, and kind words and encouragement.

He now has the opportunity to visit the worlds he created.

He will be missed.

Thank you to everyone who took time to post their thoughts on the stories. You're insight is quite helpful and appreciated.

Took some time to finish with lots of interruptions, but thoroughly enjoyed reading all the stories. Sent my vote in via GR. Placing one story over another was quite difficult. Each had it's own flavor and unique charm.

Flight
©2016 by S.M. Kraftchak

Can Ayalyn prove she’s not who authorities claim she is?

Ayalyn squeaked as she flew from her captor’s hands, and thudded to the floor. Instantly, she snatched the blindfold from her eyes, scrambled to her feet, and rushed the door. She jumped back as the door dropped into place with a thunk. “It wasn’t me.” She tipped her head up to look into the security camera. “I don’t belong here. I’m not one of them.”

A pleasant woman’s voice sounded. “You have been detained in the Hawksbill Space Eyrie. You will remain here until your trial. Your estimated wait time is four hundred thirty-two Terran cycles. Hawksbill is a full-service detention facility. We hope your stay is comfortable.”

Barely holding her tears at bay, Ayalyn turned to examine the ten-foot round sphere. The floor, only three-feet wide from side to side, gave access to the barest amenities: a retractable hammock; a bidet; a stainless steel sink the size of her open hand; and a table next to the hammock. A tablet, imbedded in the table, and a single potted daisy were the only tools provided to maintain her sanity in the days to come. She frowned at the narrow beam of sunlight shooting through the four-inch window onto her feet, clenched her fists and screamed in fury. A moment later her body arched and her back began the now familiar cramping, followed by shooting pain from her hips to her shoulders. Dropping to her hands and knees, she panted as she waited for the pain to subside.

The pleasant woman suddenly spoke. “Your distress has been noted. Assistance will be dispatched within twelve hours. Residents wishing a more immediate resolution to their distress need only push the large green button next to the door.”
Breathing heavily, Ayalyn looked over her shoulder and crawled toward the button, stood on her knees to press it, but suddenly collapsed into a fetal position as another vicious spasm wracked her back and rendered her unconscious.

When she opened her eyes, the shaft of sunlight shone on the opposite side of the sphere. Her whole body ached and her back was on fire, even laying still. Without sitting up, she realized a tray of food had been slid onto her table and a pungent sour smell filled the space. Pinching her nose and breathing through her mouth, she slowly got to her feet and turned away from the tray when her stomach threatened to revolt. She burst into tears and wailed, “Help me.”

“Assistance has been dispatched and will arrive in six hours. If residents wish more immediate assistance, they may press the green button next to the door.”

Ayalyn didn’t hesitate, and launched herself at the green button. Instantly the door slid into the sphere above her. In the sudden decompression, she managed to throw herself to the floor as the potted flower and tray of putrid food tumbled past her. The smooth floor afforded her hands no purchase as her feet slid into space. Squealing in panic, she slammed her hands onto the sides of the door. Gasping for breath, Ayalyn glanced over her shoulder at the five-thousand-foot drop and nearly let go as fear weakened her grip. “Help me! Now!”

“Residents choosing more immediate assistance need no further—”

Ayalyn’s hands suddenly slipped from the frame and she fell backward into empty air. With her arms frozen in their last desperate reach, she watched her sphere and dozens more bobbing in the air, recede as she fell. Trembling with fear as her body tipped over so she faced her approaching fatal end, Ayalyn’s back suddenly cramped and arched. A heartbeat later, her body jerked backward as a pair of leathery gray wings extended and filled with air, arresting her fall. Wide-eyed with amazement, she instinctively flexed her wings, soared up past her former sphere, and burst into laughter. “I guess I am one of them.”

Well deserved; interesting concept.

Thanks, Justin.

Started one last month, but put it down and forgot to finish it. Kept with it his month and it's posted. Looking forward to reading the others.
-Sharon

Time Slip by S. M. Kraftchak
(748 words)

Running his fingers through his short red hair, Jared strode into the mess hall. He glanced at the twenty empty tables before he addressed the dozen remaining colonists seated around one table. “Thank you, Qila,” he said to the woman standing by the table.

Jared inhaled deeply. “The good news is we’ve stabilized the Gaoliad. She will make the Dochas colony.”

The gathering burst into jubilant conversation, hugging each other.

Jared raised his voice. “The bad news...we’ll be fifteen years late travelling at sub-light, AND, we have enough O2 for only half of us to survive...”

Silence drowned the group’s enthusiasm.

“Unless, we put all but two of us in stasis pods.”

“They’re designed for short medical procedures, not extended use,” a woman said.

Qila nodded. “We’re aware of that, Mother. We believe they’ll last, with modifications.”

The group remained silent.

Jared folded his arms. “We’ll put everyone in stasis after dinner. The longer we delay, the more reserves we use. I’m sorry, there’s no alternative.”

#

Qila helped her mother into the last stasis pod and kissed her cheek as she laid down. “I’ll miss you.”

“You won’t have time. You’ll be too busy.”

Qila tipped her head and gazed at her mother through tear-filled eyes. “There’s something you need to know.”

“It’s okay, Dear, I know the modifications won’t work. I’m willing to sacrifice myself—”

“No, Mother! They’ll work! I did the modifications myself. Jared and I were going to tell you at dinner, before the meteor took out half the ship.”

“Tell me what?”

Qila looked up at Jared who joined them on the opposite side of the pod.

“Helen, I wanted to ask permission to marry Qila when we reach Dochas.”

Joy and disappointment wrestled across Helen’s face as she took Jared’s hand and smiled tearfully. “Yes! But don’t wait.”

Qila kissed her mother’s hand. “I’m not getting married without my best friend there. You’re going to give me away…”

Mother’s expression morphed into a scowl as she shook Qila’s hand. “You’re NOT waiting. I expect a grandbaby when I wake up.” She looked at Jared, who nodded, and then squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Let’s do this.”

##

“Helen, breathe slowly. You’re fine. Open your eyes,” Jared said holding her hand.

With a halting breath, Helen opened her eyes and gazed at the white-haired man. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jared,” he said and smiled.

“Jared! Where’s Qila? How long have I been asleep? Did we make Dorchas?” Helen tried to sit up.

“Easy does it. Let me help you.” Jared moved behind the woman, who appeared to be half his age, to lift her into a wheelchair. “Yes, everyone had given up hope. They celebrated for a week. You’re going to love it here. Would you like to see our gardens?”

“Is Qila there?”

Jared paused. “Yes, she’s there, and a few others I’m sure you want to meet.”

As he turned the wheelchair, Helen gasped at the view. “Oh! It’s even more beautiful than I imagined,” she said scanning beyond the wall-sized window where rich gold, orange, and red leafed trees were anchored by dark-green flower-dappled shrubs.

“Computer, open wall,” Jared said and pushed Helen into the fragrant garden. A minute later they arrived in the center court. A woman stood next to a rosebush with her back to them, singing to the infant in her arms.

“Qila?”

The woman turned and smiled.

“You’re not…but you’re a spitting image.”

“I’m Hope, your granddaughter, and this…,” she knelt next to Helen. “…is Helene, your great-granddaughter.”

Helen caressed Hope’s cheek before she brushed the sleeping infant’s cheek with two fingers. “I never thought I’d know such profound joy. I thought for sure those stasis pods wouldn’t work. Now where’s Qila so I can congratulate her?”

Hope’s smile evaporated as Jared knelt, turned Helen toward him, and frowned.

Helen’s face pinched with anguish. “Tell me.”

“The pods worked better than we’d planned…too well, in fact, all lasted at least five years beyond our arrival, twenty-five years ago. You’re the last to emerge this past month when you showed signs of waking.”

“So, I’ve been asleep—?”

“…for sixty-three years,” Jared whispered.

“And where is Qila?” Helen demanded with tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Qila’s ashes and our second child’s ashes, a son, are buried under that rose bush.” Jared pointed where Hope had been singing to Helene. “They died the year before we arrived, because we had no pod to save her from low O2 complications during childbirth.”

Hey everyone! Not sure if you're aware of this, but thought it might be important to this group of authors and I didn't want to bury this in a single months comments. Not sure yet if this is good or bad or a mix.

Here is the letter a friend received from Create Space (she has her book published through them).




Hello,

We’re excited to announce that CreateSpace (CSP) and Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) will become one service, and in the coming days, we will give CreateSpace members the ability to move their account and titles. To ensure a quality experience, we will add links to the CreateSpace member dashboard in phases so authors may see it at different times. As a reminder, Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) now offers Expanded Distribution to sell your paperbacks to physical bookstores in the US, as well as the ability to sell your paperback books on Amazon.ca and Amazon.com.au (Amazon.mx coming soon). With these features, KDP’s paperback distribution will be on par with CreateSpace’s distribution. KDP also offers features that aren’t available on CreateSpace. These include the ability to purchase ads to promote paperbacks on Amazon.com and locally printed author copies in Europe.

As a result of these enhancements to KDP and our ongoing efforts to provide a more seamless experience for managing your paperback and digital books, CreateSpace and KDP will become one service. On KDP, your paperbacks will still be printed in the same facilities, on the same printers, and by the same people as they were on CreateSpace.

In a few weeks, we’ll start automatically moving your CreateSpace books to KDP. Your books will remain available for sale throughout the move and you’ll continue to earn royalties. Once we begin this process you’ll be unable to edit existing titles or create new titles on CreateSpace.

If you have a release planned soon or you would like to start the move yourself, we are making updates that will allow you to move your entire catalog in just a few steps. During this transition, you can contact KDP customer support by email and access phone support in English.

There are a few payment and printing fee differences associated with the move. Going forward you will be paid on KDP’s payment schedule. CreateSpace pays monthly royalties 30 days after the end of the month in which they were earned while KDP pays monthly royalties approximately 60 days after the end of the month in which they were earned. As a result, you’ll be paid in September for any royalties earned in August on CreateSpace and be paid in October for any royalties earned in August on KDP. In addition, some low-page count books will see an increase in printing fees when they are printed in the UK and EU. This affects a small number of titles. If your titles are affected by this change, you will receive a separate email on this topic. Learn more about KDP’s printing fees here.

To learn more about the move and review the latest, visit here. We’ll be in touch with more updates in the coming weeks.

It is still Day 1 for independent publishing. As Amazon’s recent shareholder letter noted, there are more than a 1,000 authors who earn more than a $100,000 a year from their work with us. We could not be more optimistic about the future of independent publishing and this change will allow us to innovate faster for you.

Best Regards,
The CreateSpace and KDP Team

Memorable- well done Tom.

Critiques are an important part of this group, and I for one would miss them. I wish we had the ability for a like button on these comments. If we go back and distill down the comments, I believe everyone likes critiques, doesn't read them before voting and wants to keep them; we just need to be sure critiques and comments that can be construed as critique should be kept to the critique thread. Tom- don't be scared off; I agree with C. that your critiques are indeed the most thorough. Chris- SEND THEM OUT. You're good.

I believe Jot's question about critiques came because he's trying to increase numbers here. I agree with Chris, Tom, Paula, Marianne (and any others) who said we need to expand our chops and try more flexible themes to include elements of other genre, to not only try to bring others in, but to keep our own writing more relevant. I think if try this AND we all actively post the theme each month to all our social media outlets, we will begin to increase interest (and they'll tell two people, and they'll tell two people...).

Greetings, all.
Sorry I've been away so long. I've missed you. Life has been so overwhelming I haven't really written much since last November, but this group has been an anchor to at least keep me thinking about writing.

To answer Jot's question, I have never read the critiques before I voted. My vote has always been based on how well a story relates its idea and appeals to me. After that I sift them down through a filter based on technical elements to determine one great story over another.

To my mind, a critique is letting the author know how I perceive their story. Our job as writers is to express the picture in our minds in such a way that the picture in a reader's mind matches as closely as possible. That's what I give, and look for in a critique. Sadly when there are so many entries, there is not necessarily the time to offer a critique on everyone, and sometimes, others have said more or less expressed what I might have said about a story.
I value critiques from this group because many of you have a keen eye and a good sense of storytelling that will improve my own writing. I'm not sure critiques are helping or hurting us other than adding to the time commitment.

As far as 'recruiting' people to join? Most of the regulars in this group set an extremely high standard of storytelling which may be intimidating to newer writers. I'm not saying that is a bad thing, but many new writers are too timid when they feel like they 'aren't good enough to stand shoulder to shoulder' with someone they perceive to be superior. Would many of us have dared to match our early stories with 'the giants'? I would suggest that each person try personally inviting one or two people to the group. Flash fiction isn't for everyone because it's tough. Flash fiction with science fiction elements to some may be even more restrictive and intimidating.

I didn't get a story written this month, but I did get to read everyone's wonderful stories and have sent Jot my vote.

I, like Marianne, am grateful for this group and the opportunities it provides.

John- go to AngryRobot.com for all the details. Open submission call (no agent needed) through the 31st for complete unpublished SFF novels.

Congratulations, Marianne! Scent is an outstanding story!