Fiona Grey Writes

I’ve been offline for with a bit of a broken wing, so this was written primarily using dictation – and the patience I used to have before correcting most of the errors. Bear with me, as I’m sure some slipped through!

The now-familiar stomping rattled the windows. it was a sign of their ability to endure even the strangest of habits over time that Helga didn’t look up from her hardcopy newsletter. 

“Best finish quickly,“ George said. He kept an oblique eye on the window, standing carefully angled and behind the sheer curtain to track the bot’s progress.

“This last bit turned out to be more important than I expected,“ she said absently. “I think I get it now.“

“You’d better,“ he replied, barely audible above the growing thumps and shudders. “Burn it. Burn it now.“

The crackle of flames had also become a part of their morning ritual, along with makeshift tea from whatever edible herbs she could forage from the nearby park and accompanied by the heavy beat of the war bot’s march.

This morning, the new rituals were also accompanied by a distinct rip of paper.

“What are you doing?” he hissed under his breath. She joined him at the window scrap of paper still in hand. Helga linked their hands, and he felt the tiny scrap stick against his sweaty palm.

She waited for the noise to fade as the monitor bot passed to the next street.

“You need to see this too. If something happens to me, this knowledge needs to be passed on.”

George had spent the past three weeks as the middleman between his neighborhood and several others, using his job in food distribution as cover to pass messages. Verbal messages were easiest, as long as they could avoid the nano drones hovering overhead. He was never sure whether shorthand cods were understood by recipients, but that means the bots had a less likely chance of understanding it as well.

Paper, though. Paper was evidence, evidence to be selectively distributed and rapidly burned. Better than digital, of course, especially with the increased surveillance. 

But he’d seen enough death the past few weeks to last a lifetime – and didn’t know how to avoid more other than playing within the rules. And those hard won rules, paid in human lives, said to burn paper as fast as you could after memorizing the message.

He wasn’t even sure how long he could stand carrying messages, if it weren’t for his desperation for other signs of resistance. 

“Mrs. Ingleson,” he murmured. Their landlady had given up on freedom with a strange joy. Apparently her desire to tell others what to do and manifested in delight at being given orders as well. She’s even taken to popping in unexpectedly to most of the neighborhood houses, which were now required to have unlocked doors for easy enemy access. They’d only lasted a week with a supposedly sticking doorknob, before a formal warning to fix it had arrived. 

“Then memorize it now. You need to see this. If it’s what I think – but I’m afraid to become overly excited at this point.“ Helga looked fragile, running her fingers acrossher cheekbones.

George took a look at the damp paper, cheap ink running onto his fingers, expecting his hopes to be dashed once more. His eyes widened. 

“And we’ve been focused on the battery packs,” he breathed. 

“What was it that movie said,” and Helga’s grin lit up the room far more than the single candle left burning at the kitchen table. “‘No one can stop the signal’?”

“Get to work.” George playfully sweated her rear as she headed for the stairs to the attic workshop, which officially didn’t exist anymore and never had if anyone came asking.

As he laced up his work boots, George’s anxiety returned, with acid waves sloshing inside his stomach. The tech equipment that Helga had supposedly lost on a boating trip wouldn’t survive much longer, not with supplies running low. He’d made sure they both tossed a few broken pieces of equipment into a nearby pond so the bot wouldn’t detect it as a lie, but now wondered if that had been a terrible waste after the initial invasion panic.

Still, George had no doubt that between his current ability to leave the neighborhood – heavily supervised, of course – and Helga‘s past job, let alone her current tinkering, they were on some sort of list. Maybe even multiple lists. 

And that was before that nosy parker of a landlady came into the picture.

It was only a matter of time.

It might have been his imagination that day at work, but George was increasingly uncomfortable by the amount of attention from the crew of guard bots. If they were gathering evidence…No, if they were at that point already, he would simply disappear. As it was, his shift’s mandatory four-hour extension to the city’s food distribution center – normally an opportunity to pass intel, though today he didn’t dare – meant he fell into bed beside Helga, too exhausted to disturb his sleeping wife.

He opened blurry eyes to find her already downstairs. He dragged the covers back and made his way to the kitchen, following the scent of something annoyingly green and grassy. 

Today, however, the candle remained unlit. And there was no covertly printed newsletter, because the food delivery had skipped their house. That was no fluke after the watch-boys’ heavy scrutiny yesterday, and a terrible sign for their continued longevity. 

There was, however, a small computer board of the type George never had quite understood, with a few wires and buttons attached to it. The kind that could get them killed if their traitorous landlady burst in…and the only thing that gave them a glimmer of survival.

“Food distribution is getting worse.” Helga’s eyes were dancing.

“Apologies, my lady. We are the enemy, after all.“ George went to the tea kettle and positioned himself sideways at the window, watching for the bots. He raised the steaming mug and toasted her. 

In the distance, thumping footsteps began.

“Give it a few minutes.“ Her eyes were downright sparkling now. “I believe humans might be necessary after all. Despite our pending obsolescence.“

The mechanical booms grew closer. It wasn’t just one today on patrol, no mere guard meant for general intimidation. 

He swallowed. “Better get moving.“ 

She pressed an unobtrusive white button at the side of the delicate microchip board and pressed her lips together until they turned pale. 

As one, the armed robots that had just entered their street, stamped in unison and halted. 

A speaker crackled. “WE INTERRUPT THIS WAR WITH THESE MESSAGES FROM OUR SPONSOR.”

A familiar jingle began playing, tinny and somehow the least annoying version of the song that he’d ever heard. 

When George finally stopped laughing, he turned to Helga. “Can’t stop it “

“No.“ she let out a wicked grin. “Can’t stop it, but I certainly can hijack that signal and loop it through 100 years of bad television commercials.”

“And infomercials,” he said thoughtfully. 

“What happens when they get to the one where the elderly woman falls, and can’t get off the floor?”

“Already ahead of you,” Helga said with grim delight. “They’re never getting up again. I’ve made that one a command.”

***

I couldn’t resist this spare: “WE INTERRUPT THIS WAR…”

Check out more or play along, over at MOTE!

When he first saw the cottage, it was sitting in the midst of a snowy landscape. There wasn’t much about it that was obviously special, unless you appreciated the small marks of craftsmanship and effort that had gone into its construction, and evidence of hand-hewn logs wasn’t obvious until the observer grew close.

Even then, in the midst of softly falling snow that had him hurrying for the door, Walter had a brushing thought flit through his mind. Surely, it had taken a great deal of effort to drag the logs to this mountaintop location, three hundred feet above the tree line.

Whoever had gone to such effort had clearly appreciated the view, which stretched across the entire range of snowy peaks before shading into the deeper lines of winter-dusted pines. The large picture window, perfectly positioned to capture the rising sun, and the cabin’s lone rocking chair were evidence of that.

And that same person, he quickly realized, was not a fan of cold, despite the locale; the fireplace and wood stove combined with a lack of drafts to warm the cabin quickly. Meanwhile, a heavy handmade rug and thick curtains gave the cabin’s owner the opportunity to block that same lovely view once darkness followed the snow.

It was a place, Walter came to understand, where every decision had been made with great care. A shelf at the perfect height, positioned next to the toaster, gave a resting spot for the all-necessary coffee while he loomed over the appliance impatiently. A knife to spread the butter was in the first drawer he’d tried, exactly the logical place.

The picture window turned out to be doubled-paned, and a knit wool blanket strapped to the bottom of the rocker, while the bedroom light was exactly the perfect shade of indoor glow to read before settling into sleep.

Outdoors, a clothesline at arm-height allowed him to reach the woodpile without getting lost despite a blinding blizzard, and a nook on the porch to tuck away a large stash without a pile of logs spilling onto the porch.

Despite his trepidation on the way up, he’d found that trees overreached parts of the winding drive, blocking most of the snow from the west. For plowing, an ATV with a small front attachment hid out of sight in a garage. That garage mimicked the cabin’s aesthetic – and was connected to the cabin via a closed tunnel, so a trip into town kept the chill away until absolutely necessary.

Yes, Walter thought with satisfaction as he watched the sunrise, it was the perfect cabin. He understood, now, the owner’s insistence that he spend a week here.

He’d never be able to love this bucolic vision quite as much as the owner who was reluctantly selling it, forced to move into town after a bad fall left him largely immobile.

But he though there might be room enough, perhaps, for a second rocking chair.

***

This week’s prompt was from AC Young, about the first glimpse of a cabin in the snow – and while I’m not sure where this story came from, exactly, I might revisit this world again. (It won’t be soon, though; I’m likely to be offline for a bit the next few weeks.)

My prompt went to Becky – what regrets might you have, if you’re the last one to do something before it all goes wrong? Check it out – and more! – over at MOTE v2.025.