Fifty More Egg Timer Short Stories

By Richard Bunning

This is the second collection in a series of mixed genre short stories. They are all of between 600 and 1200 words. The trend leans towards speculative fiction but the stories are intentionally diverse. The expectation and hope is that readers will enjoy reading in some less familiar subject areas, while accepting that not all the stories will be any readers cup of tea. None of the stories have anything remotely to do with boiling eggs, or any other kitchen arts. Rather, it is the egg timer itself that is significant. All the stories are easily readable in the time the sand takes to drop, which is usually close to two and a half minutes. Yes, I know that many of you read much faster. This is a book for brief moments, short escapes, from the tasks of the day. Sometimes there just isn't time to get back to that great novel, waiting on the arm of your favourite chair.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Bunning
• Release date: Aug 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370433230

Richard Bunning

I am currently a writer of speculative Science Fiction. Thank you to all who read my books. I review other peoples works in many genres, specialising in helping promote self published and small publishers authors. My main reviews site is at http://richardbunningbooksandreviews.weebly.com

Book preview

or more embryonic chicken

These are flash fiction stories of between 600 and 1200 words. They are mere morsels, dropped from an over-flowing plate of borrowed facts, others’ reformulated ideas, half understood histories and vague possibilities, then seasoned with my own unique mix of salts. Some may one day grow into longer works, while most will never fill more than their already compiled ephemeral moments. These are little eggs, of condensed, energy rich words, which are designed to raise unfamiliar lines of thought and hopefully spark your own speculations.

My second collection leans quite heavily to our futures, sometimes very distant ones. However, it’s certainly meant to appeal to diverse readers and not only those with imaginations nurtured largely by what may come. Most of the ideas could have drifted in from anywhere in space and time, wherever I’ve actually plotted them. Just one story isn’t mine at all, being a near copy of a modern version of a very ancient tale. I include it out of respect for those that have been condensing fine stories into tiny morsels for as long as we have communicated. In modern times, first the typewriter and now more so the computer, tends to encourage verbosity, while, formerly, animal hides, reeds and precious inks, and often earlier chisels and stone, encouraged a precise economy of letters. It isn’t hard to claim that the one borrowed story is better crafted than any that I’m fully responsibility for. Of course, even more recently, short, journalistic precision has found a new voice, with especially the short-writing designed for the seemingly ever-smaller mobile device. I’m pleased that these stories adapt so well to this new fingertip danced universe. Taken in this new media context, some would even call my stories long.

These are brief, momentary reads for when your day seems to have plenty of ‘coffee break’ periods of free time, but lacks sufficiently long intervals for that big paperback you’d really like to get absorbed in. Despite the title, none of these stories have anything to do with cooking. There is nothing here to help you produce a meal for a starving horde in any number of minutes, except that you won’t have been far longer distracted by a ‘War and Peace’. To be honest I don’t even think that these stories are very suitable for timing how long it takes to boil an egg. That depends on so many factors relating to both you and any potentially poached egg. We might consider variables including the age of the egg, atmospheric pressure and the speed at which boiling point is reached. Then there are the individual peculiarities affecting our reading, such as the age of one’s eyes or the number of scratches on current reading glasses, and even how comfortably we’re situated. And we haven’t yet factored in the degree of agitation raised by my words. An apoplectic boiling point, or the fatigue of boredom, may considerably upset the reading time.

I’m fascinated by the versatility of the short story agenda, even to the extent that when the time comes to start editing I’m actually quite surprised by how wide my imagination has soared, and at how much I’ve sometimes managed to cram in. That isn’t to boast; such diversity of thought is common to most of us. We all add original sparks, even if they are often only original to us. It is rather that generally people are in busy lives that don’t allow the freedom to write speculatively, aren’t conducive to penning the dreams. I consider myself to be very lucky. Writing can be a proper job, a source of real income, even for a few the sole means of support; however, for most of us it is a part time activity or even only an occasional hobby, a case of minutes snatched from real life for our compositions. Many of you will have your own gems that may or may not be contained in less than a thousand words, gems that easily outshine mine. Whenever you wish to record your own visions, then I hope that you’ll also find time.

My stories are anticipating your arrival, eager for you to pass this introduction. Thank you so much for reading even this far, let alone for future time that I may be blessed enough to pinch from you.

Story 1: ARTHUR, KING ONCE, AND KING TO BE

(Legend based sci-fi fantasy)

Guinevere and I are at a table in the Coach and Horses in Caerwent. We have been preparing most of our long lives for this moment; we await the return of the King. Arthur is on his way here from Glastonbury on Hengroen, the ‘flying horse’. We plan to take this Escalibur class ship to our home, in the star system of Avelon.

I read ‘Le Mort d’Arthur’ as we imbibe wine, and bite bread and cheese. Guinevere seems preoccupied with titivations that should be reserved for the privacy of her boudoir rather than this table. I guess she wants to look her best after waiting a thousand years for her husband.

Thomas Malory, the book’s author, knew well Arthur’s future return. I read aloud for my Lady. ‘Some men say in many parts of England that King Arthur is not dead, but had by the will of our Lord Jesu into another place; and men say that he shall come again, and he shall win the holy cross.’ We must understand the passage in the context of Malory’s Christian belief.

Should we fear for the sanity of the local people, enjoying their luncheons here? How will they react on seeing the returning King? They will be safe so long as they bow low, and hopefully fear will ensure that they do. I believe it’s best that I make no fuss to warn them, but rather let survival instinct take a natural course. I guess the shock to these good Welsh citizens will be every bit as great as it would be for them to see their famous cultural icons coming to life, for them to see a real fire-breathing red dragon arriving on a flying leek.

Guinevere seems to be satisfied with her countenance, at last. Now she is waving an electronic chessboard in my face, whilst pointing her newly manicured digits at its maker’s web address- E B Escalibur.com - We laugh... I speak.

How about, we combat these pieces while we wait, my white Queen?

Oh! You’re tiresome my noble liege. You know how much I detest that mental sport. How about you use some of your silver coins in the music box? That I would enjoy. See if they’ve got Deep Purple’s ‘Space Truckin’, or a bit of Bowie or something.

You’ll be lucky my Lady. Those musicians are history to these people. Remember that last time we visited was in the hippie culture Age of Aquarius. It is like asking us to remember tunes from before Camelot was even built.

I guess you’re right. Are you aware that on these people’s calendar, today is the 2nd February 2222. Knowing Arthur, I just bet he walks in at 22:22 hours.

Yea, I’ll not risk any silver by betting against that. So how about I get another bottle of this Merlot sent over? We still have an hour to wait. I’ll sing for you ‘Come on- Come on- Come on- let’s go Space Truckin’ . . .

Oh shut it you tuneless moron. Go and get me a drink, and hide that beam gun. This isn’t England, and certainly not New England.

Sorry. I guess the wine has affected my overbearance more than I thought.

"You never could be discrete about your intention, Drystan. Which reminds me, we had better take out a couple of beers to Lucan and Pellinor. It isn’t fun playing car park attendant when one has to find room for an Excalibur class cruiser to land.

Tapster, another bottle of red, and a couple of pints of Brains bitter for my two friends outside.

Guinevere looks genuinely concerned as she asks, Which knights have drawn the short straw, having to remain to guard Albion then Drystan?

Well, Lancelot of course. He volunteered to stay. He rather likes the English Roses, and Welsh Annas and Bronwyns and, well I could miss the ship if I go on. Gawain and Marhaus are the others staying.

Nothing changes! I bet Gawain volunteered as well. Talk about rugby mad. I believe he would reside in the Millennium Stadium if he got the chance. But poor Marhaus, he’d much rather be in the peatbogs of Ireland. He’s always so miserable. Perhaps he really should have died by your blade.

Yes, he’s been grumpy ever since the tip of my sword broke in his head. He should be grateful I intentionally spared him; given an iron strong crown. Anyway, cheers! To Arthur!

And young Merlin, wherever that time-lord may be.

Story 2: HECTOR, EVELINA AND HOMO ERECTUS

(Anthropological science fiction/Speculative evolution)

So the last day of the Mars I knew has passed. Looking out from the Atlantis Dome here on Earth all that I see in the night sky is the Apocalypse Comet and its long tail that stretches across the panorama of space, blotting out any sign of the tiny red dot that was my home. I was on the very last caravan to leave. Some of our people have chosen to remain, to live out their time in underground bunkers, reliant on the machines that generate artificial air. Apocalypse will have stripped away nearly all our planet’s atmosphere, effectively leaving the surface scrubbed and sterile. We know that when the shock-waves arrive from the comet’s nearest passage that it’ll destroy a lot of structures here on Earth as well, but most of our domes are expected to survive. Timing suggests that the southern hemisphere of this planet will sustain most of the damage. This all happens in only two more Earth days.

We Martians can’t breathe in Earth’s atmosphere and, when outside our domes, every step feels like a vigorous uphill march under a crushing burden. But at least there was somewhere else in the Sol system we could settle. Mars will be nothing but a giant spacecraft for those that remain, the underground living chambers being its innards, the surface just a skin. Their prospects are gloomy. I pray that most of them are not so cruel as to bring further children into their very time-limited existence. We won’t be able to build the heavy foundries inside our domes to produce the specialist metals for new space vehicles, so we won’t be able to return to save those still on Mars.

It may be generations before we’ve transformed ourselves by selective interbreeding with this planet’s monkey species. For now, it is all we can do to survive in Earth’s relatively unsuitable environment. It is quite possible that we won’t be able to build spacecraft to return to Mars for eons, and by then we’ll be true Earthlings, not Martians; and almost certainly relatively primitive.

All our energies must go into saving ourselves, as in time all the domes will fail. Natural disasters on Earth’s fragile crust will be regular enough that probably they’ll all be destroyed in only a few thousand years. We know that it is hardly likely that we will retain the technologies to build anew; in fact, it’s debatable whether even the knowledge will survive. In the long-term we have no choice other than to become a different species, some sort of mix of earthling and Martian. This new creature will be better suited to living in a state of nature in this beautiful planet’s thick and heavy atmosphere. But we must be careful not to create a naked ape that is both too weak to survive on Earth and too specifically adapted to survive on a one day re-emergent Mars. Some of us think we can terraform the Earth to suit us better, but I know we shouldn’t even try. We must never risk this planet’s fragile ecosystems.

Our visionaries support my scientific views. Atlantis, Nazga, Helike, all will eventually fail. We all have a choice, between becoming half-monkeys, living freely on the Earth, under blue skies and storm clouds, or living as fragile aliens in the artificial environments of the domes, waiting the catastrophes that will eventually annihilate us. I know that gradual, measured adaption into a new species is what I want for my offspring, even though that means that for many generations to come our children will never be born exactly in their parents image. Each generation, themselves changed, will have strange psychological problems dealing with both their parents and their offspring. However, both Evelina and I would rather be the parents of a dynasty that can one day truly inherit the Earth, rather than one of fading survivors inside fragile Martian gas bubbles.

Tomorrow will be the day after the end of our world. What a strange thought. It was one thing visiting Earth when we could still go home, though quite another when Mars offers nothing to return to. For generations we have gone to Planet Earth as explorers, but the view won’t ever seem the same again now that our once-temporary encampments are our domicile.

The adaptation programme has already begun. I am proud that I and my pregnant better half are going to have a child that will be a first pioneer of the