This Corner of the Universe

Flash Fiction ~ Sci-Fi

Photo by Johny Goerend on Unsplash

Somewhere in the far reaches of the world, a tribe of men and women stare at the sky. The group pulls their bear pelts and caribou skins tighter against their famished frames to protect against the glacial wind. Their eyes water, and exposed body parts—noses, cheeks, fingertips—have gone numb. Yet the men and women remain stoic and unwavering like the snow-capped mountains before them. The children who hide behind their parents murmur to one another in an ancient, guttural tongue.

It’s dark—sometimes it’s always dark here—but the reddening sky bursts with a sudden assault of color. Fire pours from beyond and begins to rain down into the atmosphere.

The men and women scream, brandishing their spears, their stone knives. The children are ushered inside one of the nearby dwellings.

Before all is lost, bright dots—whiter than stars—appear out of thin air. There are hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe. They align horizontally in a near-perfect line, stretching across the sky.

A brilliant wave of pale blue light washes over the horizon, speeding upward, colliding with the fiery reds and oranges.

The colors bleed into one another, battle for airspace, and morph into varying shades of green. A silent war wages. The canvas continues to change its hue as the minutes pass.

A child pokes his head outside. Tears have frozen his eyelashes.

The tribe needs warmth, needs fire, so they build one. They intend to continue watching this display.

It continues on and on.

At some point in the night, when the flames are low and the children are asleep, the greens and reds and purples fade away. Several men and women are still sitting by the fire, silent, hunger gnawing their insides.

They watch as the horizontal line of lights streaks across the sky, fading from view. All except one.

The lone light flies toward them. Hovers.

For some reason, the men and women don’t run—don’t panic.

The aircraft leaves them to scan the region. It finds a river.

When it returns to the tribe, it hovers so low that they can see its underbelly. Multi-colored rings and several spinning discs whir at them.

A compartment opens. Something falls from the ship, the sky.

Salmon. Dozens upon dozens.

The compartment closes and the aircraft blinks rapidly: once, twice, three times.

And then it’s gone.

The men and women rise to their feet and thrust their weapons skyward, screaming, praising these beings—these others— from the stars. Within minutes, the whole tribe is awake, preparing the fish, and adding more wood to the fire.

Before eating, the men, women, and children pay homage to the Sky People, their protectors—their newfound gods.

Stories, smacking teeth, and bloated bellies fill this corner of the universe until the sun rises.

Thank you so much for reading “This Corner of the Universe” today. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please feel free to share with a fellow reader and mash that tiny heart icon!

I don’t normally write sci-fi, but I felt compelled to do so this time around.

Wherever you are reading this from, I hope all is well. Take care.

If you are interested in reading and writing some fifty-word stories, let’s get together this Friday, May 17th. Our thread will go live at 3:00 PM EST. Please be on the lookout! If you missed the last fire, but want to read the excellent stories writers submitted, please click here.

Friday’s prompt: Write a fifty-word story (fiction, CNF, or poetry) that incorporates the sense of smell.

“The Scent from Her Kitchen Still Lingers” by John Lightle

Thanks as always to my pal

John Lightle

for providing his stunning photography for our Fifties by the Fire series.