“Cosmic Micros” part 4, by Neil Clark

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Spaghettified Rope

I found a black hole in my house.

I tied a rope to a table leg and abseiled down, thinking the rope would keep me safe.

But the rope became the black hole.

And black holes are too hard to grasp.

So my grasp became time itself.

And time slipped through my fingers…

 

 

Nae Atmosphere

When I emigrated to space, I was determined not to lose my angry Scottish accent.

But it didnae matter, because in space, naeb’dy kin hear ye screamin’.

 

 

Grounded

I passed up the opportunity to become an astronaut. Chose office work instead.

It’s an honest living, not too demanding. Still, I often work late, tell my colleagues I have loads of emails to get through.

Really, I just sit in the dark on my computer, running my fingers over the space bar.

 

 

Last Orders

At the end of the black hole, a tavern awaits.

They brew planets there. Serve them by the pint.

That’s how we became extinct.

Somebody ordered a pint of Earth and downed it in one. Burped up 4.5 billion years of history. Pissed out the rest.

Didn’t even leave a tip.

 


Neil Clark is a writer from Edinburgh, The Universe and everywhere between and beyond. His work is published in Okay Donkey, The Molotov Cocktail, Five:2:One and other cool places. Find him at neilclarkwrites.wordpress.com or on Twitter, where he posts a new micro fiction most days @NeilRClark

“Cosmic Micros” part three, by Neil Clark

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Anniversary

We first kissed on our minus-one-hundredth wedding anniversary.

You were a duckling, I was a fish. We went in for the same crumb at the same time, as our future selves sat in our garden, throwing bread into the lake and discussing reincarnation and rifts in the space-time continuum.

Written in the Stars

My tinder profile said, “Know what pulchritude means (no looking it up)? Get in touch.”

No response for 27 billion years.

Then a black hole ate Earth. Spat out our dating profiles as new stars.

That’s how we met. You gazed at mine in the night sky and said, “Beauty.”

The Perils of Dating

On my dating app, I put my location as Neptune.

You asked if you could visit me via Myanus. I said at least buy me dinner first.

We agreed to meet on Saturn. You joked about putting a ring on it.

Then we both died en route, of old age.

Saturn is very far.

Dating is hard.

 

Neil Clark is a writer from Edinburgh, The Universe and everywhere between and beyond. His work is published in Okay Donkey, The Molotov Cocktail, Five:2:One and other cool places. Find him at neilclarkwrites.wordpress.com or on Twitter, where he posts a new micro fiction most days @NeilRClark

“Cosmic Micros” part two, by Neil Clark

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Left in the Dark

You told me your party trick was to imitate a black hole.

You covered my eyes with your hand, and when you took it away, you were gone. As was gravity. And time. And all the universe.

Bit of a shame, because I never got to show you how I can burp the national anthem.

Left in the Dark II

You asked me to watch your stuff while you went to the toilet.

As I said “yes,” my espresso became a black hole. Sucked the whole universe into the base of my cup.

But I’m a man of my word. I kept an eye on your stuff. It’ll be there when you return, albeit dotted across a billion dimensions.

Left in the Dark III

The aliens use keyboard shortcuts at the controls of the mothership.

CTRL + X cuts the contents of a planet out.

When they cut Earth, they selected everything but me.

Now I float alone in space, the rest of my planet on a clipboard, to be pasted somewhere without me.

 

Neil Clark is a writer from Edinburgh, The Universe and everywhere between and beyond. His work is published in Okay Donkey, The Molotov Cocktail, Five:2:One and other cool places. Find him at neilclarkwrites.wordpress.com or on Twitter, where he posts a new micro fiction most days @NeilRClark 

“Cosmic Micros” part 1, by Neil Clark

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The Gatekeeper

There’s a wee lady on the moon.

She sits all day and crafts tiny black holes out of moon silk, unused gravity and dead atoms.

Whenever aliens approach Earth, she’ll snare them in her black holes and spaghettify them and keep us thinking we’re all alone, just like her.

Bellyache

Earth got swallowed by a planet-eating space whale.

In the belly, it spun and disco-balled with the other planets, like new friends in a new city.

Back in The Solar System, the moon circled the gap where Earth used to be, like a widow slow-dancing at a wedding.

 

Lucky Stars

I got told to count my lucky stars. The sky was clear, so I did.

As I got to four billion and one, my soul became aligned with the vastness of the universe.

I was brought back to Earth by a man, who threw a handful of coins into my cup. Enough for breakfast.

Four billion and two.

 

Neil Clark is a writer from Edinburgh, The Universe and everywhere between and beyond. His work is published in Okay Donkey, The Molotov Cocktail, Five:2:One and other cool places. Find him at neilclarkwrites.wordpress.com or on Twitter, where he posts a new micro fiction most days @NeilRClark 

 

“Moving to The Big City” by Neil Clark

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You arrived on a cold day. Duvet warmth is cheap, so you went to bed and stayed there until the Boys came.

They’d heard the rumours. Eight month dry-aged small-town meat was available, locally caught.

They built a fire using your eviction notices and your unpaid bills. Made a hammock out of your bed sheet, with you in it. Erected a spit. Cooked you, slowly, until a smoke ring penetrated your small-town flesh.

They served your limbs and belly with mac & cheese and collard greens on the side. Diced up your innards for burritos. Boiled down your bones for broth.

Over beers and eats, they had a brain wave. Boy Broth Enterprises. They started a pop-up restaurant in your bedroom. Franchised the brand across the bedrooms of other small-town peeps in the city. Had queues out the doors, into the streets so the City Boys got wind of it and came in their droves. Booked the whole place for lunch every Friday afternoon, to celebrate the latest trades. Got blind drunk and pissed all over your toilet seat. Didn’t wash their hands. Slurped Boy Broth Ramen until your truffle-infused particles got caked onto their Armani shirts.

Every week, they’d stumble out of your place, into the chilly big city night, hailing taxis to take them for cocktails.

Their laughs and howls would blend with the sound of sirens. Their breath, warmed by your small-town marrow, rose high above the big city skyline – the one you never got to see by night.

Neil Clark is a writer from Edinburgh, Scotland. His work has is published or forthcoming in The Molotov Cocktail, Okay Donkey, Philosophical Idiot, The Open Pen, Occulum Journal and other cool places. Most days, he posts very short stories on Twitter @NeilRClark. Say ‘hi’ to him there, or visit neilclarkwrites.wordpress.com.