All posts filed under: Short Fiction

Ada Lovelace Letters #2

10 St James’s Sq, London November 27, 1852 My Dear Mister Turing, As I lay here amid my bedchamber, under the thrall of a terrible malaise, my mind is still in flux with so many questions raised by your visit, yesterday. And I am drawn back to a number of strange events in my life. Notwithstanding, the very unusual man who paid my mother and I a visit when I was but 8 years-old. A man, I must confess, who confounded me even more so than you, Mister Turing. His manner, his behaviour, his dress and the clipped vowels of his speech all spoke of more than I could fully grasp, nor comprehend at that time. Till my mind chanced upon thoughts of this very meeting, late last evening, and connected it with you. The similarity is quite startling and, of this day, now, I can conclude he too, like you, Mister Turning, must have been another visitor from a future I have yet to determine. A future that both of you feel is full …

The Ada Lovelace Letters #1

10 St James’s Sq, London November 26, 1852 Dear Mister Turing, You arrived in a fluster on my doorstep yesterday without so much as a gentlemen’s calling card nor, may I say, wearing anything approaching gentlemen’s attire. And an uncovered head in public, Mr. Turing? Tut-tut. But let us set aside how scruffily dressed you were. You then proceeded to badger and cajole my butler, Samson, physically and forcibly gain entrance to my home, and chaotically open and slam nigh on every room door on the premise instead of waiting, as Mr. Samson suggested you do, in the hallway. As any proper person might. But, as I have found out to your detriment, you are neither polite nor a gentleman, Mr. Turing. What you are, I have yet to determine. Forcible? Most certainly. Irascible? Without question, and quite possibly, incoherent to a point of madness. You most certainly are in need of either a calming tonic or a dose of Madam Pompadour’s French Gin. Either way, it is what I finally discerned after deciphering the …

Jehanne D’arc

SHE FELT A BEAD OF SWEAT trickle down her back, while others formed ready to soak her shirt beneath her encounter suit. The overwhelming urge was to scratch at the irritation from the carbon that leached out of the suit, but she couldn’t. Couldn’t because of the large rubber gloves covering her hands. Hands that rested either side of the communications rig, waiting. Waiting for a signal. A word. Anything that would tell her what was happening in her own little sphere of the war.

Expressions

“I need an expression, dammit!” Tom barked from the spotlit corner of the room where he was writing. Teddi closed her eyes, placed a finger in the book she was reading, and shut it. Two heartbeats, she opened her eyes, “How about pi as expressed as a fraction over—” she never got to finish as Tom yelled. “No, no, no, not a maths expression…” careful to not add the word ‘idiot’ at the end of his rebuke. “I need something witty for my main character to say to his girlfriend.” His head bobbed over his keyboard as if the keys themselves would start typing. Teddi chewed the inside of her lip. She knew it had been a mistake to let Tom have his ‘office’ there, in the lounge not four feet away from her couch—her reading couch. Ever since he had ‘moved’ in, putting his small computer desk against one wall, and setting up enough standing lights to illuminate the Eiffel Tower, she’s not had a moments peace to read uninterrupted. And woe betided her …