Dribble Digest - 1/9/24 - 1/14/24

A dribble is a 55-word micro-story. Every day, I write a dribble on Telegram. This is the collection of all of the dribbles for this week. These stories are being done in a special manner. I ask a member of my Taygetan star family to telepathically send me a scene from their memory or life, and I write the scene as a 55-word dribble. Submissions are kept anonymous. Any names used might be real from a past life or simply made up.

Therefore, what you see here are scenes from their lives, their past lives, or things they think about. Consider it a window into their world.

This is proving to be a great way to bond with them, and practice telepathy. It's also a bit of a game. How well can I describe what I'm seeing?

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​1/9/2024

Liam shook the vial. It was the fifth time he'd examined the blood, and still there was no change. How many more would be culled this cycle? The creatures in the containers growled. "Enuk," proclaimed one. The door squealed as it wrenched open. A hairy face charged. "Oh, not again."

1/10/2024

Water crashed through the air, scattering the light like diamonds. The roar was astounding. Ferns swayed in the breeze. Rainbows of light hung in the air. A tropical bird chortled. Then, silence. Time frozen. “Points deducted for the use of a chortling bird instead of a laughing bird. Birds do not chortle,” sneered the judge.

1/11/2024

Zoe stood at the front of the class. "Career Day" arced in big, friendly letters behind her. "Zoe, tell us what your mother does for work." "My mom flies a spaceship and shoots down bad guys with a plasma turret." A frustrated sigh. Giggles. Smirks. "She's fibbing!" "Please tell us what she really does, Zoe."

​1/12/2024

Adani jogs down the street. Crystal towers cast prisms. A droid dodges her and chitters angrily. "I'm late," she breathes, looking at the sun. Jolted, she stumbles, landing in a puddle. "Oh, I'm sorry," a young man says. His smile makes her heart flutter. What was I late for again?

​1/13/2024

Pine needles crunched underfoot. Danel lifted a hand to touch the trunk of the young pine. The bark glowed blue, green, red in recognition. Cold air whipped at his face, cascading the smell of ice and snow from the mountains. All around, the plants sang their unending chorus. "It's good to be home. For now."

​1/14/2024

"What am I going to do with this mess?" she said, flipping through yet another set of obscurely-worded set of commandments. The softly glowing holosheets fluttered in the diffuse light from the planet below. A sudden bang. Projector spines clatter to the floor. Somewhere, an alarm is wailing. Beep. The intercom. "We have a problem."