Writever de mai 2021

Le Writever, ça se passe sur Twitter, ça descend d'une longue lignée de challenges du type Inktober, avec un thème par jour et beaucoup de liberté créative.

Personnellement, je le fais en improvisant (interdiction de poser un plan bien que la liste de thèmes mensuelle soit connue avec un peu d'avance) une nouvelle écrite à raison d'un tweet par jour.

En mai 2021, le thème était la radio. Et comme j'ai du mal à refuser un défi rigolo, j'ai écrit en anglais, une histoire absurde dans un monde bizarre.

"Three, two..."

The synthetic voice stopped short of "one". The doors unlocked, the red lights turned off, and all of a sudden, it was as if nothing had happened. In the eerie silence, a round head peeked out of an airlock.

"Hey, Abdul, any idea what's going on?"

A boy crawled out of an old door, stuck half-closed under a neon sign that read "Tattoo studio". He looked around, then blinked at the round-headed girl.

"Skin vessel's not leaving this time, it seems."

"But why? They go, they always do!"

He shrugged.

"Beats me."

"Who was supposed to pilot this time?"

Abdul scratched his head.

"Old Mike, I think."

"Did he even get on board? I must check on him."

The girl leapt to her feet and ran down the silver road that led right to the skin field.

"Rita!" Abdul called, but she ignored him.

A column of smoke rose from the vessel as the kids approached. The dried skin heatshield vibrated, making an eerie sound in the hot wind.

"Shouldn't we..."

Abdul was interrupted by cheerful notes coming from speakers all around.

"The programme! It's about to begin!"

A window closed in the distance. Everyone was listening to the programme, as the whole community should, including the kids. But Rita shook her head.

"What if old Mike can't hear the radio?"

She forced the hatch open. A weak voice in the distance:

"Do I have guests?"

"Old Mike, is that you?"

They both rushed into the narrow gallery. The walls felt warm and the pilot was nowhere to be seen. Kids their age weren't normally allowed inside a skin vessel, but nothing was normal.

"Where are you?" Rita asked.

"Stop asking questions!"

The voice came from behind a panel. Rita and Abdul ripped it open.

They screamed.

In the small hidden room, tubes and cables protruded out of a large silvery control panel. Old Mike was barely distinguishable in the middle, plugged to the heart of the machine.

"Old Mike, what's wrong? Can we help?"

He shook his head, pulling a pipe along.

"Get out! Kids your age shouldn't be here."

"But you didn't take off and nobody else's coming! They're all listening to the programme."

"So should you..."

A siren blared in the distance.

Rita followed the cables across the control room, trying to figure out what they were for.

"Why didn't it work?"

"I guess I lacked the faith. You really should leave now."

Abdul looked behind. The skin panel had healed and was shut again.

"How? Is there another exit?"

Old Mike raised an arm among the tubes.

"Up there, maybe. Can you see a hatch?"

They inspected the ceiling, in vain. The skin was smooth, warm and thick.

"It must be locked", old Mike muttered. "I was told it'd happen when I took off."

"But you didn't!"

"I know."

Rita was already panting, running to and fro, pulling at anything she could.

"Stop her!" old Mike begged. "She mustn't unplug my life support!"

Abdul caught his friend's arm as she tried to claw through the skin. There was a rumour outside. It sounded like fear.

"Can we see outside?"

Old Mike waved and a flat screen slid out of the machine. People were running to the skin field, arms waving, mouths wide open on silent screams.

"What's in the distance?"

"Looks like a flood. You're too young to remember the last one, kids."

They looked in silence, trapped inside a vessel that wouldn't take off, while water threatened to engulf the field and the people running across it. Silver roads all around were shaken by the flood.

"Will we drown?" Rita asked.

"No. We have standalone ventilation."

A wave crashed over the vessel. The tilt sent the kids flying against a wall.

"We must escape, quick!"

Old Mike shook his head.

"I'm trying right now. The engines seem dead."

"Then so are we."

Abdul's voice trembled. On the screen, people were drowning helplessly.

"I must... I will..."

The machine shook and old Mike disappeared in a cloud of steam. The skin panels shifted all around. When Abdul and Rita could see again, the control room was wider, animated with a gentle pulse.

"Now hang on, kids. I'll get us out of here."

There was a roar deep inside the vessel, and then, it jumped out of the water. The screen showed broken houses on bent silver roads, lifeless bodies floating while survivors watched in horror from behind windows.

"What's that huge thing over there?" gasped Rita.

Old Mike twisted his neck.

"I've never seen it before, but it looks an awful lot like the programme's description of the Pillars of God!"

"The ones that crush infidels?"

"Or old guys like me who lack faith."

"What can we do?"

"Escape, I guess. Watch me dodge them."

The vessel flew between the pillars that kept hitting the ground, raising new waves that crashed on the fields. No village, no silver road was spared. Distant people were crushed as they tried to climb to safety.

"My fault", old Mike muttered. "I should've left."

He made a U-turn around a derelict tower.

"You'd have known it sooner or later, kids: we all leave, it's our fate. We carve vessels and elders pilot them. It helps fields grow fresh skin."

"But where do all the elders go?" Rita asked.

"Away. Beyond the silver roads."

"But there's nothing beyond! It's silver roads all the way, in all directions!"

"We'll see."

Old Mike steered the ship away from the town. Rita ran at him and slapped him hard.

"Let us go!"

"Too late."

"Don't you..."

A shock interrupted her: a pillar had hit them.

They rolled over for what seemed like forever. Everything disappeared, towns, fields, silver roads and all. They floated through a white sky, and then they fell. The skin vessel bounced on hard ground.

"Don't move!" old Mike whispered. "I'm checking for viruses."

Abdul grabbed the screen with both hands.

"What's that? Where are we?"

"I've no idea. End of the line for me, I can't unplug myself from this. But you can leave."

"Where to?"

A panel dried and cracked before them. Rita looked at the rocky desert and burst into tears.

"We're lost! We'll die here!"

Abdul patted her shoulder.

"I'll go check, okay?"

Water ran between the rocks. Distant rain rumbled in the whiteness above. It was coming closer. This place, too, was about to be flooded.

As the boy ran back to safety, he heard music. It echoed all around, so there was no telling where it came from. It sounded like a powerful voice humming in the sky. Rita caught Abdul's hand.

"Isn't it that song from the programme?"

"So it seems. Just... different."

If only they could go back to the radio station.

Old Mike bowed his head.

"I remember this version of the song. The programme would use it to send us to the shelters when a disaster was coming. It's here now, but too late. Our land's flooded and we're lost."

Foamy whirlpools almost reached their feet now. Rita looked at the machines.

"Can you reach to them, at home? To the station?"

"I can try."

Old Mike frowned, something pinged a few times, and it was over.

"I sent a transmission. Will they pick it? I don't know."

Water swirled in the control room. It was warm.

Water to the ankles. No answer.

Water to the knees. No answer.

The distant song stopped, giant shadows moved and disappeared. The water rose no more, but it made the skin vessel soft.

"Old Mike?"

He said nothing. He didn't move.

When Abdul touched him, he snored.

"Perhaps we should rest, too."

"Knee-deep in water?"

"Let's find a dry place."

The kids climbed onto the top of the skin vessel. Night was falling. There was some sort of huge wall in the dark.

"What's this?" Rita asked.

As Abdul opened his mouth, the ship exploded.

Thick smoke obscured the air. Rita's hands hurt horribly. She stood up on a wet rock, looked around and saw nothing, no one. 

"Old Mike? Abdul?"

Only silence. The water, she noticed, was colder and slowly receding. But the ship was gone and so were her companions. She walked across the desert as the light dimmed to pitch black, feeling around with her feet at every step. It was exhausting, and frightening, and when had she last had a meal?

She finally curled up, sobbing in pain and fear, and cried herself to sleep.

Painfully bright light awoke her. A mountain of silver roads approached, except they were brown, menacing, and too fast to be avoided. Rita was crushed and thrown into a pit.

Goodbye, world.

Her last sight was the humming giant, silver roads on his head, so far away.