falimbo: a story circle

He’s got a third antenna which is highly unusual to the say the least. It sprouts right between the normal two, at the medial line of the Diasus, right in the forehead. He’s always taken flak for this unusual trait from his friends and family. None of them had ever seen a third antennaed person before, though the older generation had heard rumours. Falimbo, as the tri-antennaed boy was known, had a learner’s permit for his personal flightcraft but no fuel to power the thing. He wanted to attend a rager at Xygon 8 that evening but without a fuel cell he was stuck at home.

So, after some time online in search of the nearest dealer, he went on foot to a scuzzier part of town where the buildings were made of brick and mortar, with hardly a square foot of chrome to be found. He touched his finger-pads to a biometric scanner at the appropriate building and felt the familiar tingle as his particulars were read by the machine. It beeped twice, denying him entry. Grimacing, he pounded on the door with a fist. Soon a middle-aged woman appeared, her face a mass of folded lines, her two antennae sagging to her cheekbones. She held out a hand, with a dull stare, and Falimbo gave her the money. The door closed a moment and Falimbo felt a pang of fear until she returned with a fuel cell. She lobbed it at him, and he nearly missed catching it out of its shallow arc. The fuel cell smelled faintly of turmeric so Falimbo knew it was legitimate. He started to thank the woman but she closed the door.

Falimbo hurried home to install the cell in his flightcraft. He punched in the codes that his learner’s permit gave him and soon he was airborne. The turmeric smell wafted into the breeze, and several of the neighbourhood beasts poked snouts from their dens to sniff. The flightcraft sputtered, and Falimbo’s stomach valves lurched in anticipation of a rapid descent, but he got the vehicle stabilized. Punching the coordinates for Xygon 8, he fell asleep as the craft brought him to the rager. He awoke to the smell of burnt turmeric and the throbbing bass of electro-funk playing on giant speakers. It wasn’t until he stepped out into the party that he realized the turmeric smell was gone – his fuel cell had run dry.


Logan Bright

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