Microstory: Teleporting Justice

A micro story, inspired by an elevator (lift). Think of it every time your travel in one 🙂 (Update: I should add, I wrote this from top-to-bottom in about thirty minutes).


Everyone of course knows the name Michael Zoeing. Four hundred years after his death, he is still recognised as one of the greatest scientists in all of human history. We now take for granted teleportation (technically called Instantaneous Directional-beam Transportation). It’s hard to remember that six hundred years ago such technology was only possible in the minds of science-fiction writers.

There is no doubt that Zoeing’s innovation changed society for the better. You need only look at the holograms of turn of the 22rd century to see the congestion which choked cities, and the literal decades of an individual’s life that was spent moving from one place to another.

I do not discount the immense value of Zoeing’s creation, but I think it important to remember the controversy that surrounded the announcement of this technology. I would not be surprised to discover most readers don’t know what I am referring too. After Zoeing became a trillionaire he had immense wealth and power, which – like so many powerful individuals in history – he used to sanitise the public records.

Consider yourself in a pre-teleportation world. Would you allow a relatively unknown scientist experiment by bombarding your body with high-energy plasma, literally tearing apart your body’s molecular structure? Healthy, willing, test subjects would be hard to find. But Zoeing sensed he was on the brink of greatness. (Though I consider ‘he hoped’ to be more accurate). Zoeing was in the race to what was the holy grail of science; he had to try it on human subjects before the other labs beat him to the breakthrough.

With far less scientists, lobbyists and lawyers than other labs Zoeing was at a significant disadvantage. The proper channels just had too much red tape to be feasible. So Zoeing undertook an elegant deception.

In the fourteen story building where his lab was, he modified one of the elevators after-hours, surreptitiously installing his transportation technology. Test subjects, unknowingly, stepped into the elevator and triggered the experiment on themselves. The elevator rose as per normal, but in the last seconds of travel the lights would flicker and the elevator would shudder. Unbeknown to the passengers they had been teleported to a stationery elevator which was a few millimetres off-alignment, thus proving the technology worked.

Though never proven, in the early days it was rumoured nearly a hundred people disappeared from the building before the technology was perfected. Zoeing at the time refuted the claim, and then sued for defamation. The controversy quickly dissipated from the media after several successful lawfares.

Yes, Zoeing succeeded, but at what cost? What of the families to whom these victims belonged. One day their loved one left the house, and never returned – seemingly to vanish from the planet. Do the hundred-plus victims of his experiment get justice? Did he ever admit guilt? What kind of society do we want? One that holds the guilty to account or one where the rule of law is simply a mirage?

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Microstory: Remembrance of Past

You can find inspiration for writing everywhere. Everything you encounter, with any of your senses, can be part of a story if your imagination is released.

The following is a microstory example, where a common every-day sight turned my writer’s perspective ‘On’.


The gaping wound lay open. The artificial skin, the unwelcome armour, had been penetrated by great force, broken and torn apart. The soft flesh beneath cooked in the long-forgotten sun.

Blood and small pieces of flesh surrounded the wound, dug from the depths. The  purposeful and complex system of nerves and blood vessels had become refuse, no longer serving a purpose, except a reminder of destruction.

It was a strange sight. For ages the bare flesh had been ‘normal’, unremarkable and ubiquitous. With the advent of armour the flesh had become alien, out-of-place in its own existence.

The flesh barely lived, its biological rhythms strangled to all but the faintest expression of life. Given time it would revive. But time it did not have. The artificial skin would soon be repaired, burying again the reminder of what had forever been.

Click “more” to see what had spurred this thought.

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Micro Story: John Roskan

I’ve had a crazy-busy weekend thus far and pushed my body too hard. My back and legs are sore and I’m quite tired. For this post I’ve just written a micro-story, a small piece of fiction inspired by several real events.


John Roskan

The first thing that I noticed, that anybody notices, about John Roskan was his involuntarily shoulder twitch. It was off-putting, especially when you first met him. You were simultaneously curious and worried about being rude. Once you could pry your eyes and attention off his shoulder he quickly impressed you with his brilliance as an engineer.

John really knew his trade, and he spoke maths more fluently than any other language. If there was ever a problem in your calculations, John would be the one to ask. I’d be lying if I said we were friends, we didn’t talk about anything other than work, but I respected him as a colleague. To be honest, even though his office was just down the hall, I’d never really thought about him much.

Until he disappeared.

What do you do when a colleague inexplicably vanishes? One day he’s in the office, working away; taking client calls and berating the interns lacklustre grasp of math. The next day, he just doesn’t come in. Or the following. Or the one after that, or any day since.

He didn’t have recreational leave planned, there’s no “get well soon” card circulated or farewell drinks. There’s no announcement from management about the Senior Project Engineer’s absence. He’s just gone and other are assigned his work and clients without an explanation.

I innocently asked around if colleagues know the story and no one knows anything. Anything. There isn’t even rumours circulating. Then I asked management.

My manager, who I’ve known for years, hardens like concrete at the question. “It isn’t my business.” I’m told in no uncertain terms. And the manager hasn’t softened in the week since. I’m pretty sure he’s told other managers, because all of a sudden every manager in the firm seems to know my name.

I keep my head down and just do my work. I’m not sure what John did, but I know now I should never have asked about him.

One day soon, I may be the one not turning up to work.