Flash Fiction #166 – Lightyears

Marjorie slides off her space suit.

“Glenda, play: Home.”

“Certainly dear,” says Glenda, her spaceship.

Glenda’s red lights dim. Marjorie slides into her only remaining Earth dress, made of spider silk.

Glenda’s mirror-scaled walls rotate and flash; rounded ceiling becomes sky, rounded walls become Marjorie’s meadow. Glenda’s vents rustle Marjorie’s hair like a spring breeze. Her sound-system plays Marjorie’s children laughing.

And for a moment, just a single moment, Marjorie is home, not light years away.

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