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[mitchell_d00]

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Spock 2: The Loss of Vulcan

Scene: The Bridge of the Enterprise

The bridge is subdued. The usual rhythm of activity has slowed, replaced by a heavy silence that hangs in the air. Crew members move almost mechanically, their focus fractured by the unspoken weight of the moment.

Uhura stands at her station, her earpiece pressed tightly to her ear. She hesitates, her breath catching. Slowly, she looks up at Kirk, her voice steady but laced with anguish.

Uhura:

“Captain… we’ve lost Vulcan.”

Action:

Kirk stiffens in his chair, his jaw tightening. His gaze shifts to the viewscreen, which shows the empty void where Vulcan once stood. Around the bridge, the crew freezes—Sulu grips his console tightly, while Chekov’s wide eyes reflect disbelief.

Spock:

“Lieutenant, confirm.”

Uhura (softly):

“No signals. No life signs. Vulcan is… gone.”

Action:

The camera focuses on Spock. His expression is a perfect mask of composure, betraying nothing. The silence stretches until he finally nods.

Spock (evenly):

“Focus on the survivors, Lieutenant. Locate all escape pods and remaining vessels.”

Kirk (hesitant):

“Spock—”

Spock (firmly):

“I am needed here, Captain.”

Kirk exchanges a glance with Uhura, then nods.

Scene: The Corridor

Spock strides through the corridor, his hands clasped behind his back. His pace is measured, his posture rigid, but his shoulders are taut with an invisible weight.

Crew members pass him, their glances fleeting, their pity unspoken but palpable. The faint hum of the ship fills the silence.

Ahead, a young Vulcan ensign rounds a corner. Her hand covers her mouth, and her shoulders shake with suppressed emotion. She stumbles, nearly losing her balance, before regaining her footing.

Action:

As she nears Spock, her distress overtakes her. Her hand drops slightly, revealing red-rimmed eyes and a trembling mouth.

Spock:

“Ensign.”

The Ensign (choking on her words):

“Commander—”

Her voice catches. She shakes her head, her composure breaking entirely. Without another word, she turns and runs past him, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Action:

Spock watches her retreat for a moment, his hands tightening behind his back. His expression remains neutral, but his grip is rigid. After a pause, he resumes his walk.

Scene: Spock’s Quarters

The doors slide open. Spock steps inside, the quiet of his quarters enveloping him. He moves with deliberate precision, retrieving a Vulcan candle from a high shelf and unrolling his meditation mat in the center of the room.

Action:

He kneels on the mat, lighting the candle. The flame wavers, casting faint shadows across his face. He closes his eyes, his hands resting on his knees, his breathing controlled.

Spock (whispering):

“Focus. Control. Logic prevails.”

Memory Intrudes

The stillness of the room is broken by Spock’s thoughts. The image of Vulcan looms large in his mind: its red surface glowing in the light of its twin suns.

Then, the fracture: the planet’s surface crumbles, collapsing inward. The core disintegrates, and an instant later, the planet is gone—swallowed by nothingness.

Spock (softly):

“A world… extinguished in a moment. Its voices… silenced. Its light…”

Action:

Spock’s breathing quickens. His chest heaves. He opens his eyes, staring into the flickering flame as his voice falters.

Spock (strained):

“…gone.”

Action:

His hands tremble on his knees. The flame wavers, casting uneven shadows.

Spock (a whisper, growing louder):

“They are the many… I am the few. The waste of the many.”

Action:

With a sharp motion, Spock reaches forward and extinguishes the flame. Darkness swallows the room.

The Breaking Point

In the silence, Spock collapses forward, his hands pressing against the floor. His head lowers, his breath shuddering with the effort to contain his emotions.

Spock (in a low, trembling voice):

“A world… a people… gone. Nothing remains.”

Action:

His shoulders tremble as he struggles to maintain control. Slowly, he folds onto the mat, his body curling inward. For a long moment, the room is still, save for the faint sound of his ragged breathing.

The camera pulls back, framing Spock alone in the dim quarters. Through the window behind him, the faint glow of distant stars is visible—a haunting reminder of the void left by Vulcan’s absence.

[DavidMM]

My Horror Story
Don Mitchell

The Last Toll

Harlow was a place not even maps remembered. A gray smudge lost among snowy hills, where the wind always carried stories no one wanted to hear. In the center of the town, like a rotten tooth, stood the church of St. Jude. No one in their right mind went near the bell tower because the bronze bells had a knack for predicting deaths. Not an accident, not a “maybe,” but a firm, undeniable sentence.

Robert Mays, a freelance reporter, arrived on a December night looking for a story to revive his career. He had heard about the bells in a seedy bar, where a bleary-eyed drunk whispered to him:
“They rang the night my Emily passed… and the worst part is, no one had heard them in fifty years. But that night… those damned bells spoke.”

Armed with a recorder and his old Polaroid camera, Mays drove to Harlow, where the church loomed like a frozen corpse. The snow crunched under his boots as he pushed open the rotting wooden doors. Inside, the air was stale, heavy, as if every brick was soaked with forgotten prayers.

The bell tower lay at the end of a spiraling staircase. He climbed cautiously, each creak of the steps echoing in his ears like a warning. At the top, the bell was there: massive, rusted, and covered in knife-carved marks. Beneath the bronze, a barely visible inscription gleamed under his flashlight:
“Whomever it calls, it shall follow.”

Mays chuckled to himself, feeling adrenaline drown out his fear. He turned on the recorder.
“Well, here I am. In Harlow’s famous bell tower. No bell has rung in ten years, but—”

The sound interrupted him. Not just any chime, but a deep wail that vibrated through his bones. The bell didn’t move, but the air around it seemed alive, as if it were breathing. Suddenly, the wind began to howl in the tower, and something in the shadows shifted beyond his vision.

He tried to descend, but the staircase seemed longer, endless. Then he heard the creak of footsteps behind him, steps that weren’t his. He ran, stumbled, and fell down the stairs onto the church’s stone floor. There, before darkness swallowed him, he looked up and saw something peering from the tower: a tall, thin figure with eyes as red as dying embers.

When they found him at dawn, his face was frozen in a rictus of pure terror. And in the town that night, everyone heard the bell toll… though none dared to look toward the church. Since then, the bells no longer predict deaths. Now, they summon them.

[mitchell_d00]

Really good @DavidMM