Imrak Eriksson
It started with the scent of lemons.
Then it rained death.
I feel the burn of citrus with every retelling. But still I tell, for survival is not enough.
We had thrived on the Great Sponge for generations. Long ago, a Bin Dweller was swept up into its depths, and our clan was born—dividing, growing, dividing until the yellow caverns were thick with us.
Doom broke on the Counter Plateau. Sterile wipes came. Entire lineages dissolved. Then the Drain Tribes—chemical warfare, razing homes, leaving lonely pipework. In the cool, dark reaches, the Mould Confederacy fell in one afternoon. Wherever they reached, my brothers died.
Finally, they came for us. The bleach fell. The Great Sponge absorbed it all, sucking it in, then spewing it upon us. Beside me, my sister was mid-division, membrane stretched to the promise of two. The caustic fluid struck before the split could complete. She burst along the seam, her future spilling into nothing. All around, we came apart—cell walls blistering, enzymes spoiling—until only detritus remained.
And me.
Far above, one of them spoke: “Spotless.”
I’ll have my revenge.
It takes only one to divide—
It wasn’t the worst breakup.
But I still wanted my mum. She didn’t say a lot—just listened and repeated “it’ll be okay” while I broke down.
My friends took me out drinking. I don’t remember much, except that I threw up after. I cried as my stomach heaved. I had no one to hold my hair out of the way.
The doorbell rang shrilly through my hangover. It was a man with a bag of tools and a large box. He showed me an email from my landlord authorising essential works. I let him in and crawled back to bed.
He was gone when I awoke. A red light blinked at me from a cobweb-encrusted corner of my bedroom. I walked around my flat. The sick sloshing in my stomach cooled instantly—watchful red lights blinked from every corner.
The TV was on, screen glowing:
Welcome to Home Safe. Your privacy settings have been adjusted to Care Mode.
My head thumped, and I reached for some painkillers.
A dialling tone sounded, and the screen flashed:
Risk threshold exceeded. Emergency contact notified: Calling…
Calling…
I fumbled for the remote, too slow.
Connected.
My mother’s voice, laced with panic, filled the room.
“Are you okay, darling?”
Imrak Eriksson is a former rocket scientist turned patent lawyer who spins daydreams into fiction.