Fictionlet
“Hmm,” said Greg. “It’s a lot of money to spend on it, but that is a beautiful replica.” He admired the rune-inlaid, leaf-bladed short sword Sting on the dealer’s table. “I just don’t know where I’d put it.”
“What are you even looking at that for?” said Alex, lovingly cradling a detailed light-and-sound model of a stapler-shaped gun from Space: 1999. “Who wants a sword when you can blast somebody from a quarter mile away?”
“Where’s the honor in that?” said Greg. “A true warrior should confront his foe face-to-face. Besides, I just prefer fantasy, okay?”
“Pfft!” said Alex. “Fantasy is dumb, a meaningless attempt to crawl back into an idealized womb-life that never really existed. ‘Oooooh, I’m a hobbit! I live a contented life in my little hole in the ground! Oh noes! Some goblin might get me!’ Bah! It’s for intellectual babies!”
Greg shook his head. “Like SF is any better,” he said. “Sheesh.”
“Hell yeah it’s better!” said Alex. “SF is about things that are really possible, not a bunch of made-up magical-thinking shit. SF is about exploring the unknown, about using your creativity and intelligence to solve real problems. SF looks forward at the future that could be! Fantasy looks back at the world people wish was real. Look at the crew of the Enterprise, exploring strange new worlds. Look at how revolutionary it was for its time.”
Greg just raised one eyebrow. “You do realize, I hope, that Spock is an elf.”
Alex’s hand tensed violently around the grip of his facsimile weapon. “You take that back! YOU TAKE THAT BACK!”
Greg sighed and looked over at the dealer operating the booth. “I see this all the time,” the man said. “There’s a reason I keep the swords wired to the display case.”
-The Gneech
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