The Adventures of Supermaren

Stories and musings as I bumble around life

November 2, 2011
by admin
4 Comments

A Cautionary Tale

“My little boy is all grown up!”

Gregory’s mother bounced around their home with glee as she spoke the words. Her other offspring had already flown the nest, but Gregory, ever the cautious one, had always voiced his reservations about the Wide World as his siblings had departed for parts unknown.

Until this morning, that is. Over breakfast, he had announced that he was going to leave home and go on a Quest. He wished to see the world and perhaps make a home of his own. “It’s time, Mother,” he had said, standing tall and decisive, “for me to make something of myself.”

Gregory’s mother knew that this decision was long overdue, and she wasted no time getting him ready for his adventure. “Be prepared,” she told him as she packed his lunch, nice and snug, just the way he liked it. “You never know what strange and wonderful things you might encounter, and not all of them are nice.” She pointed at the silk ropes he was preparing. “And don’t waste your silk. The first thing you should do when you are on your own is find a nice place to build a home. If you don’t have any silk, you won’t be able to do that very well.”

Gregory looked around at his home — their home, the only home he had ever known. “I think I will make a very nice home, Mother. I will make you proud.”

Gregory’s mother smiled. She reached out a leg and touched her son’s leg lovingly. “You’ll be fine,” she assured him. But before he had a chance to respond, she fixed all her eyes on Gregory with a serious stare. “Just keep this one thing in mind as you move about the Wide World: don’t tempt the wrath of the Whatever, high atop the Thing.”

Gregory nodded soberly. He had grown up on horror stories of the Whatever chasing those of his kind down, killing them, or cruelly trapping them in airtight jails for them to suffocate slowly. Nobody knew what the Whatever looked like, but it was always a good idea to stay away from anything large enough to do damage. In a world of fight or flight, the latter was preferable for survival.

After he had readied himself as well as he possibly could, he kissed his mother goodbye and jumped backwards, out of their house, down, down, down, climbing slowly but steadily through the air on the silken rope he had prepared. Just when he thought his descent would never end, his feet touched the ground, and he looked around in wonder.

Gregory had never seen a wooden floor before. He knew what wood was, of course; he and his family had all lived in the corner of two wooden beams his whole life. But to see an entire plane of nothing but wood astounded him. Not wanting to be caught out in the open, he scampered towards the wall.

Where should he build his home? What would be the best location to attract a mate? Or more importantly, to attract food? He remembered one of his sisters saying that she would build her home near a Bright Light, to get the very best dinners. He looked up and saw a large Bright Light not too far away, hanging off of a wooden pole. Next to the pole was a large mountain that seemed to be made of something soft; he couldn’t really tell what it was from this distance, but he knew it was not wood.

It took him the better part of the day to get to his destination. Walking on wooden floors was easy, but halfway there, the wooden ground gave way to a softer and bumpier surface, which took a little practice navigating. At one point on his journey, a huge dragon with one blindingly bright eye roared over the soft surface, pacing back and forth with a nauseating smell emanating forth from its mouth. It was sucking in everything in its sight. Gregory had to quickly swing one of his ropes up to a nearby ledge to pull himself up and away from danger, and his poor heart nearly burst from fear.

That near-death experience made Gregory realize that he needed to set up his home, and quickly. He redoubled his efforts to reach the Bright Light, and before he knew it, he was at the base of the wooden pole. The wood was too slick to climb, so he would have to get to the top by climbing the mountain next to the pole.

Before making his ascent, he studied the structure. It was lumpy, made of some material similar to the floor, but slightly smoother. It would be easy to climb, so Gregory counted that as a blessing. He pulled out the lunch his mother had packed for him and ate it quickly, knowing he would need the energy to get all the way up there and to build his home.

The trek up the large, soft mountain wasn’t nearly as bad as his overland journey. There was something warm on one side of the mountain, and traveling on top of it gave him a boost of energy. The warm thing was also made up of different textured surfaces: some bumpy, some smooth, and some with short ropes the width of his own ropes, sticking straight out of the ground. He marveled at the wonders of the Wide World.

He was almost to the top of the mountain when he encountered the three Strange Caves. One cave was very wet, with strange rock formations just on the inside of the cave, and a very small stream trickling out of one side. He knew that was no place for someone like him to tread. The other two caves, on the other hand, much smaller than the wet cave, almost seemed like a great hiding place until they started making that horrible noise. It was even a worse noise than that dragon! Warm, humid air puffed out of the two caves, and Gregory climbed to the very top of the caves to avoid being blown away.

At the top of the caves, Gregory stopped to survey his surroundings. Slightly above the two caves there were two recesses on a slope, each with two rows of large black ropes sticking out. But just when Gregory was about to investigate those rows of ropes, the ground shook. The black rows suddenly separated, and between them appeared a circle of bright blue with a black center, resting on a dome of white.

Gregory had never seen anything like this before, but something inside him immediately recognized it. This was an Eye. It was the Eye of the Whatever. And it was looking at him. At his soul. At all the things he had ever done and ever would do.

He had climbed to the top of the Thing without even knowing it.

An unholy scream erupted from the wet cave below him, and the last thing he heard before his short life was extinguished was, “SPIIIIIIDDDERRRR!!!”
spider

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Major Bedhead challenged me with “Don’t tempt the wrath of the whatever, high atop the thing.” and I challenged Kurt with “Go here (http://www.flickr.com/groups/indieink/pool/) and write something based on a photo that inspires you. Post the photo in your response (or link to it if Flickr won’t let you embed it).”

October 26, 2011
by admin
8 Comments

Trapped

Seven days.

I’ve been stuck in this godforsaken place for seven frickin’ days. Or has it been more than a week?

Months? Years? I can’t tell anymore.

It started when I visited a corn maze with my friends. It had been one of my rare days off, and I’d decided to spend it with my friends instead of watching TV. We had found the maze by chance, driving the back roads on our way to an Amish town in Pennsylvania. A huge hand-painted sign in front proclaimed, “DEMETER’S LABYRINTH,” with several corn stalks decorating the outside. I had scoffed at the mixed mythology, but my friend Marjorie urged us to stop and explore. “We never get to do this kind of stuff,” she had said. “It’ll be fun.”

Ben, sitting next to Marjorie in the back seat, agreed. He had a crush on Marjorie, and the chance of being alone with her was too good to pass up. I rolled my eyes and was going to continue driving, but Lenny, squirming in the passenger’s seat, announced, “I really have to pee.”

So we parked the car, paid our tickets, and entered the maze. Within minutes, everyone had gone their separate ways, and I was left exploring the confusing pathways on my own.

When the sun had begun to set, I was still stuck in the middle of the maze, and I hadn’t seen or heard from anyone in hours. I thought for sure someone who worked there would have noticed that I was lost, or that my friends would have tried to find me, but there was nothing. No sound, no lights, no sign of any life whatsoever.

I yelled until I was hoarse, but it did me no good.

That was the end of the first day.

The second day, I tried to retrace my steps, but every time I thought I was doubling back, I found myself in a new spot. Paths sometimes led to dead ends, but often they would take me to little outdoor “rooms,” with benches and fountains. I was able to keep myself hydrated because of these fountains, but I was starting to become weak and more confused with hunger.

By the time the sun had set on the second day, I was famished. That’s when I found the storehouse.

It was a little underground shed, the entrance to which was on the ground, hidden near one of the fountains. I managed to jimmy open the doors, thinking that if I disabled one of the fountains, the owners would come to investigate. What I found instead was a treasure trove of food, clothes, and other goodies. This could have been where they stored all the lost-and-found items, but that didn’t explain the boxes of MREs, camping gear, and survival equipment I found in the back. Had someone gotten lost in this maze before?

On the third day, my belly full and my mind more engaged, I started to think of ways to get out of the maze.

The trouble with corn is that you can’t climb up the stalks to get your bearings. You can go between the stalks, but this maze was acres and acres long; I could have been a yard from the road or miles away. There just was no way to tell. Also, I thought for sure someone would have come along by then. Why hadn’t they reopened the maze?

Corn MazeOn the fourth day, I figured I’d take a page from mythology to help me out of my own labyrinth. I began ripping down corn stalks and braiding rope so that I at least would know where I had been. That project took longer than I thought it would, and I didn’t have a long enough rope until the middle of the fifth day.

The corn rope turned out to be really helpful, especially once I realized it would still take me at least another day to travel through all the paths in the maze. This was the most complicated labyrinth I’d ever seen! Last night, I made my way back to the storehouse and just cried. I couldn’t believe my friends would abandon me. Why wouldn’t my family be looking for me? What did I have to do to get someone’s attention?

This morning, as I was rummaging around in the storehouse, I found a radio. It was solar-powered, so I had to wait for it to sit out in the sun for an hour or so before I could get it to work.

And that’s when I found out about the outbreak. Or zombie apocalypse. They aren’t calling it that on the radio, but people are getting ill from some sort of contact-borne illness, and they’re going crazy. Like, running around and killing people crazy. What else should I call it?

I’ve been here for seven days, all by myself, and it’s saved my life.

The trouble is, I don’t think I will be able to leave.

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Daily Shorts challenged me with “Write about five things you would do to entertain yourself if you didn’t see a soul for seven days. Could be fiction or nonfiction.” and I challenged The Drama Mama with “It’s toxic.”

October 12, 2011
by admin
10 Comments

Unspoken

Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry,
Go to sleepy little baby.
When you wake, you shall have
All the pretty little horses.
– African-American lullaby

The woman walked slowly to the well. It was a hot, dry day, and the smell of burning flesh hung in the air. She was terribly thirsty; she wanted to run to the well and jump in just to feel the relief of the cool water on her skin, but she knew better. She kept a slow, steady pace to avoid expending too much energy.

As she walked, she looked down at her bare feet, cut and bruised. Dried blood, caked in rivulets, formed a mesmerizing pattern up and down her legs. Most of that blood was not hers, but she still felt her bile rise as she recalled that morning’s activities.

It was necessary, the shaman had told her. If she wanted a baby, there were rituals she had to undergo. Her body was not naturally fertile; the gods required a sacrifice to change her nature. She assumed he meant a monetary donation. She never expected she would have to give up a piece of her soul.

A gust of wind blew across the plain, kicking up dust in swirls. She closed her eyes to protect them from the grit. She wanted to cry, but there was no moisture left in her face.

When the wind died down, she opened her eyes. The well was much closer now, and she quickened her steps. When she arrived, she wasted no time lowering the bucket and retrieving the water. She drank fully, pausing only to wipe her mouth or splash her face. She didn’t want to waste time washing. She could do that later, at night, when she knew nobody was watching.

Once her immediate thirst was slaked, she peered into the darkness of the well.

“Hello?” she called. Her voice echoed down the vertical passage of stone that reached deeply into the earth.

She wanted so desperately for there to be an answer, but there was only silence. The blackness in the hole seemed to stretch on forever. It was mesmerizing; how easy it would be to fall in and never return.

She wrenched her eyes away from the well and looked up at the sky. The abrupt change of light made her squint. There was not a cloud in sight, and the endless blue above her was just as dizzying as the blackness below. She closed her eyes and thought of the reason she was here: her baby.

“They said you would not come to me unless you were satisfied that I was ready for you,” she started. The hot breeze returned and dried her tongue again, snatching the words from her mouth.

She took another drink from the bucket and tried again. “I have given up so much–” A stronger wind gusted and knocked the pail over, spilling water into the parched ground.

The shaman had warned her that the gods could be cantankerous. He had only given her one piece of advice: follow their instructions. If they don’t want you to speak, then don’t speak.

Kneeling by the well, she bowed her head and collected herself. If they don’t want me to speak, I won’t. But I will communicate with my baby. She gazed back down into the well and sent her thoughts into the inky blackness.

Dearest heart of my heart,

Before time was time, I was waiting for you. They tell me that I cannot have children, but I know they are wrong. I know you are my child, and that you are just waiting for me to call you into my heart. But I have been calling for years now. Have you forgotten about me?

Come out of the well of souls and join me in the world of men. I can give you blue skies and palomino ponies, sparkling oceans and jumping dolphins. You will experience love and loss and everything in between, and I promise you it will be worth it. For both of us.

I will continue to wait, my love, until you are ready for the world. I will always be here, my arms outstretched, until you find me. I love you.

She opened her arms and lifted her face to the sky. The wind picked up again, and she closed her eyes. Tears trickled through her eyelashes and down her cheeks, but she did not wipe them away. She kept her arms wide open as the wind swirled around her, threatening to knock her over.

She didn’t know how long she had been kneeling there, arms outstretched and eyes closed, but when she finally opened her eyes, the sun was low in the sky. She rose to her feet slowly; her arms and legs were shaking from having stayed in the same position for so long.

She knew it was time to return to the village. The gods had not answered her. The shaman had warned her this might happen, but she still felt a lump of disappointment building up in her throat.

And then she heard something behind her move. She turned around slowly, cautiously, and came face to face with a beautiful palomino pony.

She held her breath. She had never seen this pony before, not in her village or anywhere else.

The pony regarded her solemnly, then nodded its head several times before turning and galloping off towards the hills.

After several moments, the woman made her way back to the village. Her heart was lighter, and her steps were quicker as they carried her home.

Pony Eye

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Lance challenged me with “blue skies and palomino ponies” and I challenged Webtrovert with “Cleaning up after a big party.”

October 3, 2011
by admin
7 Comments

Chimera

At long last, I am awake. I have been drifting in this inky blackness for so long that I’d almost forgotten what consciousness felt like.

Was it just yesterday I kissed my mother goodbye and crawled into my stasis capsule?

I’d told her not to worry. I’d told her I would miss her.

No, it couldn’t have been yesterday. The monitor flashing above me says we’re 300 light years away from Earth. Even at maximum speed it would have taken at least 150 years to get this far.

Wow. 150 years ago I had been ready to die. The doctors had all said the cancer was too far gone to fix. Today, though…today, I feel fine. I guess it took 150 years, but they fixed it.

Shouldn’t we have arrived by now? Where are all the doctors?

“Welcome back. Please drink the water and spit into the sink.” There is now a blinking arrow on the monitor above me pointing to the sink beside my bed.

That’s not a human voice. Is it coming out of the speaker there? I see a glass of water and a sink. I try to speak, but my throat is so dry, I can’t make a sound.

“Please drink the water and spit into the sink. Your health is of utmost importance to us.”

The voice is definitely coming from the speaker. It must be computerized or something.

I sit up for the first time in 150 years and reach for the glass. My arms feel like lead. My fingers close around the glass clumsily, and I bring it to my mouth. My hands are shaking. I am spilling water down my shirt, but most of it is getting in my mouth. The water is clean and crisp. I down the entire glass in two gulps.

“You may still be thirsty. Please refill your glass and spit into the sink when you are done.”

I am getting used to this voice now; its androgenous voice has a kindly lilt. I oblige by drinking a little more water and spitting the rest into the sink.

“Thank you.”

You’re welcome. My dry lips crack as they form a smile.

A monitor above the sink turns on, showing a rotating sphere and the words “PROCESSING DNA.” I refill the glass once more and look around the room as I drink.

The small cabin looks much the same as it did when I first picked it out. They had removed the oxygen from the room when my stasis capsule had been sealed, so there was hardly any deterioration to the fancy pillows and curtains I’d taken along with me. I’d told my mother that if I was going to die in space, I would rather have it be in style. She’d laughed and told me she would make me a quilt to keep me warm.

I look down at my lap. The quilt she’d promised is tucked snugly around me, decorated with dancing frogs and butterflies. I imagine her tucking me in before the stasis cover had closed. She was probably crying. This is the last thing I have from her. The last thing I have from anybody I have ever known. I clutch the quilt tightly.

The monitor above the sink begins to blink. “PROCESSING DNA” are replaced by the words “96.4% HUMAN,” with a big green bar underneath it. I frown and look down at my body, confused.

A woman’s face appears on the monitor. “Welcome back,” says the woman. “I am Captain Holly Yeats of the Phoenix.”

I open my mouth and try to croak out a faint, “Hello.” My throat is still terribly dry. I refill my glass.

“First, let me tell you how happy we are that you are doing well. It has always been the mission of the crew of the Phoenix to serve on the cutting edge of healthcare.”

Credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech/T. Pyle

I nod, remembering this part from the brochures and sales pitch my mother and I had gotten at the hospital. The idea was that the Phoenix would leave Earth and head towards the brand new colony, Cassius, some 20 light years away. They’d warned us that the ship wouldn’t be travelling at light speed, so it would take much longer to get there than 20 years. That’s what would give the scientists on board time to come up with cures. At the time, it seemed like a no-brainer. The risks seemed trivial compared to the benefits; I knew I was going to die anyway, and I’d always wanted to go into space.

“You may be wondering why you are still in space,” Captain Yeats continues. “Since you went into stasis, a war broke out on Cassius, and the entire planet was rendered uninhabitable. We couldn’t return to Earth because of…zoning restrictions. Luckily, we have located another earth-like planet suitable for habitation and are traveling there.” She pauses. I see that her eyes are oddly shaped; they remind me of fish eyes. She blinks, and I wonder if it is just my imagination. “You and the 99 other patients on board have been traveling with us for several generations.”

I refill my glass and lean toward the monitor as I drink. Generations?

“The fact that you have been released from stasis means that we have been able to find a cure for your sickness. Most cancers, we found, are easily treatable through the introduction of alternate genes into your system. Animal genes. This means that you might experience some side effects as your body adapts to its new chimeric state.”

I am feeling queasy now. What did they do to me? I throw the quilt off my lap and start feeling my legs and arms for scales. I still count ten fingers and ten toes.

“You will be kept in quarantine for 24 hours as you get used to your new, healthy body and familiarize yourself with your surroundings. After that, you will be free to move about the ship and interact with the crew and other passengers.” Captain Yeats glances off camera. “We still have a long way to go, I’m afraid. The closest planet we could find is at least another 100 light years away. That’s several more generations from now.”

I stagger over to the mirror across the room. What is different about me? I begin to take off my clothes and look at every inch of my body as Captain Yeats continues to speak.

“If you are watching this message, that means we have selected you as an eligible breeder to continue the human race. If you mate with any other healthy passenger on board, we calculate that your human DNA will continue to be dominant for at least seven generations.” She leans in so I can see her fish eyes clearly. “It is of utmost importance that you follow these directions. The human race is an endangered species, and it’s up to you to rescue it from the brink of extinction.”

The monitor goes blank.

I turn back to the mirror and look closely at my face. My eyes are still human. My nose, my ears. My mouth…

I put the glass of water to my lips and watch myself drink in the mirror.

I lower the glass and open my mouth.

My tongue is longer. Sort of curled at the end.

I touch it with my finger. It’s kind of sticky.

The monitor blinks again, and more words appear:
DNA:
96.4% Homo sapiens (human).
3.6% Rana clamitans (green frog).

I grab my quilt from off the floor and wrap it around me. The room is not cold, but I am shivering.

The computerized voice comes on again. “Your blood pressure is rising,” it tells me. “We are giving you a mild sedative to help ease your transition. Please return to the bed so you can rest.” I can see the sweet-smelling gas puffing through the vents.

I barely make it back to the bed before I feel myself drifting away from consciousness. Back to the familiar inky blackness where I’ve spent the last 150 years.

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Bran challenged me with “Today, I feel fine,” and I challenged coolaquarius with “First love after 70 years.”