Aaron Conaway's Blog, page 7

Cicada Dreams

He landed, as he often did nowadays, roughly and with a grunt. Old age played its tricks, after all, even at the weight of a penny. The timer ticking off at the flare of his joints.

And yet.

After finding solid purchase on the ground, paid for with the coin of breath, he stood still. Took measure of his surroundings. This Where smelled of dog; a mixed breed of spoiled upbringing. That would not do. Dogs were notorious for their slobbering, their “What’s this? I’m gonna put it in my mouth!” way of looking at the world.

No, this Where would not suffice as a scientific outpost. Wasn’t secure enough to defend the Entirety (what we humans call Earth) from what was coming. Maybe, if they could persuade dogs to join their cause. . .but that was foolishness. Even if they had the time, dogs don’t have the inclination.

Back to the original plan, then. Finding a Where that could withstand a Windshed Port. No easy feat, to be sure. But, he was bred for “not easy”. Difficult was in his DNA. He’d move on and stake a Where that would work, building and then opening a Windshed Port, doing his part to defend the Entirety from the sickness that was evident, and that which had yet to arrive.

Just once he caught his breath.

Captain Rex Decides

This story didn’t come from a prompt. I’ve just kept meaning to tell it since The Jurassic Roger set sail.

Off-Season At Camp Crystal Lake

Today’s prompt was “a walk in the woods”. Admittedly, I played with it a little.

Eleven-Three At the Bat

From the prompt: “Casey at the Bat, but in a game set in the far future on a space station.”

    *     *     *     *     *

The game was rediscovered by a Historian caste;

So if the rules sound wrong, recall, you played this in their past.

Not easy bringing back a sport with data incomplete,

And with “3 strikes, you’re out!” missing, nothing’s tidy, clean, or neat.

 

For instance, while still nine who take a field of unkempt grass

— Comprising teams who’ll mine comets with fluctuating mass —

There’s no rule ‘gainst a robot who’ll design a perfect bean,

Tag-teaming with a pilot to block all of base nineteen.

 

And scoring! Oh the madness, of three hundred point homeruns.

Or playing in stadiums that are satellite-ing suns.

Yes though mankind’s come far in understanding physics’ tick,

It’s not outgrown its love of hitting fast balls with a stick.

 

Lo, today’s game. Final of the Universal Series.

No one knew how Outpost One got there (though there were theories).

Up against Echo Hall, the all-robot team in the league,

Who could calculate ball speed and never suffered fatigue.

 

Things were going badly for the players from Outpost One.

They were down by sixteen hundred, one out away from done.

The other teams were easy, but these ‘bots from Echo Hall

Were about to win this game that the relics called “baseball”.

 

But up next from Outpost One was a player they thought key,

Their only robot player was their star Eleven-Three.

Eleven-Three was crafty, the ballplayer for thinkers.

Able to hit anything: curveballs, sliders, and sinkers.

 

Approached the plate, did Eleven-Three, it didn’t dawdle.

Even rocked a swagger unaccustomed to its model.

And as the first pitch came o’er the plate, flung near with fire,

Eleven-Three stared ahead. “Alpha!” yelled the Umpire.

 

The other players from Outpost One wondered what went on,

While Eleven-Three stood still, another pitch was gone.

“What’s happening?!” yelled the coach, a large man by name of Jones.

“It’s losing it!” yelled Tenth Base Ned. “I feel it in my bones!”

 

If they had known what Eleven-Three was programmed to do,

His teammates would have asked that the batter be someone new.

For on the unkempt field, besides the bare spots and the moles,

There stood a patch of mushrooms growing strong around some holes.

 

And Elven-Three was programmed to analyze for threats

Any spores and fungi (also exotic plants and pets).

It finished its analysis just as the last ball flew,

In time to swing away to try and split that ball in two.

 

His team, and everyone watching from the stands, held their breath

For a homerun now meant that the game entered Sudden Death.

Yes, if Eleven-Three could only knock it out of there,

They would all have a great amount of victory to share.

 

But as it played through, the umpire shouted “You are out!”

The stands began to empty as the fans all walked about.

The rest of Outpost One stared their batter down really cold.

For their star, Eleven-Three, had been bested by some mold.

Road Rage

A modern day homage to the Latin American fables of Antonio Arráiz’s Cuentos de Tio Tigre y Tio Conejos

*     *     *     *     *

“Big storm, coming in from the south,” the guy on the radio explained in his hip, cool guy voice. “We’re talking R-A-I-N!”

The two vehicles sped, weaving around their fellow road warriors like angry bees. The green truck was powerful – mighty – with a fearsome tiger painted on its hood. The beast roared, alive, as the engine revved, barreling down the highway after the little silver Hyundai.

The smaller car was being driven by a man named Martin, who honestly didn’t know what he could have possibly done to warrant such a reaction from the truck’s sole occupant, but he wasn’t about to heed the man’s shouted suggestion to “pull over!” That seemed counterproductive to Martin’s continued breathing. The rabbit tattoo on his wrist peeked out from under his suit jacket as he slammed the steering wheel first left, then right, dodging a Dodge Ram truck. Martin didn’t miss the irony.

The truck came around the front of the Dodge, nearly clipping it as it jumped in behind Martin. Martin braced for the hit as the tiger filled up his rearview mirror, but it didn’t come. Not yet, anyway. Martin spun his Hyundai to the right, driving on the side of the highway.

The truck followed, closing in again.

The Check Engine light came on just under Martin’s GPS; his car’s way of letting him know that he’d better think of something quick or they were both screwed.

Martin scanned the road in front of him, his eyes darting back and forth from the metal monster that was giving such good chase behind. He looked to the GPS to try and glean what, if anything, was coming. It just showed a long stretch of desert highway, devoid of any help. Why couldn’t the Highway Patrol show up right now? He’d call them himself if his cell wasn’t dead. The Hyundai wasn’t going to last much longer, he knew. Exceeding 100 mph for this long was not something it was prepared for, what with so much time having passed between maintenance checks.

“Think, Martin. Think.” He muttered to himself. He looked over at the wall of dark clouds moving in toward them from the south. Like an evil blanket sent to snuff them out.

The truck roared again behind him, twenty feet, then ten, then five. He was going to hit Martin this time. Ram him off the road. But then he didn’t, again. The truck dropped back some four car lengths. Lightning split the air above them at nearly the exact moment that the thunder boomed. The highway had emptied, save for the two of them, as Mother Nature provided her very own end-of-the-world soundtrack. The rain came down thick, like a river falling from the sky. Both Martin and the insane truck driver turned their headlights on.

“Surely now we can be done.” Martin said to the rearview mirror version of the madman in the truck. He dropped down to 60 mph, but the tiger started to pounce behind him so he kicked it back up to 75. But Martin did notice that the truck seemed warier. Maybe less inclined to go all out under the deluge that was trying to drown them.

Which gave Martin an idea.

He swerved into the left lane of the highway. The truck followed carefully. He coasted back over to the right side. The truck stayed with him, but haltingly. Martin realized then that the truck’s driver was having a hard time making out Martin’s silver Hyundai in all of this rain. He was probably only following Martin’s taillights.

Martin looked back to his GPS. He scrolled the map on the screen up some to find what he was looking for. Finally, he saw it. A giant bend in the highway, not six miles ahead.

Martin pulled back into the left side lane of the highway. The truck did, too. Martin sped up. The truck followed. Faster they went. 80. 85. The rain was pelting Martin’s windshield. Visibility consisted of nothing more than water burying his windshield wipers. He gave up and used the GPS to navigate. 90. 95. The truck’s engine gunned behind him, its headlights filling the Hyundai with dull yellow light. The crash was coming, but so was the curve in the road.

Then Martin cut off his headlights and spun his car into the curve without braking.

With no visibility of its own, and seemingly no GPS, the truck slammed on its brakes once Martin effectively went invisible, but it was going far too fast to avoid what was happening. It careened off the highway, flipping as it left the pavement, and rolled into the desert at a 100 miles per hour.

Martin turned his headlights back on and slowed down to a more sensible 40 mph, given the weather conditions. He took a deep, calming breath.

Then his Check Engine light went back off.

Wandering Thoughts Before the Quest

From the prompt youth needn’t be wasted on the young.

    *     *     *     *     *

Greta was on a quest.

Some might think that seventy-two was too old to have a quest, that Greta would be better suited sipping something somewhere while seated on something soft.

“Silly,” thought Greta, pulling on her shoes. “Also a good tongue twister.”

For quests can turn the mundane magical, and you’re never too old for a little magic. Any fool can run to the store for toilet paper. But have you ever quested for toilet paper? Ah, there’s an adventure. “Especially when I let Elmore do the driving.” She thought, looking over at her husband of forty some odd years and smiling sweetly while he looked for his hat. His near-sightedness behind the wheel made the entire trip all the more exciting. They’d first met after Greta punched Elmore’s date in the throat for calling her a skank because Greta was woo-woo dancing in Chicago. Screw her. It’d paid for college better than waiting tables had.

“People don’t like to admit to grandmas having woo-woo danced once upon a time,” Greta thought. She and Elmore had never had children of their own, let alone grandchildren, but since she looked the part now she counted herself in the club. “Like their life began with baking and birthday cards.” Greta didn’t know how to bake, either.

Greta wrote fantastic birthday messages in birthday cards, though. She didn’t think so herself, but it’s true. She’d brought their mail lady, Trisha, to tears last year with her thoughtful note and store bought macadamia nut cookies.

“Harrumph.” Greta grumbled under her breath, moving a Physics book off of her sweater. Nobody ever asked Greta’s thoughts on quarks, which she found annoying. True, she’d only just learned about them recently, having found and then read this left behind library book on the bus, but that seemed beside the point. At least she had another Q-U word to play in Scrabble.

You’re maybe wondering what Greta’s current quest is for. Have you seen the new Snickers bars wrappers? Where there’s a name, like Snippy or Cranky, where it’s supposed to say Snickers? Well, twenty minutes ago, while Elmore and Greta were playing Upwords – it’s a board game that’s like Scrabble, only you can build up on tiles, changing fox to for or faker to faxed – Elmore, who was losing badly and very sore about it, cheated and played Goodhall, knowing full well that it’s against the rules to play proper names or places. He played it to get under Greta’s skin because there’s a woman down at Greta’s church, Eva Goodhall. Greta is not a fan of Eva Goodhall. Eva Goodhall is not a fan of Greta. But they play nice when they see each other because the only place they see each other is at church. Anyhow, Elmore thought he was so clever, playing Goodhall like he did, but Greta didn’t get mad. She didn’t even call him out for being a cheat, which was well within her right to do. She just looked at her tiles, smiled, and played her F over the D and her B over the H, switching Goodhall to Goofball.

If Elmore wasn’t six years younger than her, Greta was convinced he’d have died from laughing so hard. Once he calmed down enough, and they decided the game was over, Greta remembered that she’d seen a Snickers bar that had Goofball printed on it at the gas station the other day and that wouldn’t it be fun to quest for it?

Being a good-natured husband, always up for one of Greta’s adventures, Elmore said he was in. This brings us to now, with the intrepid pair ready to go.

“Do you want me to drive?” Elmore asked his bride, waving the car keys with a grin.

Greta mulled it over, finally taking the keys from him. “Maybe on the way back. Chocolate quest first, daring-do after.”