The Words in the Wind

The man pulled himself up to the top, looked around, and did not care for what he saw.

He saw a world trying to hurry and rush, who knows where other than its own eventual end. He saw what others all saw, but refused to acknowledge the inevitability of it all. Misery was there, hand in hand with apathy and ego. No life seemed to matter, life itself seemed not to matter. There was a lot of energy here, but little purpose to it all.

Sighing, he settled down to meditate on what he saw, hoping to find a solution to the mystery of life. What was the point of it all, what was the plan, was their a plan? The man pondered these questions and all of the myriad questions that sprang forth wherever his ponderings led him. Age crept up upon him like the evening shadows, caressing first his skin, then settling in deep to chill his bones, and yet still he pondered the questions of life. As the sun set on his life, the shadows of age became more rapacious, springing up suddenly and seizing him in a cold dark grip, squeezing the very last drops of his youth out of him. Ravenous, age drank all the life that spilled out, lapping up every drop like sweet honey.

Finally, the last drops fell out of him. Age had consumed his very flesh, which now fell fully lifeless, hollow, sallow, and wrinkled to the ground, there to shatter into dust and blow away on the strong winds of time. At last, there was no longer any trace of the man, and the very memory of him was forgotten by those still rushing around in the world below.

And yet, as his lifeless husk fell to meet the ground, there could be seen on the face of the man, a serene smile. He had thought of a solution before he passed. He had solved the mystery of life. Every so often, if you close your eyes and listen right, you can hear his ashes whisper it in the winds of time, laughing softly.

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A Leaf Floated Slowly

A leaf floated slowly, twisting, spiraling ever so slowly, dancing on the wind. Finally, it settled, next to the sole of a black shoe. A shoe, worn to match an ebon ensemble, worn, to signify sorrow. A guest, a friend, invited to mourn the passing of a life. The loss of a father.

The priest, the only one in white, intoned holy blessings to the Father, as the widow wept. The guests, some friends, others, fellow workers, stood in silent testimony to the departed one.

Only one stood apart. Alone in his grief, alone always, the son awaited the end of it all. He listened half-heartedly, as the holy man droned on, not hearing the words, or his mother’s grief. Lost in himself, he looked on, dry-eyed, as his father was painstakingly lowered into the waiting earth. He watched as the coffin disappeared forever into its final showcase.

It was beautiful; a pale white, embossed roses lining its rim, polished silver handles, a pair of doves carved into the top. It was magnificent. It had cost. The son smiled slowly, enjoying the irony. A bitter, cruel man, never very pretty, in soul or face, had wished to be buried in a work of art. No worry, they were rich. They knew it; with limos for every guest, tuxedos too, flowers by the hundred, expensive chapel, expensive priest. No, there was no want for luxury, but it would not buy a tear from the son. He felt no loss today, only joy.

The son moved to his mother, to comfort her in her anguish. The funeral ended, all left. The gravediggers set to work, covering another plot. Another grave, another stiff. Just one more satisfied customer.

Not Today – A Short Story

Nancy would normally never have said anything, never have interfered. Not today. When Mary emerged from the back room, her right eye freshly blackened for what had to be the hundredth time, Nancy could have remained silent. She always had before, but not today. In front of dozens of others who had also never spoken up, Nancy strode over to Mary’s husband, ‘Butch’ Braggan, and shoved a calloused finger under the abusive man’s nose. Nancy snarled in a far more aggressive tone than she had ever been heard to use before, “You ever lay a hand on her again, Butch, and I’ll cut it off and beat you to death with it!”

Everyone was startled. None of the witnesses had ever dared cross Butch. He was feared not only in this colony, but across the whole of Titan. Truth be told, Butch was held in uneasy regard by the other colonies of the Saturn system as well, such was the spread of his fearsome reputation. There was no meaner man this side of the solar system, and his customers and neighbors alike tread lightly in his presence. They stared at Nancy with equal parts respect and wonder.

Mary was startled, as no one had stood up for her in a very long time. She had never stood up for herself, cowed as she was by her aggressive husband. She had married him out of fear for what he would do if she refused. She had stayed married to him out of fear that what he did do was nothing compared to what he would do if she tried to leave. She stared at Nancy with nervous apprehension, both for what would inevitably happen to Nancy and for what she feared would happen to her as her cruel husband would assuredly take some of his revenge on her.

Butch Braggan was startled. No one talked to him that way! He would have to beat this fool to death for this! She had not touched him physically, but the blow to his honor could not be tolerated. Men feared him for good reason, after all. He stared at Nancy with a mixture of shock and vile hatred.

Before Butch could respond, with word or fist, Nancy turned and strode out of the store. She had said what she had meant to say, and to stay any longer would offer Butch a chance to start the fight there, and that would spoil Nancy’s plan. Nancy did in fact have a plan. As Nancy walked swiftly, but with a dignity and fury that belayed the assumption that she was fleeing, she could hear Butch come charging out of the store, swearing and cursing and calling her a coward. Butch did not pursue her, stopping just beyond the awning of his store as he hurled threats and invectives at the back of his retreating adversary.

Nancy, though she was sorely tempted to, did not stop, did not turn, and did not respond. Normally, she would endeavor to defend her own honor, and stand up for herself publicly. Not today. She knew that Butch would not be capable of letting this go, so Nancy did not need to confront him now. She needed Butch to come after her for her plan to work. Soon, the sound of the furious bully faded to a low dull echo as Nancy made her way to the edge of the colony.

When she reached the airlock on the eastern wall, Nancy greeted the clerk there, “Evenin’ George.”

George, whom Nancy had known for years, regarded her as if he were looking at a horse who had grown a human for a head, saying slowly, “You feeling alright today, Nancy?”

Nancy replied as she set her claim ticket down on the counter, “Never better. I need my suit.”

George raised an eyebrow quizzically as he retrieved the space pilot’s pressure suit and handed it to her, saying, “I just got a call from Mabel, from over at the store. She says you called out Butch. Is that true?”

Nancy carefully checked over her suit. She trusted George implicitly. George had never let her down as long as Nancy had known him, but she always checked her suit thoroughly. Only a fool would not personally guarantee the safety of a pressure suit before donning it. As she did, she offered a paltry reply to her friend, “Yep.”

George let out a low whistle. The classic low whistle that indicated awe and disbelief at another’s foolhardy bravado. George followed up this obligatory whistle with an obvious statement, “You’re a dead woman if you stay here.”

Nancy finished examining her suit and nodded in satisfaction. The nod served equally well as agreement with her friend’s assessment. She verbalized her consensus, “Yep. Need my suit.”

As Nancy put on her pressure suit, George struggled briefly to contain his desire to continue his commentary, and lost, “Normally I’d give you grief for turning tail and running, but damn, Nancy! You crossed Butch!”

“Yep.”

“You know what happened to the last person who stood up to him!”

“Yep.”

George ignored Nancy’s acknowledgment and proceeded to remind his friend, “Last time someone got between Butch and poor Mary, was that miner, what was his name?”

“Abdul.”

“That’s right. Abdul, fresh in from Io, as I recall. Abdul saw Butch slap Mary, and up and slugged him! Next day, no one could find the poor bastard. Never have found the body.”

“Nope.”

George seemed oblivious that Nancy had been present for the events he had just recounted, or chose to act so. Grimacing and shaking his head he held out a hand to Nancy, “Here’s hoping you fare better, old friend.”

Nancy finished zipping up the last seam of her suit, and took the proffered hand, saying as they shook, “Goodbye, George. When Butch comes through, don’t try to stop him.”

George visibly blanched, replying shakily, “He’s coming through here?”

Nancy nodded as she settled her helmet over her head, “Should be here any minute now. Don’t interfere. Let him through.”

George shook his head, stating, “I’m no hero! But he’s gonna kill you!”

Nancy paused before setting the helmet down into its seal to grin and say, “Nope.”

________

 

Nancy reached her ship, parked several leagues outside of the colony proper, near the mining facility where she had made her last delivery of equipment. The facility, comprised of two shaft entrances, multiple equipment sheds, and several mechanical structures, was closed down and secured for the biweekly dark period. Whenever Titan went behind Saturn and the light of the sun failed to reach the surface, the resulting deep chill made working on the exposed surface difficult, and no one cared to work in the shafts themselves without support personnel on the surface above to aide them in case of emergency.

Titan was already starting to enter twilight as Nancy opened the outer airlock hatch to her ship, the diffused light of the atmosphere dulling as it slowly shifted to gray. Twilight on Titan lasted for hours as the moon slowly swung around its massive parent. Nancy could not see the mighty ringed planet above, not really. Sure, there was sometimes a brighter spot in the sky, but it was barely distinguishable from large bright clouds.

Once through the airlock, Nancy quickly started up the pre-launch sequence. She did not take off her suit. Usually, this was the first task after entering the ship, so as to avoid possible damage to it, and because it was entirely unnecessary and cumbersome to wear the pressure suit inside the ship. Not today. Today she left it on, helmet and all. She did, however, swap out the air tank on her back, even though the tank she was replacing was still more than half full.

This done, and her ship humming steadily as it worked through the routine system checks to make sure it was ready to leave the moon’s surface, Nancy returned to the airlock. Cycling it back to the higher pressure of Titan’s atmosphere, Nancy pressed up against the outer hatch and slid down until she was well below the plastic window. Now in position, she waited.

Minutes passed inexorably. Nancy was a patient woman, as any space pilot had to be, and was not bothered by the tedium. She waited calmly, her focused attention on the light coming through the window. The twilight gray orange glow of Titan was steady. Then it dimmed suddenly and the handle to the hatch clicked.

Nancy braced herself against the side of the airlock and kicked the hatch hard with both feet. It slammed with great force into something on the other side and a shout of pain was heard. Nancy kicked again, but this time the hatch met no resistance, and slammed open into the side of the ship. There was a man in a pressure suit sprawled out on the ground some seven feet from the hatch. The low gravity of Titan had lent great distance to the man’s backward flight.

Nancy got up and quickly walked over to Butch, for that was the man on the ground, as he tried to recover his wits. Nancy reached down past Butch’s helmet and grabbed the air hose at the back. Placing a foot on his shoulder, she yanked hard, and the hose resisted. Butch, still dazed but instinctively aware he was in danger, clawed awkwardly at Nancy’s booted foot. Nancy ignored this and yanked harder at the hose, straining with the force. A terrifying hiss erupted as the helmet end of the hose dislodged, breaking its seal. The air in Butch’s suit was not escaping, the one way valve in his helmet ensured that, but the air from the tank on his back was now rapidly venting into the atmosphere.

Butch grabbed desperately at the hose, but Nancy prevented him as she stepped off of Butch’s shoulder and marched toward the mining facility, dragging Butch along by the hose as she went. In this manner, Nancy kept the hose dislodged and Butch off his feet, as her opponent never gained the leverage necessary to scramble up. Bypassing the buildings of the facility, Nancy marched steadily out into the open plains of Titan. She kept going, ignoring the struggles and tirade of her foe.

Nancy stopped only when she could no longer hear the hiss of escaping air from the hose. Venting as it had been, the tank had quickly run out, while the air in Butch’s suit must also be close to exhaustion. Planting her feet and leaning forward as she stopped, Nancy heaved and threw Butch forward and beyond her. Butch sailed and tumbled like a tumbleweed in the low gravity. Nancy did not waste time watching him land and hurried back toward her ship as fast as she could. Back at the ship, she spotted a crowbar lying near the airlock. Concluding that Butch had brought this to force his way into the ship in case Nancy had locked the hatch, as one normally would have done, Nancy took the time to retrieve it.

Once inside and with the airlock starting to cycle, Nancy did lock the hatch. The air pressure outside would have sufficed to keep the hatch in place, now that she had Butch’s crowbar safely inside with her, but she was not planning on staying in the atmosphere. The whine of the fans and pumps was winding down when a shadow fell across the window once more. The hapless figure outside pounded on the airlock hatch with all his might, alternating between begging for mercy and threatening the most vile and horrific acts if he were not let in.

Nancy calmly turned her back to the exterior hatch and entered her ship. Making her way to the pilot’s chair, she sat down. After checking the report of the pre-launch sequence to assure herself that all was in order, Nancy pushed the booster ignition button. A dull rumble vibrated the craft as the lifting thruster lit off. Slowly at first, then with unfaltering acceleration, Nancy’s ship rose through Titan’s atmosphere.

As the haze dropped away below and the beauty and majesty of the glorious rings of Saturn took form in front of her, Nancy gave the briefest of thought to what she had just done. Normally, Nancy was not a violent woman. Normally, she believed all issues could be resolved through peaceful means, given enough time. Normally, she would have endeavored to find a way, any way, to deal with Butch differently. Not today. Today Nancy was headed home to Earth, and was never returning again.

John J. Johnson – A Short Story

John J. Johnson was asleep. He floated peacefully in his sleep-harness as his ship hummed around him methodically, hurtling through the near void of space ever so sedately. He had just spent the better part of an earth day attempting to repair a puncture on the exterior bulkhead. While it was not at all critical to his voyage that the repair be effected before he arrived at his destination, he nonetheless had decided the day before that he should endeavor to finish the repair before his arrival at Europa. This determination was a combination of both an attempt to prove to himself his own capabilities in the matter as well as a venture to stave off the otherwise overwhelming boredom that these trips always inevitably entailed. Sure, there were a myriad of mental activities that he could have just as easily enjoyed, but there are only so many movies in a row that one can watch without getting a distinct urge to get up and do something, which on a spacecraft, is a potentially dangerous affliction. Many a tale has been passed around many a tavern across the Sol system of ‘spacers who get bored get dead’.

So it was that when the inch and a half asteroid skipped across the exterior of his craft at a couple of thousands of miles an hour, the wound it inflicted became an omnipresent temptation to get out and do something productive. Giving into his cabin fever had been the easiest part of the enterprise, as suiting up was an ever laborious task that no space-farer gets all the way through without some exhaustion and much frustration. After that, he had to patiently wait for the large empty cargo bay to cycle out the air ever so slowly. His mind had gone over the procedure he had been about to undertake over and over at least a dozen times as the lethargic whine of the aged air pump had grown gradually fainter.

After it had disappeared entirely and the indicator light had finally shown the all clear, John J. Johnson had scrambled out far too eagerly into the vast emptiness of space, showing an almost immature recklessness that was more characteristic of men far less experienced in space than him. It had taken almost fifteen hours of struggling and consternation to get the patch plate bolted into place properly. By the end of the ordeal, John J. Johnson had been cured entirely of his cabin fever, his energy, and his alertness. In such a state he had made his way, only half conscious, back into the cargo bay, waiting interminably for the air to return and pressurize to the proper level. Afterward, the removal of the suit had felt a million times more arduous than normal, and the long crawl to his bunkroom had felt like a marathon. Finally, he had struggled into the sleep-harness and had gratefully passed out.

In doing so, he had entirely missed, in his bleary fatigue, the urgently blinking text on his control console. The hum of his ship was uninterrupted by the standard array of loud warning klaxons that routinely would have gone off, had he not long ago disabled them out of irritation at their agitating volume. Nor was he jolted awake by the auto piloting system making an emergency course adjustment, having never trusted the damn computer to steer the ship, and thus having disengaged it. So it was that John J. Johnson was sound asleep when another asteroid struck his vessel at a couple of thousands of miles an hour. However, as this particular asteroid was over a mile wide and his ship was far less than a mile wide, the asteroid more accurately continued to fly through space virtually unaffected as a smallish collapsible particle impacted its forward facing surface.