Inktober #31: Ripe

It's his first harvest season. I'm nervous. I remember how I was at his age. The questions, the imagination. Even growing up with the stories you can't help but wonder why we do things this way. Why you always want to leave the inside bit gooey during the winter roast, as you smile along with everyone else in the ring. But the fire is so warm, and the company so pleasant, and eventually you just...grow up.

He did so wonderfully last year at the roast that it seemed like it was time to get him involved in harvest too. He didn't have as much hesitation as I did back then, but the harvest is different. Necessary. He has to understand our balance with them.

The Orchard stretches out as far as the eye can see, trees waving in the wind as they are tended to by the groundskeepers. My father never told me their actual name. They don't appear to have one. They are just..."them". They wander the Orchard, pruning, fertilizing, and making sure each and every fruit that grows all year long is protected until it's ripe.

When he first sees them he points in excitement, remembering them from the winter. He looks back to me and sees my smile.
"Oh, go along. But be careful! And be nice!" I yell after him as he runs into the field and straight towards the nearest groundskeeper. It greets him warmly.

The Orchard is practically full today with other families. The heat from the sun bathes us all as the winter mildly threatens with a bite of wind. I greet a couple I met five winters ago, just a few seasons after he was born. Their own little one goes to meet mine.

"A boon of Harvest to you," I greet them with.
"And a boon for you as well," they greet back. "I see everyone picked the same day to come and grab a fruit."
"Apparently," I chuckle.
"Sorry we couldn't be there for the ring last winter, we really wanted to be present for his first."
"Oh, no, please, it's fine. You had other concerns. Is she here?"
"We..." a brief look of sadness clouds their eyes before snapping away. "We haven't seen her yet. But we hope she'll be here."
"Well, it's a big Orchard but a small town. I'm sure you'll run into her eventually."
"Yes...yes. In the meantime though..."

I follow their gaze and find him looking up at a tree with a hefty fruit, as the groundskeeper respectfully backs away.

"Ah, right. I'll see you later," I say as I quicken my pace over to him.

He looks to me as I approach, questions written all over his brow.

"Hey there! You found quite the bounty!"
He looks in confusion back at the tree.
"See all that sap? You can tell from how much there is that there's a nice juicy fruit in there. In fact, it's probably ready for harvest."
The groundskeeper nearby lowers itself.
"Yeah, it's ready! Do you want this one?"
He looks back to me again, tears in his eyes, as he points to the tree's face.

And I see it.

"Oh. Oh my dear boy....."
I pause.
I look.
"What a boon."
The tears come. The smile cracks.
"You found her."
The questions I had as a child careen into me as I see them do the same to him.
"This is..."
He hugs me. No, clings to me, grabs hold to save some part of his world from shattering.
"What a boon."
He is wailing now, and nearby families are looking. Some with understanding, some with...something else, as the groundskeeper nearby rises. And another appears from behind it.
"We'll harvest it together okay?"
He leans back, fear radiating as he locks eyes with mine.
"No no no, it's okay! It's okay! They say, if you can find the tree of one of your blood, and eat the fruit, then you can be like them!"
The horror floods him.
"It's good! We can be like them! And then we can feed all these people in the winter! We can help the whole village!"
He recoils, backing into the groundskeeper that is suddenly behind him.
He screams, and not knowing what to do, climbs the tree.
They try to stop him, but in a blink, his foot is through the sap...and the fruit bursts.

I try to cry.

I try to remember what comes next.

It feels like seasons go by.

There is snow.

And sun.

And sap.

And all I feel is the breeze.

Until I am ripe.

Inktober #30: Catch

"Catch the first light. Hold it. And release it back to God. At the end of time, at the final breath, God will grant us life again."

With eyes fixed on the sky, my grandmother N'arta uttered her last words, and went to join God. On a bed of mappa leaves which curled around her in the afternoon heat, and our tribe gathered in a ring eyes fixed towards the point where she had watched, we felt her final prophecy pin itself to us like a straga's sting. And we waited. And watched the sky. And we saw a blink of red, and knew it to be true.

----

"Alright kids...THREE...TWO...ONE...GO!" and the painted red ball was launched far far away across the field as thirty children went galloping as fast as they could, laughing, towards it. "GO, GO! CATCH THE FIRST LIGHT!"
They raced and raced though N'ota had a strong lead. She ran and ran, panting as her legs bent back and forth to speed her stride. She would win the festival's prize this year for sure, and be crowned the Life-Bringer. But D'lora had other plans and shoved her to the side. N'ota spun off into the matta trees but refused to give ground and used the momentum to spin around, pounce onto a tree, and push with all her might to leap through the air and regain the ground she had lost. A final turn, a quick glare back towards D'lora, and suddenly she was alongside the still careening First Light, braked hard in front of it, caught it in her mitts as the wind was pushed from her chest, taking her along with it. She struggled to maintain control over it before digging into the soil, spinning, and sending it back the way it had come.
D'lora skidded to a halt in front of her. "Come on, N'ota! This was my time to win!"
"So you cheat? God sees you D'lora. And they will never accept a cheater as the Life-Bringer!"
D'lora made a rude gesture to N'ota and loped back the way they had come. None of the others had even come close and were likely on their way back to the celebrations. A feast, to honor God...and, as she smiled thinking about it, her.

----

"Welcome esteemed colleagues. My name is Nara N'yosa and I'm a professor of cultural studies here at Cravea. Long ago my ancestors, the Light-Bringer tribe, heard a prophecy from one of their wise women that would change our world forever. Their empire would come to encompass most of the planet, touting their predestined charge to bring the First Light back to God so that they would grant us Eternal Life. And any who disagreed...ended up in the ground. They left a legacy that remains with us today, in surprising ways. The red balls our children play with. Our predilection for speed-based sport. Even from a biological standpoint, as players with those vestigial toes perform better and get better contracts.
But, as I have discovered, there was another part of their belief system. A secret sect. We found evidence carved into remnants of the now extinct Map'ta Tree that another group formed within the populace, with very different beliefs. And they wanted the Light for themselves.

----

"Thanks, J'im. I'm here at what promises to be a historic day. The team here at Promotoa have been working for years to build what can only be described as our best chance yet at meeting God. The shining beacon you see behind me will soon be launched into orbit and flown to the First Light sun, that which gave us all life, collect some of that light, and then go in search of God to fulfill our purpose. How many millennia have we waited for this? From the first prophecy of N'ata we have been guided by her hand and God's will to do what will be done today.
While we may not ever see the fruits of this journey, or the families or those who are launched today, our ancestors, generations from now, will finally meet God, and bring us eternal life. Praise! Praise! Praise!"

----

Nala cracks her head against the wall of the ship as it comes slamming back into real time. The green danger lights flicker with the pops and flashes in her vision as she reaches up and feels the blood begin to flow.
"Fucking fuck Dapla YOU FUCKER!"
She flops down on all limbs, braces against the swimming and jarring, and strides as fast as she can towards the bridge. Corner, bulkhead, corner, grazed by a ripped piece of metal shit there's a leak, run, run, hall, door. Shit. Bridge door. Try it. Try it. Won't open. SHIT.
"DAPLA!"
She looks through the porthole, sees Dapla regaining his feet. He's hurt worse.
"DAPLA YOU SHIT!"
He looks dazed, but in a moment he sees her at the door, looks panicked, and turns for the control panel. Two moments later, and all the lights are off.
"DAPLA IT'S NOT MEANT FOR YOU!"
"I'M SORRY NALA! I have to. If we want God to grant us life...we have to lose it first."
"THE FUCK, DAPLA?!"
"At the end of time! At the last breath! I will take the first light. And I will die. And God will see that we have done what they asked."
She hears the slight shifting of engines as the ship auto pilots them into position. Here, at the edge of the universe, where no light has yet gone.
They found it, years ago. The very first photon. The first piece of light to ever exist in the universe. It had had so long to travel away from them, so they worked, and they went faster, and faster, until they went faster than time. Faster than light. They knew the consequences. They knew their people and even their world would be long swallowed up by the black hole on its way before they could return. But they would do it. They would catch the first light and bring it back to its source so that God would bring them back and give them life again.
At least, that was supposed to be the plan.
"You die here, Dapla, and we all die. Everything...it's over!"
"No, no Nala, you don't understand. But you will. You will have life."
And the hiss of the air being released hit her ear.
No light.
No more sound.
She could move, and feel that she was no longer in the ship.
She could move, but couldn't breathe.
This is it.
He will be in the perfect position.
The First Light will hit him, and it will be over.
...
But calculations can be wrong.
Space can be unpredictable.
And maybe, just maybe, God hates Dapla too. Because in that instant there is a spark that hits Nala's right eye.
And she goes spinning.
The ship's lights suddenly fill the void as it calculates the First Light has passed, senses its pilot, and roars into life as it speeds past her, opening the hold as she jets inside, and she swears she sees an old woman catch her as she comes to rest on the floor, the hold door shuts, and air once again fills her chest.
She gasps, over, and over, and can swear things look a little brighter than before. No old woman. But fucking Dapla must still be on the bridge.
Nala hobbles up, trying to stabilize herself on every surface as she passes the corners, halls, and doors to finally reach the control room.
The door is open.
Dapla is nowhere.
Of course he turned off his tracker. He didn't want to be rescued.
Nala approaches the panel, sets course for the origin. Sets course for God.
It's finally going to happen.

----

"Good catch," they say. "That was fun. Let's do it again."

----

Inktober #29: Injured

"Mr...Hawthorne, is it? Thank you for coming down to the station."

"My pleasure, officer."

"We're happy to see you've recovered, Mr. Hawthorne."

"From what I understand it was a rather sticky situation, but I am glad to be here as well."

"And you've been told why we called you in?"

"Yes."

"If you wouldn't mind...so we can get a clear idea of where to begin."

"Of course.

The rain is coming down hard, enough to make you shield your head and take cover under whatever awning you can find. The ionization is already in the air, you can feel the charge building. Soon enough the static storm will begin and anyone out won't remember a thing in the morning, if they survive at all. The shielding in this area broke down years ago, and none here have the political power to get the right people to do the right thing. All you can do is watch from the insulated windows of your insulated home and hope the repairs you made yesterday will hold.

And you can watch the people in the street, and hope for them.

I am in my insulated room. I am checking my repairs around the window. I glance out at the street. I am distracted by a knock at the door. I walk to open it as the beginning theme of 'Port Limel' is playing on the set. I open the door as it ends.

It has no face.

What is standing there does not make sense.

Its body is tall and short. Limbs extend beyond where they should and are simultaneously a completely normal arm reaching into the doorway.

It has a suit of black. It wears casual workout clothing. There is a red scarf around its neck.

Talons from a bird clawed hand reach around my neck as I stumble back to the tune of the intro to 'Port Limel'. Its shadow reaches behind to close the door behind it as it holds me there and a thousand-needle tentacle wraps around my mouth to stop my scream.

It throws me to the floor and my head is turned to see Richard Pendergast, the actor, I forget the character's name, running through the storm into Rita Lenari's arms, the actor, I forget the character's name, before a cloaked figure shoots him in the back and the end credits of 'Port Limel' start playing. Another one is on next. I wonder if I'll live to see the finale.

I feel the axe tear into my skull. And again. It is eating my brain like a slice of pie. One slice fills it and it looks out the window to see Richard Pend...no. It takes a picture. No. There is a flash. There is a storm. Rita Lenari will lose her memory in the morning, if she sruvivs at ll.

I can see hr as I li in the stret. The rin is fllng. A red scrf trails from me arnd the norner. It is ther. Itis ther. There is light.

There is more light. It is gone. I can see the staff around me, hear the whizzing tools. I tell Dr. Abergast, no. I tell Dr. Abernathy what I remember as he sits calmly by my bed and the hum of the protective field sounds like the intro to 'Port Limel'. I try to remember that the scarf I see isn't real.

I go home. The door is busted. The seal on the window needs fixing. Another storm soon. I can see where my cranial fluid left a stain. That at least was real.

And now I'm here."

"And now you're here. Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne, for your recollections. As you might understand, we're still trying to piece together the reality of your situation from the obvious changes undergone to your memory from the injury."

"Of course."

"And it sounds like there's still some damage surrounding the memory. I'd like to put you down for another stay with Dr. Abernathy to see if we can't pull anything else out if you don't mind."

"I would appreciate that."

"Good, good. After all you appear to be the only witness to these murders, and only survivor of this perpetrator's assault."

"Yes. I need to start remembering."

"We'd like that too, Mr. Haw-"

"I need to start remembering."

"Yes, Mr. Hawth-"

"Please. Please. I need to start remembering."

"Mr. Hawthorne?"

"I need to remember the scarf isn't real."

"Mr. Hawthorne I need you to calm-"

"I don't hear it. I don't hear it."

"I'm going to call Dr. A right away okay?"

"That isn't real. You cannot be."

"Hey can I get-....help..."

"You cannot be. You cannot be."

"What...the..."

"I see it. I see it. It's there. It's there. It's there. The talns on its hand are in yu, do you see it? Mr. Pendgrast? It lks pie. Brain. I mst repair the window. What a lng red scaf. I'm runng through the ran to Rita Lenari. A thousnad-needles in my eyes. It likespie. Itliks. Dr. A? I am injured.

Dr.?...

You're...I'm....there's..."

Inktober #28: Ride

(see #21: Treasure for backstory)

Kelis Alcibides, aka Trucker Kelly 93, awoke 40 light years farther than she'd ever been. The Cteres system. Word is a creature had been running amok smashing trade ships, harassing stations, and just generally being a dick to any and all who came across it. Just enough damage to be a nuisance, not enough to warrant any response from Olympia. Besides sending one rogue trucker with a heavy conscience doing the most ridiculous form of community service ever handed down by the courts: fly to Tiryns, subject yourself to the local ruler, and perform 10 acts of service to be dictated by said ruler.

Guess that's what you get when your step-mom's the judge and they can't pin you for murder.

She had already gained a reputation as a rather successful exterminator. Her ship, the Iolian, was outfitted with, shall we say, non-traditional tech. While most ships had advanced to laser weaponry, energy shields, and massive explosives, Kelis preferred to just...punch things. With her ship. Every inch of the Iolian was constructed of an impenetrable metal usually only given to the Olympus Core, which her dear step-mother had gifted her, very much on accident. The legalese was airtight though, meaning no matter how hard they tried to take him away from her, they'd never be able to.

The Iolian looked as monstrous these days as some of the beasts they had already sent her after. Call it what you like, but Kelis liked to take trophies of her kills. The skull and shimmering cloak of the Nemoan stretched out over the top of the hull, adding an unnecessary layer of armor against energy weapons. Mostly she just kept it for the shimmer. It looked cool. And that skull! Raaaaaah! Very effective.

There was an FTL jammer grafted near the bridge, gifted from a notorious pirate ship, The Hind, for the orchestration of a very convincing and daring escape. A sonic emitter meant to pierce the densest nebula and one projectile cannon filled with needles meant to pierce even the thickest armor told of her battle with an army of bird-like drones that had fled in their defeat to some other hopefully uninhabited galaxy. A series of graspers and an extendable energy net usually only found on industrial asteroid harvesters covered the bottom of the ship and allowed for the classic "punch and squeeze" maneuver that had rendered many an enemy completely useless as very few could do anything about a sudden increase in hull pressure equivalent to being in the middle of a thousand suns.

In any event, one troublesome creature on the edge of the edge of a boundary system...wouldn't be an issue. Besides, reports were that this thing liked to ram ships. Kelis figured they might even get along. Shared interests and all that.

Booting up her systems, Kelis started to hear the comm chatter she loved so much to hear. Not too many out there, but enough to maybe get a lead on where this thing was hiding.

"Kelly Nine Three hollerin at the black, holler back."

The comms go dead.

No one replies. Not even a hint of chatter bounces back.

Not good.

Suddenly, the all too easy to recognize stick-up-the-butt voice of a government official rings through.

"Kelly Nine Three this is Cteres Command. Please hold."
"Kelly in. Holding."
...
...
Kelis takes a deep breath, exhales loudly, and starts to poke her own head at the place where she can already feel the headache beginning.
"Kelly Nine Three please confirm your business and destination."
"Kelly in. I'm on task from Tiryn to deal with your beastie issue. The one ramming things? Just point me at it and I'll be on my way with its corpse in tow."
...
"Kelly Nine Three..." the voice has completely lost its traditional even keel, "...are you sure about that?"
"Kelly in, yeah, sure, why? I thought this thing was just a minor inconvenience?"
"Kelly Nine Three, pushing you an update. Watch your comms."

Reports start pouring in of a...beast. Like, a BEAST. Like, big as a small moon, wrecking entire cities BEAST. With HORNS (cool). Had this thing grown? What the hell happened on the ride over?

"Kelly in. Yep, that's the one. Point me at it." Trying to maintain her cool, and failing to hide her excitement.
"Uh....sure. We'll prep the notice of your death for Tiryns. Coordinates incoming."

Live feeds have it sleeping on a planet. The shift in gravity has caused the entire populace to flee. The tidal waves from the liquid methane ocean appear to be lapping at its...feet? And it seems to be quite relaxing.

Perfect time to sneak up on it. It has no idea what it's in for.

Time for the biggest punch and squeeze ever attempted.

Kelis cracks open the engines, and roars towards her target.

Inktober #27: Coat

Focus on the cuff. Start there. Just past where you're holding her hand.

Cracked black leather. Worn. Chafed. Scratched. Used. Scorched on the inside. Buttons of polished steel standing out in stark contrast, holding it to the sleeve. Each emblazoned with a different relief of a different battalion. They'll be there, at the end.

But for now you have to keep going.

The gray wool hides well its scars. Finely sewn back together after being slashed apart. Here, from the Midlands. Here, from Parth. Here, the longest, trailing in a curve not hidden but embroidered, stretching from just below the elbow to near the shoulder. The most recent. The badge of honor. The sacrifice that let her get the killing blow on Sehad. The embroidery intertwining and highlighting, making bold, the patch of her rank.

But there's too much there. Keep going.

The shoulder, bare of the traditional fringed epaulet, instead weighed down by a black iron pauldron of her own design. Enough to block any wayward strikes, yet keep her view open through a small crescent when she aimed. Since losing most function in this arm, it was more a style choice than anything, but she always said it felt like having another piece of pride with her. Just like the badge, it was something she earned and made for herself. It was as much a part of this coat, of her, as anything.

We're getting closer now. Be ready.

The grey wool climbs back up again out of the black iron to wrap around her neck and two more perfectly polished...but for that fleck of red...steel buttons. Emblazoned again. One for the crown, one for the land. The crown was always unbuttoned. She said it was because it was tailored wrong. Helped her breathe. Yet she always refused to have any alterations to it. You never got that story, did you? You sneak a glance up to her face.

Too much there.

Too much to come.

Keep going.

Down to her chest.

And there you are.

And there it is.

Between the alternating black and white straps.

Another scar.

And so much blood.

You'll have it stitched. It's what she would've wanted.

Sit with it.

Be there.

Red among the monochrome.

Grieve for the life lost. The warrior. The joy. The love. The smile in the flashes of steel.

Breathe.

Check the other arm now.

Slashed. She had tried the Sehad maneuver again. Maybe she thought she could get a shot off with the pistol you moved from her grasp to hold her hand. Where this began. You'll mend that too.

Have you taken your time?

Will you take up the sword she dropped, the pistol you moved?

"Are you ready?" comes the voice, barely above a whisper. An enemy, but one who knows respect.

And a coat to match hers.

He stays sitting in the chair across the room, this cabin in the late afternoon hiding amidst the pines where you had thought to find some rest, an ally. Rest he had given you. Rest of a kind to her. Though you knew her fight continued elsewhere.

You squeeze her hand. You take up the pistol in your left, the sword in your right.

"Ready," you say.

He stands. Salutes with his own weapons, and readies.

The poor bastard.

Her coat hid the small scars, and reveled in the big.

What better way to honor her than to make some big scars yourself?

And you charge.

Inktober #26: Dark

What an astounding feeling.

Being here.

Surrounded by the dark.

With the only light left in the entire universe shining...but dimming. Slowly. A white dwarf star. It feels...appropriate. Meditative. Rather than exploding out into a massive supernova, the last burning star in the universe would simply leak out its heat into the expanse, and go quiet for the rest of eternity.

And I am here to witness it.

I can only think back to the first humans, the first apes, the first mammals, even the first light-sensitive cells that would eventually through trillions of years become me, feeling the warmth of their sun on Earth. Grasping ever towards it, yearning for its light and heat and energy. A feeling I can only guess at. Though the yearning is there, in its own way.

But how must it have been, having the comprehension first of their own death, then that all things must die, and then realizing that includes their very sun. That which sustains all life will too eventually pass away and take a couple planets with it. And then to expand that, even. To understand that eventually...this day, now, would come. All the stars will die. All heat will end. And without heat, the universe would run itself out, leaving nothing but rocks and dust with black holes for company.

I think of them, as I stand here, the last light of the universe bathing me.

It's almost time.

I stare straight into it.

I want to soak up every last photon. Every last chemical reaction. Every singular bit of heat I can.

And then it's gone.

And then there's silence.

And there is no more light.

An odd sensation, to be truly and suddenly blind for the first time. To be wrapped in a darkness so complete that it will never end. I have eyes. They see. Yet there is nothing there. Nothing but the last image burned into my memory of what light was.

The moment stretches on.

It feels like eternity lets out a breath, to rest.

I savor it.

The endless cold. The endless night. What a moment to live through. To live into.

And with that, a firefly of light pierces the black.

And another.

And a hundred more.

And the lights of the observation deck rise, and the crowd around sees each other. Joy spreads like a fire, as some look to those around them feeling like they're truly seeing everyone for the first time. Others look out to the last sun, which shines once again but with light pushed onto it from countless vessels there to bear witness to the end. There are congratulations, elations, embraces. And I think the humans of the past would look to us and be proud.

Past the heat death of the universe, we make light. We live. We continue on. We find our warmth where we can, with the rocks, and the dust, and the black holes, and each other, for company.

Inktober #25: Tasty

"Breathe, first. Through the nose. Out the mouth. Inhale every possible scent around you. Each breath will be different. Some smells you notice so strongly at first will disappear with desensitization. So hold them, remember them. You won't want to get confused. The more subtle scents should come through then. The surrounding ionized metal. The slightly acrid tease of the sewage leak into the filtration systems. Me. Hold them all. See what comes into the forefront with each breath. Eventually it will seem like you've smelled it all. Every bead of sweat. Every exposed wire. Every fiber of every rat lurking in the walls.
Then, and only then, do you taste the gum.
...
Good. Do you smell it all?"
"Yes."
"Hold it. Hold onto them tight. And then hold onto your ass."

With what felt like the extremest edges of focus on the cacophony of smells around me, sensing each and every particle and where it came from, barely keeping the threads of every link together, I raised the gum to my tongue.
The instant it touches the first tastebud every ounce of focus is sucked into the very molecules of this unfathomably complex substance. The threads of smell are instantly translated to taste, though there are more connections here than could ever possibly be maintained. But I try. I try. I hold.
Whereas every breath brought a new scent, now the second tastebud grabs hold and sends its infinitely sparking cascade of new tastes into my head, back out into the gum, back again. Rebounding echoes. It's too much.
But I can't stop as my arm reacts far too slowly and the next wave hits. An infinitesimal universe of burning atoms greets me as I taste the very electrons sparking, held in orbit by the focus I bring onto them. Every atom vibrates, rapt with my attention and I with theirs.
It's too much to bear. I can feel my mind snapping under a weight it was never meant to sustain.

And then it happens.

Time reverts to normal.

And I see. I can see.

I can see him. Looking concerned. The lattice of every skin cell reaches out to my new awareness.

"Well?" he asks. "You don't look like your brain has melted into goo."
"No. I'm fine."
And I reach out to touch his face. The most direct path. Not just aimlessly reaching for a voice.
"That was the tastiest thing I've ever had."
And it would be for the rest of my life.