Tag: history

Cathedral

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Every colony has a Cathedral.
That’s what we call the terraforming engine after it’s idled and scavenged for useful parts.
The newer the model, the less of a carcass left. Every cubic inch of that behemoth can be melted down and forged into something useful.
Colonists won’t use it all, though. They insist on leaving something to remind them, a vast hollow shell as a monument to the colony’s founding.
Inside, they gather to give thanks, an annual ritual carried out thousands of years ago by our ancestors, many miles away.
Drovo made the rootbird this year.
Pass the gravy.

Astronauts

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The Astronauts came to our world centuries ago and built both Stonehenge and the Pyramids.
Once, one sneezed, and forgot to cover his nose.
Ever hear of The Plague?
They also painted the Mona Lisa, released the monster in Loch Ness, and hunted the yeti to near-extinction.
Thank goodness that the Bigfoot are plentiful in number. Just paint one of those smelly buggers white and we’ll be fine for the next time the astronauts come to hunt.
Do you see lights in the sky?
Me too.
Let’s drive out to the rendezvous point now.
Oh, and bring plenty of tissues.

Salad Bar

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The two kings were bitter rivals.
One marries a beautiful woman, the other marries one more beautiful.
One gets a fast horse, the other gets one faster.
Castles. Armies. Jesters.
Always one-upping each other.
Then came the salad bars.
This time, neither would back down. For miles, each one stretched across the rolling hills.
One added to their salad bar. Then the other.
Back and forth.
Until they met at the border.
The greatest salad bar of all time.
The two kings gave up their rivalry and became friends.
That’s when a third king’s army invaded and killed them all.

Captain Sword

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There’s no way we can make it to port anytime soon, and there’s no empty islands for days.
“The body’s getting ripe,” says Pappy. “Your command, Captain.”
It took me a minute to realize Pappy was talking to me.
I’m not the First Mate anymore. That ended when Captain Sword broke his neck slipping on the poopdeck.
“Send him to Davey Jones’ Locker,” I said.
So we buried Old Sword at sea, wrapping him in sailcloth and tossing him overboard.
A few seconds later, the white bundle popped back up to the surface.
“You forgot the weights, stupid,” said Pappy.

Wine

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A wine tells the story of an entire countryside.
With a touch of the seal, you can feel rough hands of the farmer as he ties down vines.
With a sniff, you can smell the rich soil the grapes grew in.
With a taste, you can see the seasons pass… the sunshine… the rain…
With a glance at the bottle, you can see where the blood from the rebel colonists has soaked the label.
Captain Drog smiled and ordered the entire colony’s production to be loaded on to the ship.
“Then set a course for cheese and crackers!” he shouts.

Measure

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They say Helen Thomas has been in the White House Press Corps for the past 9 presidents, but measuring things in terms of presidents is a horrible idea.
How often do you have presidents around.
“Hey, someone wake the president… we need to measure this piece of string.”
They did that back in Ancient Egypt. A cubit was the length of pharaoh’s arm.
Every five minutes, someone asking him “stick out your arm!” Like he’s a common junkie.
Got a house to build, gotta measure out the two by fours.
No wonder why he buried himself under tons of rock.

Atlas

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When I broke my neck, such marvelous places across the world – the Pyramids, Everest – were lost to me.
My bed was my prison, chained by tubes in my neck. My arm. My gut.
When I didn’t just die, they drugged me less.
The cloud became the wall. A television, always on.
I groaned. “I want to see the world.”
So they brought me tapes of these places.
I explored, demanding more… Washington… Amazon… Museums… Galleries….
I was Atlas, map of the world, roaming mind.
Trapped in my head. On a pillow. In my bed.
But not my prison.
My throne.

Telegraph

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Somewhere in the basement of the records office, I swear, you could hear clicking.
I dug around, opened up an old wooden crate, and found a telegraph key.
As I held it up to the light, looking for some kind or label, the switch clacked.
I nearly dropped it.
Maybe it just… you know…
It clacked again. And again.
Pretty soon, it was tapping a sequence. I put it on the crate’s lid, pulled out a notebook, and wrote it down.
I’m not good with Morse Code, but I swear it said: “Get me out of here.”
Where?
And who?

Exile

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Forget cruises or eco-hikes.
This summer, going into exile is all the rage.
A good travel agent can put the whole package together.
A military coup.
The Swiss bank accounts.
That midnight flight to… where?
Well, whatever country will take you. Bribes and allies go a long way, you know.
Just make sure you can trust them. Otherwise, you may find your deposit turned over to the new regime or stolen by your travel agent.
And who wants to spend their exile on a godforsaken rock like Napoleon did on St. Helena?
If only he had a better travel agent.

The Tracks

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They say that countries used different gage tracks for their railroads so that enemy trains couldn’t invade without changing wheels.
That took time, delaying them long enough for enough defensive forces to arrive.
I walk through the railroad museum, going from exhibit to exhibit wondering which trains are allies and which are enemies.
It’s not easy to tell, but if you look closely, you can separate the two.
In fact, this World War II display has a friendly engine pulling three enemy boxcars.
Prisoners of war, perhaps?
They aren’t talking. They’re just trains in a museum, sitting on the tracks.