Archive for the ‘David Kopaska-Merkel’ Category
When pigs fly
Tuesday, June 22nd, 2010
The satellite was old. It just barely fit in the empty part of the cargo hold. Radiometry indicated an age of 1.2 billion years, give or take 100 million or so. No telling how much it would be worth, especially if he could get it working. Darren squinted at the symbols etched into its surface. The script was recognizable, but the syntax! He slammed his fist against the deck plates. The instructions read like they were written in Betelgish and translated into Centauran-A by someone who only read Vegan! He opened an access hatch, blew nonexistent dust off of some weird-looking integrated circuits (?), scratched his head, and put the hatch back on. Beneath another hatch were rows of buttons with strange shapes printed on them. They were no script he recognized. Nothing ventured nothing gained — mentally flipping a coin, he pressed the button whose icon looked like copulating pigs.
A grinding and shrieking emanated from the interior of the satellite. Bits of corroded metal sifted down onto the deck. Hastily he pressed the button again and the sound stopped. A moment later, a previously invisible door slowly ground open, stuck halfway, then fell off with a clang. He smelled dust, and something else. A staccato tapping sounded from the interior, and a small blue-furred critter shot out of the satellite. The pseudo-pig hit the deck running and disappeared into the dark recesses of the crowded hold.
“Sacred waste products” Darren exclaimed, leaping to his feet and running after the suoid. There were a thousand places in the hold where something that small could hide. He ran back and forth among stacked crates, moved boxes, shone lights, even called to it, to no avail. Finally, he went to his tiny refectory, dialed some stew from the Chefmaster, and put a bowl full in the middle of the hold.
The blue pig trotted right out, even let him scratch its back while it ate. After, it burped, curled up beside him and went to sleep. When it started snoring, Darren walked back to the satellite. The next button in line bore an icon that seemed to have wings and horns, lots of them. Darren reached for it, hesitated.
The end
Hold the Mayo
Monday, May 31st, 2010
There was the ham sandwich again. It had been following me for days. Shit. It lay on my open book, covering most of the last page of the story by HB Clonekraft entitled “Salami over Hismouth.” There was too much mayonnaise and it was staining the book. I sure hoped the librarians didn’t riffle through the pages when I returned it. I picked up the book and gingerly tilted it so the sandwich slid into the trashcan. I hate mayonnaise on a ham sandwich. I hate the French, because they invented mayonnaise. I hate eggs because, well, I don’t hate eggs, but if I did, you know why it would be. I should have put the book away last night when I quit reading, but I’d been so tired. I looked at the clock, slammed the book shut, and left it on the table as I ran out the door. I was late, as usual.
A bus was just pulling away from the stop. A light drizzle fell. The billboard on the corner advertized the new ham and mayonnaise combo at Moe’s Deli. I have always hated Moe, but never more than I did right then. That was when I noticed the drizzle wasn’t water. The drops were white. I touched one that had fallen on the newspaper box and sucked my finger. Mayonnaise. I looked up, saw a lightly toasted rectangle 60 feet across floating in air. Shaved ham was visible around the edges and mayonnaise was oozing from several holes in the toast.
I stepped into a doorway to get out of the mayorain. The sandwich didn’t move, but the mayo was falling harder. I got a few white splashes on my shoes and jeans. Disgusting! Finally the bus pulled up. I was about to make a run for it, but just then the toast ripped in half. A glob of mayo as big as a Smart Car nailed the front of the bus. I turned away just in time; I could feel splatters machinegunning my back. The barrage subsided and I turned around. The bus seemed intact. I had just reached the curb when the ham let go, and that’s the last thing I remember.
—
The doctor was a young man, pink cheeked … I zeroed in on his name tag: “Dr. Prosciutto.”
“You have a severe concussion,” he said. “You may find yourself hallucinating.” Behind him, packets of mustard clustered menacingly in the doorway.
The end