Bora Bora Bore

bora bora

Literati! (better to have loved an island than never to have loved atoll) Like the behemoth in the bowels under NYC, A Word with You Press is a sleeping giant. Our current contest is a tough nut to crack (go there only at personal risk) and our first nut-cracker is Michael Stang.  There has been …

Literati!

(better to have loved an island than never to have loved atoll)

Like the behemoth in the bowels under NYC, A Word with You Press is a sleeping giant.

Our current contest is a tough nut to crack (go there only at personal risk) and our first nut-cracker is Michael Stang.  There has been a lot of back-room negotiating with this contest.  The parameters were a bit constricting, and was a possible explanation of why we have had so little response to it.

So I am opening up the rules and extending the deadline to The Ides of March!  The rules are now write a story about the object found in the bowels of Manhattan, 600 to 800 words, and write it from the year 2113.  Anything goes.

I should warn you, however, that if Mike Stang is correct in his piece of future non-fiction it won’t even matter!

Let the blames begin!

BORE

By Michael Stang

            “Name?”

“Hick.”

“What?”

“I’m from Mars.”

“That explains something?”

“Everything, except why I’m here.”

“Why are you here?”

“You sent for me.”

The android who worked for Project Global Feed sat perky behind the desk, her internal segments whizzing away.

“Of course, Mr. Hicks, the fossil issue.  You are expected.”

“Hicks, no mister.”

“Right.”  More whizzing.  “Mr. Blumbower will see you now.”

 

“Come in Hicks come in.  Sit.  Scotch?”

“Still cherishing earth’s vises, I see.  Have the fluoroscopes been processed?”

Blumbower slid a file envelope across the glass desk.  “You may find these encouraging.”

“And the new construction,” I asked, quickly scanning the interior of an object as long as a freight train and as ugly as the sin of man.  “How is that coming along?”

“On hold.”  Blumbower grew nervous speaking, like he didn’t trust me and regretted offering me that drink, which I accepted—Martian distilleries lack purified water, the hooch on earth was not to be missed.  “Preliminaries show, from the surface to 14.5 kilometers down, along the Manhattan corridor, west to Minnesota, south to Missouri and east again to Virginia, best suited for agronomy.  Our farmers are breaking at the bit to get started.  The fossil, sits in the middle of a purposed leech system that will draw from the Atlantic through converters under the city.  Combined with the Great Lakes, it is enough to feed the hydroponic peat needles that will fertilize the fields.  I assure you, you’re conclusions will play a heavy role on where and when we break ground.  I understand you have been briefed, our lucrative expectations are high.  So, can that thing be disturbed?

I need to see it.

The male-body I assumed, arriving on earth, left little to be desired.  Didn’t take long, after making myself comfortable in the hotel lounge, to attract one of their thirsty females.  She reminded me of the android except her whizzing was different.

I was terribly late the next morning getting back to Project Global Feed.  The android stood by the soil-sub impatiently ticking.  My head throbbed on the way down.  Layers of earth, cold and black, reminded me of Mars’s starless night sky.  Dumps for nuclear waste and other stellar garbage will do that to a planet, block out the sun too.  My hangover felt as obnoxious as the dirty looks from the sub’s crew.  Blumbower was waving his arms, tangled up in one of those jute-suites and yelling from a platform, as we came to a stop.

There YOU are, too early is it?  Do you require coffee and donuts, or…Blumbower caught a whiff of me…a hair of the dog?

I ignored him, approached the behemoth, and faced what I thought of as the business end of the machine.  The boys back home would love this, I thought, and activated secret intelligence with Tit, my superior.

Can you zap it into thin air, I asked.  You have the technology, yes?

“Can’t you smell that,” Blumbower’s arms never rested.  “Or has that sense slept in as well?  The earth around this thing is contaminated and explosive.  Mineral acids have corroded thousands of square miles.  It’s a hydrogen bomb, fella, and ready to go.”

“So what do you want ME to do with it?”  I could feel Tit jumping up and down at his console.

We want you to get rid of it.  I want you to try a few of these breath mints.

I smiled knowing Tit was analyzing the bore.  By afternoon I would receive instructions.  I told Blumbower I would take some measurements, unfolding from my pack an official looking gizmo that did nothing but flash lights and hum.  The android’s adulation whizzed something horrid.

“Hick, Tit.  Look, there is enough inert energy within that bore, coupled with the volatile environment around it, to produce a super nova, a sun we can call our own.  Let Global Feed know you will extract, and then let me know when, I will get you out of there.”

I considered the message and what it meant for the future of Mars.  No longer the downgraded bastard from eons of war and occupation.  Martian’s bloodthirsty greed for dominance over earth was a created myth built around Hollywood’s binging over moneymaking Sci-Fi horror.  The evil “Man from Mars”, drains blood out from victim’s brains.  Our planet evil; disposable.  Martians do not really exist outside of a royalty check for dime store writers, do they?

“Tomorrow, Tit, 12:00 noon, earth time.”

“Why not today?”

“Tomorrow, Tit.”

Miss thirsty came back with a friend.  A Martian could get use to that.

11:59 AM.  Blumbower and the android stood ready.

The real gizmo in my hand activated a trillion degrees of heat within the bore.  I raised the middle finger of my right hand to Blumbower and winked at the android—goodbye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

21 comments

  1. Glclark says:

    A Hic, a Tit, and  “She reminded me of the android except her ‘whizzing’ was different”. I’m not sure where to start, Stang, but I’m thinkin’ you shared the booze with those androids while they were telling you that story.
    Back in the old Hippy days, (the 60’s when I was nothin’ but a child), the common phrase for somebody that was just too dang creative for this world was, “Hey, man! You’re so far out, you’re IN!” and that’s what I think about your writing, Stang. Your creativity knows no boundaries and these great stories just keep coming from somewhere in that Ozone layer we call your brain.  Keep ’em comin’ and we’ll keep reading and shaking our heads wondering, “How does he do this?”

  2. KYLE says:

    Dear Mr. Stang,

    I don’t really now what corner of the world, you wrote this
    from. Or what part of your brain feeds itself to administer raging heights of
    creative delivery.(premium scotch?) 
     As a reader you own ME.

     You have
    commanded this story from beginning to end. The meteor shower of ideas, it’s
    plausible storyline, the cross intersections of Mars and Earth, future and
    past, muscular imagery, “As long as a freight train and as ugly as the sin of
    man.”

    The human quality of the characters with classic humor. A
    Perky android sitting behind the desk internal segments whizzing? Some things
    just don’t change.  ‘Tit’, shaking,
    taking on a very serious role.

    The detailed description of the mass spreading magnitude,
    made me fear, what we are leaving underground today. Project Global feed. Could
    this be our future?…or lack there of?  A warning of sorts?  

    The thread pulled me through to the resolve. Like a kitten,
    I’m still balled up in the yarn, rolling around,wanting more! My internal
    insides still whizzing from the excitement!

    You had me at hello…and good-bye!

    Stangarator! You’re back!

  3. Tlrelf says:

    Well, why am I not surprised the Stananator has set the bar – and quite high, as usual. hehe

    So, love it. What else can I say?

    T-Rex

      • Tlrelf says:

        I would so love a part in your film! Thank you, Stanganator! I just read through all these comments as I’m gearing up to write something. I am embarassed to say that I forget when the Ides of March are. . .but I do remember who received a few sword thrusts on that august day.

        I wish I had some tequilla or beer or wine or even whiskey. . .

        T

        • Tlrelf says:

          Just looked it up and tomorrow is indeed the Ides of March. I hope I don’t fall on my sword before midnight tomorrow and miss the deadline!

          • tlrelf says:

            Fortunately, I did not need to fall on my sword. I exited the amphitheatre without incident. Brutus was nowhere in sight. Neither was my chariot.

            So, Capt. Sully. . .I hope the aliens haven’t tampered with your matrix. . .

  4. Diane Cresswell says:

    After reading Miss Kyle’s letter I can only say ditto.  I was attempting to figure out a story to go with the parameters of the contest…but all I could think of is the movie “Total Recall” in which one of these bores was used to almost wipe out Arnie and girlfriend…however…now that you’ve entered the tunnel of vision and its not narrow…you have again my dear blown us all away with your not so narrow tunnel vision.  Oh yah baby—you’re awesome!  Now what was the word…titaliousbootisomtangboremenotlucious – that’s the one…

    • Isn’t there a Z in there somewhere?  Thank you darling for building a pedestal.  Whether i deserve it only longevity will decide.  I totally recall your talented gifts and wait to read more of them.

  5. Mac Eagan says:

    Lest my introductory comment lead anyone in the wrong direction, let me preface it with, “I love this story.”
    Mike, this is such a departure from the style I have come to expect from you.  When Thornton announced you as the winner of the “You Didn’t Write That” contest, he described you as an impressionistic writer.
    This is not impressionistic or prosaic, as you so often use to impress us.  This is gritty and harsh. But it stays real.
    So often when I read first-person narratives I feel as if I am reading someone’s imaginary adventure; there is some disconnect (or perhaps lack of disconnect) between the author and the story’s narrator.  But your story comes purely from Hicks the narrator, not from Mike Stang the author.
    I also greatly appreciate how you developed a story that stayed within the original guidelines.  The story required a forensic anthropologist and you gave us someone pretending to be one.  No, you gave us someone who really was one, but was pretending about his purpose.
    I see someone going from eternal bridesmaid to polyandrist.

    • Please Mark, one habit at a time.  Thank you for the love.  I know it is different writing for me, but when I wrote it it did not seem different.  I do not think I am evolving  a new writer’s style; maybe just another side I do not pay attention to.  Perhaps the sci-fi genre/alien space thing, which is a stage I rarely act on, put me in the place.  Anyways, glad you liked it.  Waiting on your entry,
      Mike

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