Monday, April 11, 2011

Grollig's Lament (a little prompt fiction)

Genre: Science fiction
Setting: island
people (if any): 4 (no more, no less)
restrictions: no romance

The dictionary in case it's not clear
hu-mans=residents of the planet Earth
Slathery Vitriol=spitting anger
Gloop=slather en masse'
Octagonal orifice=mouth
Splurgy Squoosh=funny noise akin to fart pillow
adamantite=metal used in silly scifi and fantasy as well
Blurg=godlike creature whose name is often taken in vain
Schridling=Alienesque creature/Starcraft swarm inspired
Fecal matter=alien poop
quarkslon=whole bunch, like billion only bigger
Spawnday=day of creature birth
grapple=tentacle like thingiedoobob
grapple bar=tentacle like thingiedoobob's target
microns=teenyweenie time period
oogmutt=just a food item, make up what it looks like if'n you want, I was just typing letters and that's what came out
heirarchs=the guys and gals atop the "hierarchy"
Slatherables=those body parts used to produce and fend off the effects of "slather"
Degleck=sugary delicacy that produces excess slather on those susceptable to its taste
Sweetshard=the reason all Schridlings need to avoid Degleck or suffer premature obesity

The Product:

"Six years your majesties, I've been 6 years in your service". I had to stop at that point and wipe the slather from my shards before it plopped to the green marble floor and melted an unsightly hole into its well polished surface. The hu-mans had a better physiology in some ways; they could drool to their heart's content without so much as lighting a single blade of grass on fire. Of course at this point, hu-mans were only a smallish chapter in a dusty historical tome.

"Six years it is then master Grollig, and time to face the pipers at last. Your accusers stand ready to tear your tale verb from noun; the court only hopes you've had sufficient time to practice the telling of your defense lest you bore us into cutting your floppy from your octagonal orifice well before you've finished".

"I hate my life, I hate them all"! Chanting the silent mantra while the Supreme and his mate giggled over my impending doom was not helping my memory, but it served as an aggression inhibitor. I was good and ready to fascinate the court with a retelling of the events that had brought me to this sad state; by Blurg you'd think after 6 years I'd have a handle on what happened. But were my emotions to run wild, well, an outburst of slathery vitriol would ruin everything, not to mention pit my chitin by spraying gloop while I was shouting my contempt. So my emoticore needed a leash, and utter hatred would have to suffice.

"I am ready" I said with a deep bow as is the custom. And leaning back on my ample tail with a splurgy squoosh, I proceeded to unfold the excuse of a lifetime.

"Yes yes, I was scheduled to be on that island with the rest"! Already I was losing the control battle, emotionally defensive within the very first sentence. I squinted my eye forcing my focus into a pinpoint of dim light. If I were to just erase my view of the audience, perhaps change my approach, less a whiner, more a narrator...I twisted my right headpod and cracked each vertebrae in turn. With a new resolve and modified plan, I started again.

I was sick, it wasn't really my fault. The ship surgeon couldn't help me and had only tossed me into the slather-resistant chamber where I chucked for hours on end. The only effect my imprisonment had was to make me even more ill, the scent of regurgitated slather and melting adamantite combining into a pungent brew that set off the ship's toxicant alarms again and again. It wasn't like I'd wanted to piss off the captain, I wasn't chucking on purpose!

Less whiner more narrator, less whiner...

Of course it took the three chosen more time to prepare the island without me; by the time we were hovering over the hu-man planet I was too weak to function. The motion sickness had passed but my shards were so weakened by my own slather that I could barely chew much less mix epoxy and carry reinforcing rod. So I sat on the ship telepathing encouragement to my comrades in cold suits while they slaved over their task throughout each dark turn of the sun.

Why the scientists had chosen this Blurgforsaken planet was beyond me; it was so hot that we couldn't live outside of our protective gear save within a few kilometers of the planet's poles. And the water...there was water from horizon to horizon, enough to give any Schridling nightmares.

Why a messmate had fallen overboard one afternoon while dumping fecal matter and the moment he touched the surface of the sea, his body exploded into a quarkslon pieces. It may have been my dreaming this very end that had brought on my sickness; the days peering from the windows as we traversed the ocean in search of our target, and the communal shivers experienced while each of the crew imagined what horror would ensue if anything went wrong with our seldom used gravitons, forcing a splashdown into the big untidy.

But enough of the water, the tale had to do with a small piece of land within the great pool of death, and our attempt to use it to make the planet habitable to all of Schridlingkind.

The three had taken twenty turns of the sun to sink pylons deep enough, and another ten turns to fashion grapple bars atop them, strong enough to withstand the pressure of the tug. Had I been well enough to have been with them on the surface, the task would only have gone a little faster, but the result would retell no better.

We all had high hopes once the grapples had snaked from the belly of our craft and wound themselves into the sympatic slots carved into each grapple bar. Even the tug seemed to be on the mark as a loud pop was heard through the hull of the ship, and the three still on the island waved and cheered their approval, rolling their floppies in and out of their orifices like children at a spawnday party.

My guess, based on my limited scientific schooling is that our species' aversion to heat forced our scientists to deny the existence of the planet's molten core (increasingly neurotic beasts that we've become over time), and so they'd never contemplated the result of our flooding a mammoth metallic inferno chamber with frigid seawater.

But I can tell you that it was quite a sight for the first moments; the island lifting off the surface of the sea, its long triangular spike of stone trailing as we pulled it from the ocean floor as if it were a stalk of corn.

The start of destruction wasn't but a few microns after the whirlpool began, the formerly gentle Pacific swells vanishing into an ever larger blue-black hole as a plume of steam shot from its center, on track for the fourth planet in the system.

I thought to wave as my should have been workmates passed the ship's windows while on the front edge of the towering plume, swept as they were from where they'd been triumphantly standing; on the now disintigrated island. But they'd vanished in the blink of an eye, well before I could unfurl my floppy to properly salute their accomplishments. And so it goes, every time I try to be nice something......

Less whiner more narrator, less whiner...

Yes yes, we took off in a blaze, barely escaping the gravitational pull of the collapsing orb. Yes perhaps we should have stayed long enough to have reversed the process if it were possible. But I really don't think we had a chance once the plug had been pulled, the damn tub...err...sea was going to drain like it or not and nothing we could have done would have changed our bad luck.

"I would be happy to join another expeditionary force" I muttered in conclusion, knowing that there was really no point in offering a known failure's helping hand. But once I'd refocused my eye on the audience I knew I was doomed so I had little to lose through patronizing my heirarchs. There wasn't a dry eye in the house, all my blather had done was to have rememorialized "the three who vaporized", and remade myself into "the one that got away".

Thank Blurg I'm the best oogmutt chef in the 6 planet system or my floppy would have long since seen the bottom of a circular file and my shards would have been tinked from my octagonal orifice one by one. As it is, I have all my slatherables intact, and if it weren't for the slotted and pinned shackles on my tail, I'd be living a fine and free life.

It wasn't my fault!! But of course, you know that. Oh, and pass the Degleck please, my sweetshard needs a fix! I always get hungry aften spinning a tale.

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