Rapture in the 22nd century

The prompt  over at Write Anything  this week looks at what the end of the world. (Given it was slated in for last Saturday evening.)

As always, this is in first draft format.  I have picked up a blog serial I used to play with surrounding Turion ( see below for more info about it)

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Turion wound an extra layer of think cloth round the stubs of his fingers and palm, allowing the ends of his digits dextrous freedom. The deserts’ chilled air had begun to creep into the cockpit and quietly numbed his extremities.

His constant companion, the tiny sound system only played three ballads and sat beside his head as he worked. He hummed to his mothers favourite philosophers fish bowl song. The words to Mr Floyd's song had never made much sense to him; but he adored his mother and the way she sang it. The light was beginning to fade and he knew he needed to work quickly to secure the spare parts the Village needed. A tiny screw fell onto the rusting flooring of the shuttle. Turions shoulder protested as he twisted to retrieve it, secreting it in his cargo pants.Although he thought the elders mightn’t be worried about his keeping it; Turion wasn’t going to take any chances. he had plenty of little projects which he could use extra parts like the screw in.

The next philosophers work thumped out its tune proclaiming joy for the end of the world. Turion grinned. For learned people, Mr Floyd and Mr Rem and had a grim grasp on their future; his past. Turion looked about the cockpit and wondered what other secrets from the 21st century lay hidden inside the wreckage. He squinted at the wiring above his head. “It will have to wait till tomorrow.” He twisted his tool delicately.  “There you are my beauty.” Turions face lit up as he carefully wriggled the circuit board free from its cradle. 

He tucked it into his backpack and picked his way through the field littered with battle-scared and defunct robots and pieces of transporters. Apart from Chrishmash; May the 24th or Rapture Night was his favourite festival. He hoped to boost the sound from his system so that the entire Village square could share the three ballads from the 21st Century. Perhaps this year, the storyteller would share more about life in the citadel, or about the perfect life humans led in the 20th century. Turion rubbed his malformed legs. Perhaps this year, his mother would speak about the endless water inside the citadel. He squeezed himself and grinned. Turion didn’t mind who told a story. Rapture Night was perfect.

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This is a first draft.

PROMPT: 

The end of the world has been penciled in by a number of religions and groups. How is your character preparing for it?

Authors Note: some background history which has come to me about Turion - in no particular order here are some of the other short stories about Turions world.

Wish you were here
Stranger
Pining for the moon
Chrismis

The beginning 

Ana Asraf 

Story inspired by the [Fiction Friday] prompt at Write Anything  and submitted to JM Strother’s #FridayFlash via Twitter. 

I do plan for this story to be recorded and posted up for Spoken Sunday via Audio Boo at a later stage.... whether it happens or not is a different matter.

Ana-Asef (Sorry)

PROMPT: The bag was empty except for a smudged, slip of paper which said, “Sorry.” 

Marilla stared at the eloquently formed letters and allowed an angry, self pitying tear to slip down her face. The bag she held was empty, except for that smudged slip of paper on which the words “Sorry” said far more than her society dared allow.

A dry wind languished around her ankles as she heard the autumn leaves rustle outside and the door quietly close. Her lone, constant companions solid presence behind her both comforted and angered her. Despite her advanced age, Jhodis withered hand clasped strongly around hers and took the slip of paper away. “Don’t judge your mother. She is doing what she needs to . As are you.”

Marilla flung the gaudy market bag down. Although a woman of high status, who personally upheld the cities inquisitor laws, Marillas mother had found a way to maintain both societal rules and her family bonding through this coded warning. A further tear threatened to spill over the closely guarded barrier Marilla had built against gossip and discovery.  How her own mother could do  this, after all the trials and coldness she had already endured in front of her family to given the opportunity to rejoin them next month. She aught to have suspected she would not be welcomed back; not after the grim expression her mothers face had taken after her last visit and inspection.

“Lady Marilla. We need to get out. Your mothers message is clear. City Sentinels are on their way.”

Chubby hands clung to Marillas milk-white smooth knees. A little face pushed his sticky mouth along her calf.  “Mumma?”  Marilla brushed the tear away as she swept down to pick her son up and hugged him tightly. She whirled him about and sat on an overstuffed couch; toppling the pillows and other bedding objects to the floor.  Sparse but exquisite furniture within her apartment echoed the once richly decorated interior, a constant reminder of how her family cut her off financially for her decisions. Marilla buried her face into Turions squirming, giggling form, breathing in his sweet child perfume. “I would never betray you Turion. Not my own blood.”

“I have some satchels packed; for a situation such as this. But we must leave now Marilla.” With the help of one of the cities only legal midwives, Marilla had hidden Turions existence through her pregnancy and now for nearly two years, until it was clear that his legs weren’t ever going to be perfect and that no matter what she did, he would never be able to be introduced into court or her world.  She allowed another tear for his sake to trickle down her face. For the sake of a limp he would be sentenced to expulsion from the Citadel, to make what life he might in the outer realms.  Alone. Depending on the leniency of the Three Judges, her own fate might not fare any better, especially as she had hidden his malformed existence for so long.

She’d never questioned the priesthood's teachings on the Way of Life until she felt a new one move inside her. Women of her social stature were chosen to carry the next perfect generation where every embryo  was  genetically manipulated and the final design passed by the council before implanting. At each stage of pregnancy, it is reviewed, manipulated and rejected if not perfect. At the time ordained by the high priests, the new life is surgically removed and raised by The Nursery until they are nine months old. Its only then that the are returned to the mother to be raised in the ways of the Citadel.  One chance encounter; one passionate night; and Lady Marillas well planned life had the opportunity to change.  Marilla chose not to terminate, initially out of denial, then as a stand against her alotted destiny as she began to question the teachings of the Citadel priesthood.

Jhodis arms opened and beckoned the boy to her. “Not a moment longer, or these past eighteen months will be for nothing. Come I’ll hide you in the lower city. They won’t ever suspect a Lady to consider going there.”

“And from there?”

“Its enough we get you and Turion out of the high city safely. We can plan the future later; but you need to come now, if Turion is to have one at all.”

As part of my creative process, I have undertaken a challange ( inspired by fellow writers Paul, Jodi and Ben) to sketch once a day before I being writing.  This is an image which came to me of Turions Mother and part of her story came to me as I drew.  More of my drawings can be found daily posted here and more of Turions story here.  Though I hope this story stands by itself and remains a comment on the outrageous birthing issues which exist at the moment.

The Beginning

Prompt: A secondary character says this somewhere in your story; “He’s the cutest little boy. Makes it that much sadder, doesn’t it?”

Her hair sodden with sweat and arms fatigued from straining on the bedsheets which now lay torn about the room; Marilla rested her head back on the pillow and controlled her ragged breathing. The tiny, bloodied wet form lay between her breasts, its heartshaped face looking up at her with undisguised love.

“We have little time Lady Marilla. We need to get you cleaned up. Destroy the bedding. Cally will be here shortly to help me bind your figure. It will reshape back into your former slim self soon enough and you can be rid of the bandages. You should be able to walk out of here with your usual grace. You hardly tore at all; no need for stitches..” The shapeless figure in flowing robes busied herself about glancing only momentarily to the heaving body upon the bed.

Marillas dark eyes looked at wonder at the little form she had endangered her family, herself, her social position to be here and yet when she held him the agony and fear around labor, the months of hiding her changing shape, the cruel whispers about court were all worth this moment.

Without looking up from her tidying, the midwife commented, “It can’t see you, you know – you’re just a blob”

Marilla ignored her. The gaze was so intense. So full of hidden messages.

“Cally will be here shortly to take.. it away. You’ll have your life back again. Here, hand me … it…., I’ll wrap it up and get it ready to go.”

Marilla held her breath as her heart hammered. She clung to her baby.

“He needs me I can’t give him away. Not now.”

“Lady Marilla, you are talking nonsense; if you beg my pardon. This has been agreed, spoken about. Your parents have gone to great lengths to conceal your…indiscretions. You owe them.”

“My indiscretions? Is that what this about? I am to be punished for….”

“I’m sorry my Lady. I have my orders .You have your duties. God has punished you for your indiscretions with the pain of labour. You must hand ..it over and return to your place.”

“I can’t. I can’t abandon him. Not after what I have just been through. There has to be another way.”

With eyes cast down the figure replied, “Lady, I am one of the only tolerated midwives within the great city now. No-one….. has babies the way you have just done, not now. They have their new ways.”

“Has anyone though that these new ways might not be the best ways? We are supposed to be at the pinnacle of civilization but our lives are controlled at every step.My eyes have been opened. Its as if I can truly see now.”

A thin wail erupted from the small form.

“Why is he doing that?”
“He’s hungry Lady.”
“Well ……feed him.”
“If you are going to keep him, then you will have to feed him”
“What? How?”

The midwifes shoulder slumped. Even the most basic knowledge of birth and life had been lost to this big city and its new ways. She looked into the fiercely determined eyes of Lady Marilla. For one of them, she mused to herself, she had shown more courage during her labour than she’d ever seen before. Perhaps there was hope.

“You want to keep him? Do you understand the dangers you will put your family and yourself in if you do? Do know what they will do to you if they catch you with a less than perfect child?”

With a new determined jut of her chin Marilla pleaded. “He’s so helpless I can’t leave him. I have to keep him. There has to be a way to integrate him. They’ll never notice in a few years. He’s so perfect…. and no manipulation or interference. Certainly flys in the face of…..”

“Lady, I must remind you of the citys laws. What you…..what I …. have done is treasonous. If we were to be caught here…..”

“I understand.” Mechanically she droned the edict thrust upon her from a young age. “A new life has to be genetically manipulated and the final design passed by the council. At each stage, it is manipulated, rejected if not perfect, surgically removed at its due date and raised by The Nursery until they are nine months old. Its only then that the are returned to the mother……. This is the way we have all been told it is with life. But what I have just done. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“Even though I am tolerated within the city, I know my time here as a midwife is limited. My kind is simply no longer needed. We have the new ways now. Come now – hand him over. The less you hold him the better for both of you.”

Marillas eyes desperately searched her midwifes face.“So we have to hide him for nine months. I have already hidden away for near that time.”

“Your parents Lady. I have my orders.”

The midwife couldn’t look into Marillas pleading eyes any longer.

“I’m sorry, of course. I understand how tenuous your professional standing must be with these laws. You have risked your position enough as it is.”

A soft knock at the door broke the silence.

Opening it a crack, Jodi nodded to the figure outside and allowed her to slip in.”Its Cally. Lady Marilla. She has come to dispose of your indiscretions. Your parents will want to see its been properly taken care of.”

With an awkward bob, Cally breathily murmured, “Lady Marilla. I hope your experience wasn’t too…… “she cleared her throat and looked away. “I’ve come on my orders.”

She held her arms out toward the baby. “He’s the cutest little boy. Makes it that much sadder, doesn’t it?”

Marilla clutched him closer to her chest. “Hes not leaving with you. I’ll deal with this.I’ll leave the city, do anything, but I won’t give him up.”

Callys brow furrowed with concern and confusion, looking towards Jodi for guidance.

“Go to the Nursery, find one of the discarded bodies and take it as proof to the parents. They won’t question it. Then come back here. We have to plan a long nine months of subterfuge”

With her free arm Marilla touched Jhodis shoulder. “Why are you helping me? Why now? What about my parents?”

“Like you said my Lady. They control all aspects of our life. As a midwife I am living on borrowed time as it is. You have reminded me that birth isn’t a medical experience; that it doesn’t have to be perfect. Who has the right to tell a woman what is natural or right with the creation of life?…What will you name him?”

"Turion… the battler."

Authors Note: some background history which has come to me about Turion - in no particular order here are some of the other short stories about Turions world.
Wish you were here
Stranger
Pining for the moon
Chrismis

Turions Chrishmis

Invent a holiday for which your character is a big fan.

I am revisiting the world of Turion - several centuries in the post apocalyptic future. For other stories on him click here

Humming and pinning scraps of crinkly silver paper on a wire triangular frame, Turion worked methodically to cover the shape with the fluttering material. He stepped back and looked at his work and frowned. He rummaged in the open box and brought out a selection of socks and proceeded to artistically arranged them on the upper level of the shape.

He suddenly grew sad placing the last one on the triangle. Last year, his mother had been here and she had shared this activity with him. He stood poised holding onto the sock as if by letting it go, may let go the memory of his mother.

“Well lad you’ve got it looking very festive, well done.”

Uncle Rishe clamped his beefy hand onto Turions bony shoulder and stared at the silhouette.

“The others will be here soon and it will be time to start our party. Here have one of these.”

Turion grinned madly as he was handed a wooden toe shape. He blew into the whistle and laughed at the high pitched squeak which it emitted.

“That’s the spirit lad.” Uncle Rishe honked his Whistle Toe and linked arms with Turion spinning him about.

“Sorry boy - forgot about your dicky legs. Better sit down hey?”

Uncle Rishe cleared a space on the couch and guided Turion onto the cushions. He beamed up at Riche with undisguised love. Apart from his mother, Riche was the only one who treated him as a normal person; ignoring his crippled legs.

The table was set with red and green trimmings and blaster bons lay on each placemat. Turion couldn’t decide what the best part about Chrishmis was, but was certain setting off the explosives in the bons ranked highly.

Rishe strode over to the table lifting a large platter from the middle of it and brought it over to Turion.

“What to you think lad? Not as good as your mothers; but then she had a gift for cooking and preparing protein in the right way.”

Turin peered over the top of the silver tray. Perched in the middle was a protein log, shaped like large bird. multi coloured sticks, shaped like feathers, protruded wildly out on all angles.

“I never understood why we do this or what this is about Uncle Rishe?”

“Humm” he said, scratching his stubbly beard. “Me neither. Why would anyone eat a bird is beyond me.They’re so tough! You know, as a lad I tried bird – I boiled it and a stone in a pot for hours. Ended up eating the stone – it was softer.”

Roared with laughter slapped Turion on the back

“Drink up lad Merry Chishmis!” Riche handed him a mug of frothy Ek-Knock, “ Its my own brew. It’ll know your socks off!”

Turion sipped it and grimly smiled – it was sweet and burnt his tongue with the acidity.

A weedy voice sung a well known Chrishmis tune as it entered the hallway.

“…..as Shelters washed their socks at night….. Text the whore with poison ivy……….”

“Harry! Good of you to pop by.” Shouted Riche , now tanked up with the festive spirit. “ have a Ek-Knock.”

A low rumble of voices heralded the arrival of the rest of the Lost Folk family. Although none of them related by blood, survival in the junkyards surrounded the outer city walls brought them closer.

Turions grin widened as he greeted each person, his eyes sparkling in the flickering of the fireplace.

“Now, before we have dinner, whose up for a game of Senter Claws?”

Squeals and choruses of “Me Me Me!” Filled the tiny room.

Uncle Riche held his hands out to quieten the ruckus and looked slyly over at Turion, arching his eyebrow at him. “Turion is this years Senter Claws – so you’d better watch out, he’s coming to town to get you!”

The children shrieked with delight and ran off through the house to find a secure hiding spot.

Uncle Riche handed Turion a red sack filled with odd shaped packages and smiled. “Go get em boy!” As Turion turned, Riche plonked a large pointed red hat on his head.

Turions face ached with smiling. Since his mother had been kidnapped he could not recall a smile crossing his face since. He hobbled out the door on his search for the children. Seeing a small foot poking behind a chair, he grabbed it. “ Roar !– got you!”

Squeals of laughter from the lucky captive as she stuck her hand out toward Turion. He reached inside the sack and drew out a gift.

“Happy Chrishmis!”

Stranger in a Strange Land

Stranger in a Strange Land

Our challange this week: Pick a small, inexpensive toy from your childhood. Now give it to someone from a foreign (or alien) culture. What do they do with it?


Turion shifted the metallic carcass of the warp drive from the tangled mess inside the cockpit and crouched studying the layout. It had taken him two days to wriggle and worm his way through to this part in the wreckages in the dumps surrounding the citadel. Past wars and the crumbling of earths economy and place within the Empire had forced many merchants to simply dump their entire ships and cargo and walk back through the shifting sands to what little security they could hope to gain from the citadels high walls.

Over the centuries since, the Lost folk and the Condemned had found homes and safety within parts of the dumps. Scrappers were essentially lazy and would only salvage what they could see; a blessing for survivors like him; who spent their time fossicing around deep inside the dump, retrieving precious circuit boards and robotics to sell in the Twixt Markets.


Frowning, Turion realized that most of the easily portable and saleable things had been taken. He shrugged his knapsack from his aching shoulders and looked about for somewhere comfortable to rest. With nightfall approaching it wasn’t safe to be out alone. Chewing on a corner of protein loaf, he reasoned he may be able unscrew some of the larger circuit boards and take out the usable components. Although they would not have their stamped numbers, some of the merchants at the Twixt Markets weren’t fussy with details.


Having set up a rudimentary camp and ensuring the only entry was jammed closed for safety, Turion set about using what little sunlight there was to begin unscrewing panels to reveal wires and boards behind them. Out of idle curiosity he opened one of the crew lockers on the side wall. In addition to containing the normal crumbling matter, laying on its side was a clear plastic vessel with a tiny packet inside it.


Gingerly picking it up Turion turned it over screwing his eyes trying to decipher the spidery wording. With a laugh, he realized it was written in ancient Earthonian English. His mother had been insistent he learn this dead language and it was only when he was introduced to the Philosophers Music of Mr Flyod and the Shifting Rocks did he begin to appreciate his lessons.

“Sea-Monkeys® are a true miracle of nature. They exist in suspended animation inside their tiny eggs for many years. The instant-life crystals, in which the eggs are enclosed, preserve their viability and help to extend still further their un-hatched life span! Sea-Monkeys are real Time-Travelers asleep in biological time capsules for their strange journey into the future!”

Turion began to shake with excitement. He only understood half of what he had read, but realized he had uncovered survivors from ancient Earth, cleverly held in stasis until they were released. Turning the packet over to reveal more instructions, he worked out that they had to be immersed in water to unlock the sleep program.

The pictures showed pink smiling creatures similar to the Urath scrappers he had met. Shaking the little packet, Turion wondered how many water creatures it contained, how many had survived their centuries long sleep and if somehow they were distant cousins of the Urath. Snorting, Turion laughed; he’d never seen a Urath smile like the pictures on the packet, but he hoped they’d be as strong and single minded. The long shadows made it impossible to read any further and the strain of translating had given Turion a headache.

With is head spinning with possibilities, Turion curled up attempting to sleep. If these survivors could access their memories from ancient Earth, they would be an incredible resource for the Lost folk. He had so many questions on his own! Surely once they saw the degradation of Earth, its fall from grace in the Empire, coupled with the inequities within the class system, they would be more than happy to join the Lost folk and their rebellion. Shivering, Turion hugged himself, drifting off to sleep with visions of battalions of pink smiling Urath heading the frontal charge towards the citadel.

Pining for the Moon

Mondays Musical Musings

A story inspired ( or begun) by listening to:

REM
Night Swimming

"Pining for the moon...... Side by side in orbit."

Turion could see the moon through a small portal in his hiding space. Through half closed eyes, he could nearly see his mothers face turned up watching its path. The night sky was clear at the moment – but in this moment of serenity, it spelt danger. The catchers are due to fly over soon, searching for slaves.

Turion allowed past images to wash over him as he crouched, waiting. His mother had loved the moon, her pure white skin bathed in its radiance on the rare occasions she had dropped her veil. Distant memories of the citadel, of her dancing in the moonlight, her gown barely concealing her most private parts. Turion flushed; but not because he was ashamed of forbidden public view of any womans body, but for the realization that there were two worlds living side by side – in orbit; so different, so apart in every aspect and yet co-existing within a half day journey. The flush of embarrassment turned to anger and self blame. If he had never been born, his mother would be safe in the citadel. She sacrificed all to hide him, ending up with amongst the Lostfolk, far from any safety and comforts.

A blast of hot wind spraying sand into his eyes focused his mind on the mission. As the hairs on his withered arm prickled, the com unit he had patched into the catchers frequency crackled, heralding the squadrons eminent fly over. The bait spotted, two catchers arrived in their small transporters, the fine dust swirling outward from the engine boosters. Reaching out to the seemingly unsuspecting victims with their mechanical claws, the catchers sought out their slaves with meticulous agility. Aware of their impending capture, the victims ran screaming into the maze of wrecks, catchers in hot pursuit.

A flare shot up from deep within the hulking wrecks in the garbage dumps signaling the diversion. Ropes buried in the sand pulled upwards, forming a twisted network above and below the transporters. Confidently laughing at the simplicity of this failed trap, the catchers directed their transporters upwards dragging on ropes in an attempt to break free using the strength of their machines. Their assured attitude soon turned to panic as more ropes flung up and around their transporters. A mess of wire tension rope, nets and thick twined rope quickly captured the machines and their operators.

Hopelesly tangled, the catchers tore at the ropes with their soft hands in an attempt to break free. A dozen Lostfolk swarmed the transporters , their angry hands pulling at the catchers bodies, forcing them to the ground. Pent up frustration and grief, retribution for stolen loved ones fueled their limbs as they punched, kicked and pounded the catchers prone bodies, ripping their uniforms and flesh.

As one, they stood back, horrified at their actions; this had not been part of the plan. The bloodied shapes married now to the sand and dust. Turion hobbled past them, angry at their weakness.

“They have done far worse to our loved ones. Who knows what horrors the Taken have endured? Get the transporters untangled, we only have a few moments to get them operational before they will be noted as missing.”

Turions fierce energy matched his appearance. Disguised now as a Catcher. He stood amongst the Lost as their only glimmer of hope of finding any of the Taken or of gaining any closure to their disappearances. He had argued his place on the mission, for although his withered arm only held two fingers – they were strong and more nimble than others. He had compensated for his rolling gaint caused by a shortened leg and walked confidently, with a slight limp. His knowledge gathered of the catchers and trading with the scrappers gave him the best blue print of what was beyond the lost city and into the gates of the citadel. Turion knew that without him, anyonelse would be running blindly.

With one transporter free, he and the other volunteers took their places. They did not need to act terrified as they sat in the cages behind Turion. The other transporter would be stripped down parts sold to the scrappers and the remains recycled for the Villages use.

Having studied the coms and lax protocols the catchers undertook, Turion quickly contacted the squadron leader, cockily telling them that he had captured three young ones. He excused the other catcher telling them it had taken chase of a family through the scrap yard further south. Guttural laughter and jibes let Turion know that he had taken the right approach. It would give the Lostfolk time to hide the other transporter and dispose of the bodies, before they drifted into the sea of sand.

He had enough time to manage the rudimentaries of flight before the rendezvous with the rest of the catchers. Scores of hours of on the simulators he found on the hulks assisted, but nothing could replace the handling of actual flight as the transporter stumbled around the airspace in a drunken fashion. Speeding back to the compound, Turion could hear the frightened cries of the newly captured in other transporters; screaming in terror. Turion shut his ears from them. There was nothing he could do for them at this point as his goal was to free them all; find what had happened to his mother and if she still lived, to free her.

Wish you were here...

Prompt: Insert this song lyric into your fiction: 'We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after a year.'

This first draft has been removed as it has been chosen to be included in my 2008 Anthology and is under consideration for inclusion on a collaborative one with Jodi and Paul.

These will be available here - so do pop over!