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Notch’s Publishing House
copyright ©2017 wren cavanagh, Junior Sokolov, Notch’s Publishing house. all rights reserved
Authors assumes no liability for the content of these short stories.
They are work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Look to the stars
The First Dead Man
Who cooked this?
Ain’t Looking Good
A wet mess
A Wet Hot Mess
Hell of a fish bowl
Beach front property
Bibliography - Resources
Look to the stars
The blood splattered the surgical gown and sleeves up to her elbows and painting them bright red, it speckled the protective glasses on her face. She snapped off the surgical gloves loose and slipped the gown off her shoulder and over them before folding the ensemble into a ball and tossing it in the medical waste bin.
“He’ll make it.”
“Yes, he will, great work Zara, outstanding surgical skills. Glad you are on our team.”
“Teamwork, he’ll need prosthesis.”
“Our engineering room along with the 3d printer will take care of it. And once we get back to civilization they can grow new legs for him.”
“How many people are left on Honeycomb?”
“Oh, nobody’s else is leaving. It’s a prison colony after all. We are just going to give a ride to seven miners who finished their sentence.”
“Who was that boy who brought Haru aboard, who saved his life?”
“That boy turned legally into a man a few months ago; he’s the law down there. Thank God we left him some help, hate to see Quint get hurt. There are rumors that harder kind of criminals than debtors will be shipped to that prison.”
Zara nodded, “Ten minutes break? Then health check the miners?”
“Make it twenty we earned it.”
Zara Dean cleaned up, stepped into the break from and fell into the soft couch with a sigh of relief, she stared at the stars outside the large window. The sky full of stars and swirling nebulae, no horizon to be seen. She felt free at last. Free of the worst orbital station on the wrong side of Saturn. Free of the crime, the sameness, the dullness.
“Chance of a lifetime, Zara. Don’t fuck this up.” She whispered then stretched to loosen the stiff muscles and went back to work.
Angry Mary as everyone, who has spent any time with her calls her, is to her bones an angry sociopath suffused in selfish grief for the death of the only person she had always benefited from, and at times cared for. She’s also carrier. Her body a ship within a ship. Her passengers enjoy the delights of their new environment, new foods, and new exciting events. Her passengers are not good guests however and she sprints for relief to the small , nearly claustrophobic worker’s toilet right outside the dinning room, an unceremonious moorage, but her travelers don’t know and don’t care.
She sits on the small toilet, blows her bowels open and unleashes millions of tiny cysts, so small that they’d be almost invisible to the human eye, into the ship’s sewer system. From her plumbing into the ship’s plumbing, and three floors down from where she sits, there is a small fissure in one of the pipes, about half as large as a grain of rice. It’s there where the travelers step outside of what had been a predetermined tour and enter into the Triton’s living environment.
Mary doesn’t know that, but she’d smile if anyone had told her; she knows is that she’s sick and wants to share as much of the nasty as she can before she dies or gets home. And right now, the likelihood of her making it back alive isn’t looking good. Like the other six miners who completed their sentences, she boarded the ship for the return trip, but still has to work a minimum four hours a day to pay for it. After years of mining, it’s practically a vacation. She choose, demanded kitchen duty, with revenge in mind.
Now she wondered if she’d live to see the results, and in the tiny confine her face breaks, her chin trembles and her eyes begin to sting, she almost cries, but with a small growl full of rage and a curse on her lips she brings herself under control.
“Fuck. You. All.” She whimpers.
She’s going back home with little money, to nobody and nothing but whatever her mother might have left to her in her will. In her mind, she’s the wronged party. She was hoping to hurt folks back home, but it looks like she’ll have to settle for the people closest at hand, which suits her well enough.
“Gotta work with what you got.”
She gets up, fastens her pants, and is about to open the door when a horrifying new sensation hits her, something fresh, and new seems to be enjoying her body. It slither fast, almost races up one of the large veins in her arm. With a gasps she almost collapses to the floor, a wall fixture is the only thing holding her up. She stays like that, rigid with fear, skin chalk white, her lips draw down and back in a grimace disgust. It’s minutes before she can move again. Until at last, when her hands stop shacking and she can breathe normally again she opens the restroom’s door and walks back to the kitchen.
Cookie, a wiry, fast and precise man, who somehow never seems to gain weight is eying the temperature on the ovens warming up for the daily bake. He looks up, doesn’t do a double take; he’s too cagey for that, but he doesn’t look away either. And the look in his eyes change to that of a man who’s looking at a sick dog.
Mary knows Cookie doesn’t care for her much, he recoils ever so slightly whenever she comes near, usually looks at her from the corner of his eyes or not at all when he talks to her.
“Wash your hands?”
“Sure did, Cookie,” she lies, and begins to slice the bread.
“You look sick. I don’t want sick people in my kitchen.”
The First Dead Man