I’m testing the water with this post to see how easy (or hard) the formatting is.
The concept of this story came to me in a dream and, as I woke up long before the end, I have no idea where the journey will take me. Hopefully I’ll make up something marginally interesting along the way which might even float a boats or two.
******************
Leaving a trail of billowing red dust in its wake the schooner skims rapidly across the barren surface of a parched terrain veined with subaerial desiccation cracks. Beneath its keel, levitated dust combines with the positive ions driving the craft to form ripples of heat haze just below the level of the cloud swirl.
‘Mother Board reports she recorded a strange signal from thirty kilometres overhead.’
‘The… stratosphere?’
They stand together, a man and a young girl, leaning over the bridge-rail, gazing in the direction of what was once known as Guam.
‘Yes, my child. The stratosphere,’ replies the man, his gaze fixed firmly upon the horizon. ‘Do you recall the designation of all the layers?’
‘I think so. Yes. Thermosphere, Mesosphere…’
The girl pauses briefly to collect her thoughts. ‘Um, the t… troposphere? And the exosphere.’
‘That is correct. Very good, my child.’
‘Could it have been another vessel?’
‘It is most unlikely. However, I have asked Mother to remain vigilant.’
The girl turns to face her father, gently smoothing out a crease in her yellow cotton dress with the palm of her right hand. ‘A glitch, perhaps?’
‘It is most likely an energy signature born of an asteroid’s death throes,’ suggests the man.
Approximately five miles to leeward a giant steam vortex swirls counterclockwise.
‘The solar sails will soon be fully charged. We must find shelter before this day is too old,’ says the man. In the east, the swollen orb of day continues its slow ascent.
‘Would you by chance know the location of my parasol, father?’
‘It is in the aft cabin, I believe.’
‘No. I have already checked there.’
‘Then perhaps it has been recycled. We shall ask Mother Board to fabricate another.’
‘Perhaps I could create one myself with -’
‘No, my child. The rings are not playthings. Please, leave the task to Mother.’
‘I am sorry, father, I -’
‘It is quite alright, my child. No harm will come of idle thought alone.’
Observing the look of remorse in his daughters eyes the man tenderly places his fingertips to her cheek. ‘I must say that I really do admire your new dress.’
‘Why, thank you, father.’ She twirls in a flurry of lace frills and, smiling coyly, ends her performance with a curtsey. ‘It is fashioned on early twentieth century. Mother Board found the design amongst her archives.’
‘Indeed? Well it really is most splendid.’
The girl returns her attention to the red landscape. ‘It seems to me that there is less dust present in the sky. The winds would appear to be quietening down at last.’
‘I can still see a number of plumes to the west… intermixing with cloud. You see, over there.’ He waves a finger to port. ‘Do you see the clouds in a rippled pattern? Observe how their bottommost edges are tainted pink by the -’
‘You made the very same observation only last week, father.’
‘Did I,’ he replies nonchalantly. ‘I really must endeavour to be more original in my topics of conversation.’
‘It is quite alright, father. I know that it is not your fault,’ replies the girl and places her hand upon the braided sleeve of his navy blue jacket. ‘Tell me, what is this location we fast approach?’
‘It is called the Mariana Trench. It was once the deepest point in the old world's oceans. Now it is just the deepest scar in the crust of a dead world.’
‘Do you imagine that it might still contain water?’
‘It is possible. After all, at its southern end it is close to four miles deep.’
‘Four… miles?’
‘Six thousand metres.’
‘Then we must go take a look.’
‘It could be dangerous, my child. I do not know what strange creatures we might encounter lurking in its depths.’
‘Then we really must go and take a look,’ says the girl gleefully as she fingers a ringlet of her flaxen hair.
‘In which case we must gain altitude. We shall break through the upper cloud layer to ensure our rings receive a full charge of unadulterated solar energy.’
‘I do so hope that we will have sufficient time for a thorough investigation of the area.’
From out his waistcoat pocket the man retrieves a fob watch, the entire outer surface of which is engraved with runic designs. ‘Time is all that we have, my child.’ He flips open the hinged gold casing and peers at the watch’s pearl-white face. ‘It is still three days before I must begin a new cycle. It should afford us ample time for our little spelunking adventure.’
‘And if we are unfortunate enough as to run short of time we can always return to explore anew.’
‘Yes, indeed we could. An yet nothing that we do together is ever quite the same the second time around.’
‘Then, if there is a need for a second visit, I will endeavour to maintain the pretence that it is my first time also.’
The concept of this story came to me in a dream and, as I woke up long before the end, I have no idea where the journey will take me. Hopefully I’ll make up something marginally interesting along the way which might even float a boats or two.
******************
Leaving a trail of billowing red dust in its wake the schooner skims rapidly across the barren surface of a parched terrain veined with subaerial desiccation cracks. Beneath its keel, levitated dust combines with the positive ions driving the craft to form ripples of heat haze just below the level of the cloud swirl.
‘Mother Board reports she recorded a strange signal from thirty kilometres overhead.’
‘The… stratosphere?’
They stand together, a man and a young girl, leaning over the bridge-rail, gazing in the direction of what was once known as Guam.
‘Yes, my child. The stratosphere,’ replies the man, his gaze fixed firmly upon the horizon. ‘Do you recall the designation of all the layers?’
‘I think so. Yes. Thermosphere, Mesosphere…’
The girl pauses briefly to collect her thoughts. ‘Um, the t… troposphere? And the exosphere.’
‘That is correct. Very good, my child.’
‘Could it have been another vessel?’
‘It is most unlikely. However, I have asked Mother to remain vigilant.’
The girl turns to face her father, gently smoothing out a crease in her yellow cotton dress with the palm of her right hand. ‘A glitch, perhaps?’
‘It is most likely an energy signature born of an asteroid’s death throes,’ suggests the man.
Approximately five miles to leeward a giant steam vortex swirls counterclockwise.
‘The solar sails will soon be fully charged. We must find shelter before this day is too old,’ says the man. In the east, the swollen orb of day continues its slow ascent.
‘Would you by chance know the location of my parasol, father?’
‘It is in the aft cabin, I believe.’
‘No. I have already checked there.’
‘Then perhaps it has been recycled. We shall ask Mother Board to fabricate another.’
‘Perhaps I could create one myself with -’
‘No, my child. The rings are not playthings. Please, leave the task to Mother.’
‘I am sorry, father, I -’
‘It is quite alright, my child. No harm will come of idle thought alone.’
Observing the look of remorse in his daughters eyes the man tenderly places his fingertips to her cheek. ‘I must say that I really do admire your new dress.’
‘Why, thank you, father.’ She twirls in a flurry of lace frills and, smiling coyly, ends her performance with a curtsey. ‘It is fashioned on early twentieth century. Mother Board found the design amongst her archives.’
‘Indeed? Well it really is most splendid.’
The girl returns her attention to the red landscape. ‘It seems to me that there is less dust present in the sky. The winds would appear to be quietening down at last.’
‘I can still see a number of plumes to the west… intermixing with cloud. You see, over there.’ He waves a finger to port. ‘Do you see the clouds in a rippled pattern? Observe how their bottommost edges are tainted pink by the -’
‘You made the very same observation only last week, father.’
‘Did I,’ he replies nonchalantly. ‘I really must endeavour to be more original in my topics of conversation.’
‘It is quite alright, father. I know that it is not your fault,’ replies the girl and places her hand upon the braided sleeve of his navy blue jacket. ‘Tell me, what is this location we fast approach?’
‘It is called the Mariana Trench. It was once the deepest point in the old world's oceans. Now it is just the deepest scar in the crust of a dead world.’
‘Do you imagine that it might still contain water?’
‘It is possible. After all, at its southern end it is close to four miles deep.’
‘Four… miles?’
‘Six thousand metres.’
‘Then we must go take a look.’
‘It could be dangerous, my child. I do not know what strange creatures we might encounter lurking in its depths.’
‘Then we really must go and take a look,’ says the girl gleefully as she fingers a ringlet of her flaxen hair.
‘In which case we must gain altitude. We shall break through the upper cloud layer to ensure our rings receive a full charge of unadulterated solar energy.’
‘I do so hope that we will have sufficient time for a thorough investigation of the area.’
From out his waistcoat pocket the man retrieves a fob watch, the entire outer surface of which is engraved with runic designs. ‘Time is all that we have, my child.’ He flips open the hinged gold casing and peers at the watch’s pearl-white face. ‘It is still three days before I must begin a new cycle. It should afford us ample time for our little spelunking adventure.’
‘And if we are unfortunate enough as to run short of time we can always return to explore anew.’
‘Yes, indeed we could. An yet nothing that we do together is ever quite the same the second time around.’
‘Then, if there is a need for a second visit, I will endeavour to maintain the pretence that it is my first time also.’
