There was a certain name to the color of the sky he saw above him, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember it. God, it was beautiful. Late afternoon blue. Maybe that was the name. He knew it wasn’t but it sounded good, nonetheless. It seemed to fit. A color not too light, but not dark either. It was absolutely perfect. He hadn’t seen a sky like this since he was a kid. And for some reason the thought suddenly appeared in his head, that that was the whole point of him seeing it now: To remind him of things that used to be. Whatever that meant, he thought shaking his head.

He realized that he was lying on his back looking straight up into the endless celestial dome. No wonder the blue was all he had seen. The cool, tickle of the grass against the back of his neck had given the secret away.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, the scent of new mown grass drifted in from somewhere far-away on a pale breeze, and like the view of the sky had been, so too was the scent perfect.

Propping up on his elbows, he looked around from what he now realized, was a hilltop vantage point. It seemed like the view was open for miles, not a building in sight. Just calm rolling lowland terrain (“Hill Country” he remembered from somewhere that they called it that in central Texas), covered with meadows of wonderful, lush green grass, and an occasional clump of cottonwood trees. He turned and looked around behind him. The view wasn’t much different, except that there were many more trees in that direction.

He stood up, stretched and just stood there, absorbing the view, marveling at how peaceful it was. Almost dreamy, he thought as he began to walk down the hill, toward no particular destination. The velvety soft grass poked up between his toes, longer blades whispering at his ankles. The ground was so soft. No, not really soft. Spongy. That was the word for it. Spongy. He was proud of himself for having thought of that way to describe it. It didn’t feel damp, but moist, and well taken care of. God had done a fine job of it, because out here, there was certainly no one else to do it. It was all completely natural.

A warm breeze hissed quietly through the brittle cottonwood leaves, and up the hill toward him, blowing across his face, through his short hair and over his scalp. The sight, the sound, the smell, all incredibly refreshing.

A few birds came out of the tangle of tree branches, calling to one another, offering a glimpse of their colorful plumage, before flying away together. Some still hidden among the trees chattered, their voices joining a symphony of crickets serenading him. As he walked, a yellow and black butterfly fluttered past, on a crooked flight-path to who-knew-where. He watched it until he lost sight of it in a tall stand of brown prairie grass. At one time, he might have been able to name the type of butterfly, but that was long ago, when he was a kid. He knew that he should do his best to come up with what type of butterfly it was, even if he couldn’t rely on his memory, and had to look it up. One day there might come a real need-to-know, and he’d want to be prepared.

He had passed by the copse of trees, and ahead of him the hill continued to slope downward, at a slight angle. In the distance he could see an uneven scar cutting through the meadow, a jagged black line, with a thin gray fog floating above it, following it’s every turn. He knew that this was the creek where he used to fish with one of his older brothers.

He was back here. How he got here was something he couldn’t remember. And further, why he was here was an even bigger mystery – one he didn’t feel like taking the time to solve.

He hadn’t been in this grassy field, near this creek in years. Years. But he smiled now, glad to be back. It conjured so many memories, of so many good times. The blistering hot August afternoons spent sitting along the creek in whatever meager shade they could find. Setting up their fishing poles, opening a few beers, just sitting back and talking. Laughing and having a great time.

He remembered it all. Those were great times. His smile broadened, as he closed his eyes, and took a deep breath holding his arms out at length. He inhaled deeply, through his mouth, feeling the warm air rush down his throat and into his lungs, loving every wicked sensation it was bringing on.

A chill teased the base of his spine. His back contorted slightly, and his whole body convulsed allowing the chill to overtake him. He exhaled a ragged breath through clenched teeth, and immediately opened his mouth wide, inhaling deeply again.

There was too much to it. His eyes were closed, but all the things he remembered from the last few scant moments ago to the memories from twenty years past played across the theater of his mind. He could taste, touch, hear, smell a thousand things all at once. It began to overwhelm him, flooding every sense with far more than it could handle. He trembled, inhaling deeply again, nearly laughing. It was too much. Too much, but he couldn’t stop the overload. Didn’t want to. His arms flopped to his sides, his legs gave way, and he fell to his knees in a nearly orgasmic swoon.

How long he knelt there, he wasn’t sure. He realized he was holding his breath and let it go, long, and loud, still smiling. It had felt so good to be here again. He was so incredibly happy. His heartbeat began to slow, finally. Eventually, his stiffened muscles relaxed, and he felt as if he’d be able to open his eyes.

He did so, and looked down staring dumbly at the dull, stainless steel floor.

Suddenly, his stomach felt heavy. No. It couldn’t be true. But it was. He knew this place, but shook his head anyway, refusing to accept it. Maybe his denial would be strong enough to make it go away. But it wasn’t. It never was.

He lifted his head a bit more, and looked across the round, metal deck, the bank of control and communications instruments that lined the curved wall, their pale, joyless hum having replaced the sounds of the crickets and the wind blowing through tall grass and trees.

It just wasn’t fair. Why did he have to do this to himself? He knew how wonderful it felt, but he also knew how crushing it was when it ended. Every time he did it, he had a distant hope that maybe this time it wouldn’t end. It always did, but he hoped.

He couldn’t let the charade continue, no matter how pleasant it had been. He stood up, the popping of his knees hurting and echoing slightly across the room. He resigned himself to the fact that at least for now, it was over. Dejected, he reached up, and pulled the tubes from his nostrils. He looked at them, the tips red with blood, and threw them angrily on the floor. He’d clean them up later.

He walked over to the foot of the metal staircase that clung to the wall, and began climbing, listening to his own muted footsteps. His hand held the rail that ran along the stairs, feeling its cold, uncaring smoothness, like he’d done the hundreds of other times he’d walked the stairs. The staircase followed the curve of the wall, and went up through a squared-off hole in the metallic ceiling, to the upper level. As he passed through, the lights below automatically turned themselves off, while the lights above came on, harsh, and white. He winced, and put a hand above his eyes, to block as much of the light as possible.

“Dim forty percent.” He called out, and instantly, the sensors, recognizing his voice, dimmed the overhead lights to the appropriate level. He removed his hand just as he stepped off the top stair. The room was smaller than the one below, and it too was circular in shape. Over against the wall was his bed. The tubular frame, like everything else around here, he thought bitterly, was stainless steel, the sheets, pillow and pillowcase, white. The only color allowed.

He walked over to it, pulled the wrinkled, bunched-up sheet down and got into bed, already dressed in a white t-shirt and pajama pants. Although he couldn’t (or didn’t care to) remember it, apparently he never got dressed when he woke up this morning. He lay on his back for a moment, and exhaled deeply as he pulled the sheet up to his chest.  Finally, realizing that as usual, sleep would not be coming easily, he turned onto his side, trying to get comfortable. He pulled the sheet up over his head and shouted “Lights off!”

If you think this is worth reading, let me know and I'll post more of this story....

this is interesting, post more

btw-thank you

You're welcome - I'm glad you're interested. This is a short story (what do you count as "short" though? It's 25 page so far!) that I've been working on for the last year or two, off and on. No one has ever read it before - you're the first!! I'm still working on it - I know where I want the tale to end, but the course it's taking to get there is anyone's guess. I just write when I can, and let the story go where it wants. Anyway, I'm rambling... I'll post it one chapter at a time for now. Thanks again, so much for reading - any comments at all, good or bad, are very welcome. Here it is....

Steve

Part Two

 Somewhere far off, in the thick gloom, he could hear a sound, pleading for him. What was it? A voice perhaps? A voice of someone pleading for help? Because it was muffled he couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t really muffled, but more distant and garbled, as if the sound was coming to him from a across a span of many years, echoing sickly. He strained to hear, cupping a hand to his ear. Perhaps if he looked in the direction from which the sound came, it would give him a clue. But he saw nothing. He couldn’t be certain what direction it came from. It could be coming fromanywhere. The uncertainty was abruptly very frightening.

He felt closed in. Trapped. Blackness, as dark as the night in his most hideous nightmare, enveloped him, sticking to his skin, as though it were alive. Although he couldn’t see anything, he suddenly felt the presence of another.

“Who’s there?” he cried out, his voice quaking. He spun around, looking desperately for any source of light, no matter how meager. His skin crawled. There was no answer. He knew someone was watching him, but couldn’t see anyone. Anything. And behind it all, was that incessant sound, warbling and garbled, pleading to him, clawing at his brain. Terror was rising in his throat, his heart pounding, threatening to burst right through his ribs!

Suddenly there was light! Light so bright and white, it seemed to burn his eyes. He threw his hands in front of his face, frightened, trying to block it out. The pleading sound was no longer far away and distant, but seemed right on top of him, and he had no trouble now, hearing it clearly for what it was.

He sat up, and without opening his eyes, reached over to the table near the head of his bed, to turn off the alarm. The silence was nearly as bad, as he could hear his own heartbeat throbbing in his ears, louder than any alarm clock. Very slowly he opened his eyes, trying to allow them to adjust to the harsh overhead lights.

“Dim fifty percent.” He said, but the lights didn’t respond, and stayed bright and painful. He tried again, shouting it. “Dim fifty percent!” Still no response.

Then he remembered that the lights, which automatically turned on at full intensity if the alarm rang for more than two minutes, wouldn’t respond to any dimming commands until he got out of bed. They designed them this way. It was their little insurance policy to make sure he was up and ready to work on time.

Groaning, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and put them on the floor, and the intensity of the lights immediately began to wane. The steel beneath his feet was freezing cold, and he yanked his feet back up. The lights flared bright again. Knowing that the automatic dimming of the lights would be held in queue for one minute, he would have to put his feet on the floor, and keep them there, if he wanted to save his eyes from any further agony. It was a situation he couldn’t possibly win, so resigned to his fate, he gingerly put his feet down, the icy cold drawing a whimper from him. Mercifully the lights dimmed. Why in the name of hell couldn’t they have installed something to warm the floor up when the alarm went off? He’d have to remember to put his slippers under the bed before he went to sleep next time. Either that or wear socks to bed. The slippers. He’d have to go with the slippers. He knew he’d never be comfortable, or get any rest if he went to bed with socks on.

He sat there with his elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands and thought about the fact that at least he could make up for it somewhat when he got his hands on some hot coffee. That’s one element of civilization he still had available. And as his nostrils slowly awoke with the rest of his body, he could smell the coffee brewing. Thank God for automatic coffee makers

The lights had gone down to fifty percent, as he’d commanded, after he put his feet on the floor, and he was able to look around now without pain searing his tired eyes. He knew he had to get started, so he stood up, stretched, and walked over to the closet mounted against the wall. Opening the door, he heard the same squeak of the hinge that he’d heard more times than he could count. The one he’d sworn to fix more times than he could count. Reaching inside, he instinctively knew where to put his hand in order to find the robe. It slipped off the hanger easily, and he put it on, enjoying the warmth it gave him. It was soft (and white) and felt wonderful. He slid his feet easily into the slippers that he would make sure to move tonight. They fit loosely, and were very warm and comfortable.

Closing the closet door, he shuffled past his couch, and the exercise bike, and went over to the small metal sink and turned the water on, and it immediately came out warm. He cupped his hands and splashed water up onto his face, not caring that the collar of his robe was getting wet also. He repeated this process three times, before he dared to look in the mirror.

The face that stared back, wasn’t the one he remembered. It never was. It was that of an old man. Perhaps not really old, but certainly older than what he wanted to see. Older than what it should look like. Small droplets of water dripped down his face, across his stubbled chin, and back into the sink. His eyes, once blue, now looked a cloudy gray. Surely it was just a trick of light, he tried to convince himself, and not some bizarre effect of his time here. He sniffled, wrinkling his nose as he did. He rubbed a finger across his eyelid. The man in the mirror copied everything he did.

A tired sigh escaped from his mouth, as he closed his eyes and turned away, truly not liking what the mirror showed him, and not wanting to see it anymore.

Trudging to the coffee maker, he retrieved the large insulated mug it had prepared for him, and took a sip. Perfect. If nothing else, at least the coffee was good. The taste, as well as the temperature was just right. He’d learned from experience just how to program this thing so that it gave out a great cup of coffee. He shook his head, with a light chuckle of personal satisfaction, smiled to himself, and took another sip.

By now the lights were slowly coming up to full intensity, just as they were programmed to. It took eight minutes to complete the process, allowing a person to wake up, and become accustomed to the light at a more comfortable pace. He guessed they were about seventy or seventy-five percent by now. Still dim. The bed looked awfully tempting, but he knew better. He looked at his alarm clock, and realized he’d better get moving, so he forced his stiff legs to carry him over to the stairs.

Walking down them, the lights slowly came on as they did every morning, and as always, it never failed to amaze him how large, and open the lower room looked. It was mostly devoted to instruments and controls of one kind or another, most of which were in racks and panels mounted against the wall. There was also a desk mounted against the wall between a bank of large windows, and an instrument rack. Also in the room were two chairs, a couch and end-table, a refrigerator, a video display terminal, and in the very center of the room, a large pedestal, three feet tall, topped with a glass dome. Other than these, the floor space was considerable, and open. He got to the bottom of the stairs, walked over to the desk, and sat in the chair that accompanied it, his weight causing air to fart from the seat cushion.

A quick look at the clock on the instrument rack, and he realized that there were only about nine minutes to disseminate his first observation of the day. With all the information that required, he knew he had to hurry up.

In a series of orchestrated maneuvers, both hands moved expertly across the controls, turning dials, pressing buttons, and flipping switches. He’d performed this same routine so many times, he didn’t even need to look or think about it. And he certainly didn’t need to consult the manual anymore.

His right hand passed across a black panel that instantly read the fingerprints, and cross-matched the vascular pattern, logging him on to the main computer. A translucent panel directly in front of him blinked on, as if it awoke suddenly, recognizing him. The electronic form on which he recorded his observations appeared on its face. The keypad, with which he would type commands was built flush with the surface of the desk, illuminated with a peaceful, green glow, that he found oddly soothing.

Finally, when he was satisfied that all the necessary instrumentation was turned on, he commanded “Lights, down ninety percent.” The lighting, which had nearly come up to full intensity, rapidly backed down to a fraction of what it had been. He sat for a moment in near darkness, then pressed the last switch, a gray tab on which the word “retract” had been written, but was now partially rubbed off.

The whining of the actuators confirmed the command and to his left, a set of protective metal shutters pulled back from the outside of the large windows. Just as he had programmed them to, the lights above him slowly dimmed even further, so that his view would be unobstructed by a glare on the window. By the time the shutters were fully opened, the room would be completely dark, except for the soft glow from the instruments. Even though it went against orders, he did this at the start of every day, considering it a way to maintain his sanity; he stopped what he was doing, if only for a moment, took in a deep breath, and marveled at the sight that met his eyes.

I'm hooked   :)  Can't wait for the next chapter.

I'm 'second mother'  to a girl whose brother is serving in Iraq, a true Lakota Warrior. I hold much Gratitude for anyone who spends time in Iraq.

Part Three

He just couldn’t believe it. The view was amazing. It seemed like he could see forever, even though he knew that wasn’t true. He had read somewhere that at a distance of seven miles, the curvature of the earth comes into play, and a person’s vision would then be limited. But really, who cared? That was the kind of thing best thought about in classrooms, or on meteorological field studies, and he was on neither.

Looking left and right, the shoreline stretched off into the distance, very occasionally dotted by a far-away figure of some other beachgoer, too far off to see clearly. The warm, blue water in front of him was endless, with a million diamonds of reflected sunlight dancing across its surface. A breeze blew in off the water and had a fresh, invigorating smell all its own. He’d smelled it somewhere before, but couldn’t quite think of where. Looking down, he saw that his pant-legs were rolled halfway up his calves, and he was standing in soft, wet sand, as the waves rolled in, gently splashing over his ankles.

He turned and looked behind him. The sand rose up in a series of low dunes that gradually gave way to sparse, scrubby beach grass, behind which was a run down fence, and beyond that a white beach house. Even on a day when the sun was so bright, the stark white color of the house didn’t hurt his eyes to look at. One of the windows was open, and he could see pale yellow curtains billowing out from inside the house, evidence of the strong breeze blowing through the structure.

This looked like his Aunt’s house in Maryland. Not quite though. He knew it wasn’t her house, but it was of the same style, like so many others in that part of the country. It just felt so good to be here, away from all the hustle and grind of work. He hadn’t been here in years-since he was about twelve years old-and he was glad to be back. He’d had so many good times here as a kid, playing along the beach with his cousins. Although the long car trips here from northern Ohio were never any fun, the misery of the trip itself was magically erased when he saw the magnificence of the ocean.

He used to like playing with his cousins and their friends, and his older brother (the main source of his torment on the long drive), but he would always find some excuse to slip away for a little while by himself.

He loved to find a secluded spot, sit down and just watch the waves roll in, letting his imagination take him. He never imagined himself as a seafaring sort. He just didn’t have the desire for that kind of life. In his mind, a sea captain tended to live a solitary existence, someone who was both despised and yet revered by his crew. He just didn’t see himself in that role. His imaginary adventures were no less bold, but they took a different turn; often times he imagined that he was the lone survivor of some mishap at sea, fighting against nature itself, whose towering waves threatened to swamp his leaky, wooden lifeboat. Sometimes his imagination would allow him to rescue a beautiful woman who had also miraculously survived. He would find her struggling to stay afloat, and he would paddle furiously with his hands to bring the tiny, foundering craft alongside her, and then pull her inside to relative safety.

Eventually they would drift to the shore of some deserted island, just as their lifeboat could stand the pounding waves no more, and crumbled beneath them. They would stagger ashore, where he would rescue her from countless other perils on the island, winning her love in the process.

These were his kinds of adventures-not ones where he was the commanding figure, conquering everything before him, but ones where he, like any other man, was subject to the whims of a capricious fate, and was always able to do just enough to win his survival, as well as that of the beautiful woman. These were the kinds of things he thought about, as he sat in solitude on the beach, looking out at the limitless ocean before him, its sheer size making him feel small and almost insignificant.

He turned and walked toward the house, the sand warm between his toes. He breathed deep the salty ocean smell, so gentle. It smelled the same as it had when he was a boy, and with it came the very faint scent of cocoanut sunscreen lotion that they all used to slather on each other at the insistence of their moms. He chuckled at the memory, and looked around but couldn’t locate the source of that particular smell. There must be some kids around somewhere that were using it.

The breeze blowing against his back was so refreshing, and the sunshine so warm that he was tempted to lay down right here in the sand and take a nap. He felt tired, and it sounded like such a good idea!

But he resisted the temptation, wanting instead to get a closer look at the house. He knew it was the home of a stranger, who probably would be none too thrilled at the sight of someone they didn’t know creeping around their house. But he figured that the homeowner would take into consideration the fact that it was daytime, and thus wouldn’t be too alarmed. Beside, his intentions were purely benign. He was so fascinated that he just had to get a slightly closer look at the house. He’d always loved the idea of a beach house. It seemed so bright. So open and airy. Ever since he was a boy, he’d wanted one for himself, and the eventual family that he planned on having. But so far in his life, neither one had come to fruition, a thought he found somewhat depressing.

Nevertheless, the day was far too beautiful, his mood too upbeat to let thoughts of what was missing in his life, get him down. He continued on toward the house, his feet slipping somewhat in the loose, warm sand, and presently found himself at the rear of the building. He paused, looking back out at the ocean, marveling at the view. The pure awe he felt at the spectacle of a serene, yet silent and powerful sea, coupled with the utter beauty of the day itself brought tears. Tears of joy. Of a happiness he hadn’t felt in so long. He wiped his eyes, smiling, and walked up to the house, and peered in through a window.

The glare on the glass made it difficult to see, so he shaded his eyes with his hands, and was surprised when he saw the inside of the house was empty. The many windows throughout, made it bright and cheerful looking, yet it was devoid of any furnishings.

This got the better of his curiosity, so he walked around looking for a door. Finding one, he put his hand on the knob and surprisingly, it turned. The door opened quietly outward. Why would anyone leave a house like this unlocked? Apparently the owners had vacated it, possibly with the intention of selling it, and had most likely left the keys with a real estate agent. But still, any respectable agent would ensure the house was locked when no one was there. He looked around, and saw no one, so he wiped the sand off his feet on a doormat, and stepped inside closing the door behind him.

“Hello?” he called. There was no answer, so he called out again, this time louder. Nothing except the echo of his voice, coming back to him. The door through which he’d entered was beside the kitchen. He looked at the sink, countertops and appliances. All were immaculately clean, looking as if the house were on display. He walked past the kitchen, and down an adjoining hall, the tile floor cool against the soles of his feet. The walls, he noticed, were a very pale shade of blue, nearly white. Several doors off the hallway opened into bright, empty rooms, all of which had the same paint scheme; pale blue walls, accented with bright white trim around the door fames and windows. The whole place had a look-no… more than a look. It had a feel to it. But the feeling was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. If he had to assign it a name, that name would be refreshing. Or perhaps relaxing. Possibly even inviting. But the feeling belied description really. It was all of these and more. And he was in love with it.

A fresh breeze blew through the entire house, as if all its windows were open. Even here, inside, the scent of the ocean water and cocoanuts was intoxicating. He continued on, and found himself in a large open room, that he supposed was the room where the owners had entertained countless guests. It was open, like the rest of the house, but had a tall, vaulted ceiling, and a stone fireplace. He saw pale curtains, the ones he’d seen from outside, blowing out through an open window. The curtains were the only sign of anything even remotely like furniture.

He stopped, took a breath, and wondered if the house was indeed up for sale. Perhaps, this was the house he was meant to buy. He looked around. It was perfect. It was exactly what he’d always wanted. He walked over and leaned an elbow on the mantle above the fireplace, and surveyed the rest of the room from this vantage point. Indeed, this would be perfect! He began to imagine what sort of furniture he wanted, and exactly where he would put it. He could see a room full of friends, drinking from sparkling glasses, laughing, lounging, enjoying his home and each other’s company.

Summer gatherings would be ideal, but even on cold winter nights, when bitter gales blew in from a malevolent ocean, they could still have social get-togethers. They would just build a fire in the fireplace. A huge, glowing crackling fire. He closed his eyes, and saw the dancing flames, smelled the burning wood, felt the warmth. It was all so good. He sat down on the floor and looked around, already planning for what kind of loan he would seek to buy the place. If indeed it was for sale, he just couldn’t pass up the chance to buy it. Hardly able to believe his good fortune, he was intoxicated by the very thought of it all. Just then, he became slightly aware of a dull metallic taste somewhere far back in his throat. He swallowed, but it was till there. It irritated him, and he smacked his lips, trying to make this sudden intrusion go away. It threatened to ruin his mood, and he was enjoying it far too much to let this little annoyance get in his way.

Then a small flutter in his belly made itself known. A slight nausea came upon him, now, and he sat on the stonework in front of the fireplace, trying to will it all away. Where had all this come from so swiftly. Maybe it was something he ate. He tried to remember his most recent meal, hoping to pinpoint the probable source of his sudden misery. But he was unable to come up with an answer. He couldn’t even remember when he last ate, let alone what it might have been. His head was sweaty, spinning; and the flutter in his belly had become an all-out ache. Perhaps he needed to use the toilet. Maybe that would help. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d better locate the bathroom in here, just in case. He tried to stand, but as he did, the whole room tilted crazily, and he tumbled to the floor, his whole world spinning. He was reminded of the many times in his youth where he’d drunk too muck alcohol, and wound up lying flat on his back, with the world spinning around him. This is what it felt like, and the memory was too much. He closed his eyes, tightly, sweating profusely now. No good. Closing his eyes, just made it worse, and suddenly he felt the contents of his stomach rushing up his throat.

The muscles in his abdomen contracted violently, and he doubled up in pain, vomiting with terrible force. Even though his eyes were still closed, he knew that it was bursting from his mouth like water from a fire hose. He could hear the sickening splatter against the floor. Oh God, it hurt so bad! He just wanted it to end. He wanted to go back to the pure ecstasy he experienced not five minutes ago. Anything to get back there!

The smell of the sea air was replaced now by the repulsive smell of stomach acid and half-digested food. His muscles contracted again, so tightly he felt as if some giant was rolling him up like a tube of paint, trying to wring out every last bit of fluid. He screamed in agony, and felt the muscles relax a bit. Then a bit more. He was gasping, spitting out remnants of the vomit that hadn’t made it out of his mouth. He rolled onto his back, feeling the pale, cold floor beneath him, grateful for it. He opened his eyes, letting the green speckles that had flared behind his closed eyelids, go away.

No! The ceiling above, had a metallic sheen. He swallowed hard, shuddering at the taste in his mouth, and looked around, dreading what he might see. Terrified was really the word for it. All around him was not the stark openness of the beach house, but dull stainless steel surfaces. Lights blinked on and off on the instruments he was supposed to monitor, and all was quiet, except for the low, insistent throb of the machinery, which at times was almost soothing, but now felt like the malevolent heartbeat of a monstrous, invisible creature seeking to swallow him. He tried to stand, but found no strength, as well as a pain deep in his nose. He reached up touching his face, and found tubes protruding from his nostrils. He grasped them, angrily yanking them out, ignoring the searing pain that resulted. He dragged the back of his hand across his upper lip, wiping away the blood that streamed from his nose. He staggered forward a step, and slipped in his own vomit, catching his balance before he hit the floor.

He now knew the harsh reality; he had been here the whole time, and just dreamed of being back in Maryland. Had just dreamed about the beachhouse, and the ocean. He had never left here. He fell to his knees, and went forward until his forehead rested on the cold, metal floor, and cried, his tears mixing with the blood from his nose, dripping to the floor. He sobbed, the wracking cries of a child, shaking his entire body, in disbelief that he had done this to himself yet again.

Part Four

The punishment didn’t fit the crime, or at least that’s what he thought. That thinking certainly went against what the current incarnation of the justice system had to say about it. Ever since the judge had pronounced sentence, his gavel pounding like the sound of a hammer driving nails into an old wooden casket, he’d had plenty of time to think about it. He could still hear the voice thundering out the verdict from somewhere above, its heaviness crashing down on him as though it had physical form, and weight.

He had stood alone in the darkened courtroom, the only light that of the spotlight that illuminated him, shackled like a dangerous animal, as the sentence was read aloud by a judge he wasn’t permitted to see, and now in accordance with the law, abandoned by a defense attorney he’d never met. He wasn’t even allowed to speak on his own behalf, or beg for mercy. Long ago, that had been deemed pointless. Even though his punishment was not considered a death sentence, from everything he’d ever heard, it might as well have been. No one had ever survived it completely unscathed, either mentally or physically. His life was over.

He remembered little in the immediate span of time that followed, as he was administered a chemical cocktail to make transporting him easier. A common practice, the after effects left a gaping two-month hole in his memory that nagged at him to this day.

Even so, there were fleeting glimpses of things he could see now and then. Just snatches of memories that seemed to dance maddeningly just beyond his ability to see them clearly. If he closed his eyes he could see them. But when he did, they were so hideous that he opened his eyes again, heart pounding, his breath quick and ragged. They were terrifying images of nightmarish faces staring at him, studying him, with huge eyes, and mouths that moved but were silent. As the faces moved to one side or the other, their grotesque features swam, and changed, flowing from one reality to another. Even now, he sometimes saw them in his sleep. When he did, he would awake with a start, whimpering at the realization that he was alone.

He’d given it plenty of thought, and reasoned that the images must have been from when he was encased in the holding tube on his way to carry out the sentence. The tube was a clear material of some sort, quite unbreakable, and filled with a liquid that carried a vile stench that even to this day seemed to cling to him.

While in the tube, he was in a medically induced coma, and although he wasn’t supposed to remember anything about it, he did. He was certain that the faces were those of the transport technicians, checking on him periodically, making certain that he was indeed still alive during the trip. What he’d seen was the look of their faces as they moved from one side to another, monitoring the instruments that indicated his life signs, their faces changing as he saw them through varying depths, and viscosity of the fluid that his near-lifeless body floated in.

Supposedly the only memories that he would have from this experience, were the ones they would implant during the trip. While in the holding tube, several cables had been surgically implanted into the fleshy part of his upper back, just below the neck. One supplied his tissues with the necessary oxygen and nutrients to keep him alive, while another administered periodic electrical impulses that served to expand and contract the voluntary muscle fibers throughout his body. This was intended to prevent any atrophy in his musculoskeletal system. The purpose of the third cable was to “feed” thoughts directly into his brain stem. Thoughts in the form of instructions on what duties he would be expected to perform, the rules and regulations for his incarceration.

The trip was scheduled at two months, give or take a few days, and when he awoke, he found himself in the bed that he now called his own. He was alone. The transport technicians had dropped him off with the bare minimum of supplies to see him through. They then administered the drugs that would eventually bring him out of the coma, and departed. He only knew all of this because they had “told” him all of this through the implanted instructions.

That first day, his body ached. In spite of the electrical stimulation they’d given him, every movement sent sheets of fire burning through his muscles, feeling like they would stretch and break at any moment. He was incredibly hungry, but in too much pain to get out of bed and fetch anything to eat. His head throbbed as well, filled with a thousand images, and phrases all overlapping, and running together, as his mind sought to make sense of all the instructions he’d been given.

Sorting it all out, he began to understand what his life was going to be like for the next two years. He’d been sentenced to work on an orbiting solar observatory, or OSO as it was more widely known. It was little more than a massive metal can that kept a distant orbit around a far away star. It was filled with instruments of every kind, and the most sparse of living conditions. And he was going to live on it. He knew that much from the sentence that had been pronounced back on earth. But he had known none of the details until now.

Once there, he was dumped off, his head crammed full of instructions on what to do.

For at least twelve hours every day, he was required to take an observation of the conditions emitted by the star he orbited. The instruments on the OSO would record a full range of the electromagnetic spectrum, and solar winds. His job was to collect this raw data, and run it through a series of algorithms to process it into something useful, then disseminate it via trans-space communication channel to a collection terminal that sat at a fixed point in space, back in his own solar system. There the data was sorted and stored, along with all the information that came from his OSO and a dozen others like it around this quadrant of the galaxy. Part of the information implanted in his brain were instructions on how exactly to do all this.

The OSO consisted of two main decks, an upper and a lower, plus a sub-level deck below that, which contained a docking enclosure for incoming vessels, as well as supply storage. The upper served as his living quarters. It was a depressing place. The walls, floor and ceiling were bare metal, as was all the furniture. Where there was cloth, such as on the bed, his couch and his chair, it was white, and so his entire environment was a bland, colorless affair. It looked sterile, like a hospital room, and he was not allowed to change it.

Besides the sparse furnishings, his living quarters consisted of a closet, a bathing and toilet area, a bed-side table, a desk and a small kitchen facility. A few books and some meager writing materials had been furnished for him, but largely that was it.

The lower deck was reserved for work. It contained all the instrumentation needed to perform his duties, and the materials he needed to keep the place clean.

Contact with anyone outside the OSO was exceedingly limited, and then only via text messages that came across the computer screen on his work desk. He was only allowed to send and receive messages from the administrators of the justice department that ran the OSO. They would contact him on occasion to inform him of the schedule for the re-supply vessel. The schedule varied from month-to-month, so he couldn’t count on it at any certain time. They had designed it this way. Once every month or so, a ship would approach and dock with the OSO, and drop off any needed food, supplies or spare parts (maintenance of the OSO, made possible by knowledge that had been implanted, was also one of his required duties). Any messages he transmitted were limited to strictly business, heavily screened and only occasionally answered.

The administrators had complete control over every function of the OSO, and he was subject to monitoring around the clock. He wasn’t even sure that he had privacy when sitting on the commode, but that was part of his punishment; never knowing when or where they might be watching and or listening to him.

Some had in the past, argued the logic of placing convicted criminals in charge of an entire OSO, with no guarantee that they would fulfill their duties, and thus pay their debt to society. But the administrators had their ways of ensuring that the job got done. He knew this for a fact; one of the earliest things he learned was their trick with the lighting to get him out of bed.

That was a mild form of coercion, more annoying than anything else. However, there were much more aggressive ways to get one to perform his or her assigned duties. If a convict decided one day to not perform their duties, life support functions within the OSO could be turned down to the lowest level possible without causing death. The lights would go out, leaving total darkness. Oxygen levels dropped as did the temperature, subjecting anyone inside to a form of altitude sickness, and the killing cold of deep space. Once they were convinced of the error of their ways, and agreed to go back to their job, life support levels were slowly brought back to a normal level.

So it came down to a simple equation; either do the job you were put there for, or face the consequences, which were not death, but were about as unpleasant and close as a person could come to it.

He remembered the first time he sat down at the controls, following implanted schedules and instructions he dared not deviate from. Even though he had never seen controls and instruments like them, he instinctively knew how to operate them. Before long, he could operate the controls and take the observations with the deft and skill of one who’d been doing the job for years.

All he had to do was follow the schedule, do his job, and in two years he’d be retrieved and taken back to earth, his debt paid in full. It sounded simple enough when he thought about it like that. When he first arrived, it didn’t sound too difficult. He had no idea just how wrong a person could be.

I like this....keep posting  :)

You've motivated me to keep writing - thank you!

Here you go....

Part Five

Two years. Saying it made it sound long, the words tasting dry and bitter, like dirt on a persons tongue. Two years. He said the words to himself, over and over again that first day.

An awful lot could happen in two years. People could be born, and die. Wives and lovers could disappear, and move on to other lives, choosing not to wait for their loved ones to return. Wars could start and end. Life itself as he knew it could cease, and he wouldn’t know. What if there was a war back on earth? Or even a freak virus, brought back from deep space by some unwitting star pilot? Some catastrophic event that took the life of everyone on earth? The administrators would die too, and leave him here in this metal casket, billions of miles from home, dying slowly, waiting for a rescue vessel that would never come. He would rot here. A slow death of starvation, or disease.

A million years from now, some alien race would come across the dead OSO, cold and silent, still orbiting a star that no one any longer cared about. They would investigate the strange craft, not understanding its purpose, and find his corpse, perfectly preserved after countless millennia by the merciless vacuum of space. Perhaps when they found him he would be lying across the communication console, his dead mouth open, a silent scream for help, his non-voice reaching out, searching for ears that no longer existed.

These were things he’d run through his mind hundreds of times during the first few days he was out here. But once he got a little bit used to the silence, he began to think that this place might not be so bad. Sure it was quiet, but he was only required to work for twelve hours out of the day, and that left twelve hours for himself. Certainly part of that was for sleeping, but there would also be plenty of time for other things. He’d always wanted to write a book. He had several ideas that he always thought might make for interesting reading, and now he would have the time to work on them. He wished that they would have provided him with some paints. This would be a good time too, to practice his landscape painting, which he’d never been able to find the time for back on earth. But they hadn’t, so he’d have to let that one go. But still, he could write.

However, he found that it didn’t come as easily as he’d hoped. He wrote, and re-wrote the opening chapter to his novel three times, and still was unsatisfied with how it sounded. He put that idea off to the side, and began to write another story on a different idea, but it was turning out no better, and the frustration quickly got the better of him. After several weeks, he began to realize how difficult this whole ordeal would be. Each day became more difficult. He worked for twelve hours, then slept for six or eight, and spent the rest of the time sitting in front of his computer terminal, hands poised over the keyboard, wanting to write. But the thoughts and sentences never came easily.

There were countless things here that could drive a person right out of their mind-the justice system was far less interested in rehabilitation than it was in punishment. Fear of the unknown. Loneliness. Boredom. But perhaps the worst were the hallucinations. He’d heard rumors before, about convicts losing their grip on reality, and accidentally (?) killing themselves because of the odd things they imagined they saw out here. Any person, all alone, in a situation like this would eventually get to the point where they would imagine things; it was perfectly natural. However, the close proximity to the unrelenting radiation from the star (the OSO had heavy shielding, but was unable to block it out completely) had a tendency to make these visions seem much more real. Some of the shades he saw were terrifying, and he knew that it was the same effect that was making his dreams (and nightmares) so much more vivid, and bizarre. If the radiation was doing this to him emotionally, he wondered what physical effect it had upon him. Was it even now, twisting his DNA, causing his body to build terrible tumors? He might be dying from it and not even know. Great. There was something else to worry about.

How would he ever make it through two years of this, and retain his sanity, he wondered at first. The trick to it, he reasoned, was to get a routine set up. Something he could always count on.

He even went so far as to rearrange the furniture in his living quarters, pushing everything slightly in toward the center, and using the outer circle between the wall and his furniture as a running track. Out of sheer boredom, he paced it off and discovered that twenty-one times around it was equivalent to a mile. So running became part of his routine. He kept a runner’s journal, and was proud of himself as he saw the time it took him to run the distance decrease week by week.

Even so, he had no illusions about the fact that when he wasn’t running, his life was an empty, quiet thing. Every day had the same monotonous routine to it. There was never anything different. During the first three weeks he read through everything that had been provided for him, which amounted to three novels; a western, a romance novel, and a work of historical fiction about Samuel Jackson. He wrote in his journal several times a day, but that wasn’t the same as talking to someone. He sent out repeated text messages, asking for confirmation that his observations were indeed being received. He knew his equipment was working fine, but he used this as a ruse, just hoping to elicit a response from someone. Anyone. Anything that would allow him to know that others were still out there. That he wasn’t the only living thing left in the galaxy. But there was never any response to his messages. It was maddening!

He never thought it would be this difficult. He was nearly at his wit’s end. Everyday became a repeating, never-ending play; the OSO was the stage and he the lone actor, with the script that was his life, a redundant story with no end in sight. He talked to himself incessantly, sometimes yelling at the top of his lungs, listening to his voice reflected back to him from cold, uncaring walls. He had heard no voice, save his own and felt as if he would go mad unless he could talk to someone. He knew there was no way he’d be able to handle two years of this. And that was when, after sixty days, everything changed.

I am eager to find out what his 'crime' was. This is reminding me, in some ways, of Kafka's 'Metamorphisis', one of my favorite books.

Great job!

His crime, huh? Hmmmm.... I'm wondering if I should let the cat out of the bag, or just let you read on, and get the answer for yourself....

I never heard of the book "Metamorphosis"  but you've intrigued me.....

leave that cat right where it is   :D

You got it - here's todays installment....

Part Six

The moon was full and fat, and shed a bright whitish-gray light that danced a slow undulating rhythm along the top of the thick fog that shrouded the rocky coast. From his vantage point atop the gravelly cliff-top, he could look out across the vast expanse of the cove and see the top of the old lighthouse poking up out of the fog, crumbling, dead and silent, no longer a functioning beacon for the Great Lakes freighters that plied these waters. Far off in the distance, unseen, he could hear the long, low bellow of one of the ships anti-collision horns; a deep, somber tone. Almost mournful. He recognized this place: It was the northern shore of Lake Erie. He stood along the cliffs, where he’d come many times as a boy on school and church outings, and then later as a young teenager, on drunken excursions with friends, to watch the massive ships glide by the shore, so close they were able to see the crew members walking about on deck. As a young boy, he would wave excitedly at the ships, riding low in the water, loaded heavy with cargo bound for who-knew-where. Sometimes the crew would call out and wave back to him, and other times if he was lucky, the ships pilot would respond with a deafening blast of the horn. He thought back on these memories, smiling, and remembered that he’d gotten his first kiss here, on a warm summer afternoon.

The present time was different, though. It was night time now, and much cooler. Far below, he could hear the surf crashing against the invisible rocky coastline, hidden by fog. The air smelled so clean and fresh, it was intoxicating. He stopped where he was, small streams of mist curling around his ankles, closed his eyes, and inhaled, swooning, at the flood of feelings and memories that swept through him.

Suddenly a queasiness enveloped him, and remembering that he stood atop a rocky cliff, he decided to sit down, until it went away, lest he lose his balance and tumble over the edge to die on the craggy rocks below. The ground felt cool and damp beneath him, and he found it rather comforting. Trying to will the queasiness away did no good, as he felt the thick feeling in the back of his mouth, that all his life he had known as a precursor to vomiting. He didn’t know why, but amid this massive jumble of emotions and feelings, he felt as if he had done this before. He knew he hadn’t but he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling.

He decided to lie down, hoping that would help him feel better. He kept his eyes closed, inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled his mouth. The cold, moist air felt good in his lungs. He felt his head begin to clear slightly, and opened his eyes. He blinked several times, certain that he was hallucinating. But the image that greeted him didn’t change. If anything, it became clearer. There was a terribly bright light facing him, where moments before there had been a darkened sky. The air was no longer cold, damp and refreshing, but warm and smelled synthetic. He noticed that the ground beneath him no longer felt uneven and rocky, but smooth and cold. He closed his eyes, and felt around with his hands, hoping to feel tufts of grass, or rocks, and dirt. But he didn’t. No matter where his hands explored, everything was smooth, and cold. Rolling onto his right side, he hoped to see the fog, hear the water lapping at far-away unseen rocks, smell the wet air. He wanted to have these, but knew he wouldn’t get them.

All he had was the indifferent metallic walls, staring silently back at him. The only smell was the sterile antiseptic smell of the chemicals used to keep the OSO clean, and the recycled air. He lay on his side, taking it all in, for a long time, then slowly got to his feet, resigned to his fate.

He knew it was all his own fault, and tried not to be angry. But he was unable to contain his disappointment, and with a sudden burst, fury rose within him, and screaming vile curses, he tore the tubes from his nose, and kicked a nearby chair. It slid across the floor, crashing into the wall, and breaking off one of its wheels. He screamed at the top of his lungs, his anger boiling over into long strings of the foulest curse words. His anger was directed at everything around him as he hurled anything within reach at the hated walls, floor and ceiling. He screamed loud, and long until his voice was all but gone. His knees gave out, and he crumpled to the floor, crying.

I like the way you ar eincorporating the memories and they are so vivid.  :)

Good job!

Thank you! It's nice to get some feedback on this thing that's been taking up space on my computer for no good reason! Beware.... this chapter is a long one -

Part Seven

 He could still remember how it all began. Although it seemed like a lifetime ago, it was in reality only perhaps six weeks. The radiation had been taking a terrible toll. For nights on end, he had slept fitfully, awakened repeatedly by bizarre nightmares and hallucinations. Grotesque creatures chased him in fog-shrouded dreams. People he knew, and some he didn’t, dead, alive and somewhere in between spoke to him, asking queer riddles, and demanding answers that he didn’t know.

He felt his sanity slipping away with each restless night, and exhausted day. How he would be able to keep up with the required work, with as little rest as he was getting, he didn’t know. It was a question he found himself having to contend with every day.

He had dozed off at his work console, his head down, saliva drooling from his lip. How long he was asleep was uncertain, but a shrill pulsing beep roused him quite effectively, and he sat upright, startled. He looked around, confused, still half asleep. The alarm ceased to sound, and was replaced by a bright red flashing bar across the bottom of his computer terminal. It flashed red, with white letters that read “ATTENTION: PREPARE TO BE BOARDED BY RESUPPLY CREW. VESSEL WILL DOCK IN FORTY MINUTES.”

That was all it said, and it only scrolled across his screen once. His heart thudded heavily in his chest. A ship would be coming here? The re-supply ship was coming! Would it be an automated process, or would there be people?

A grin passed over his lips at the thought. People! He wasn’t sure, but it was a thought that he just had to play with, turning it over and over in his mind. If there were people, he didn’t know how long they would be here, but he didn’t care. People! He was going to see someone else. Oh, just to hear another human voice. The very idea was nearly overwhelming. His mind raced with a thousand things he wanted to say to them, to ask them. Just to carry on a conversation with them!

The next forty minutes dragged by, as he paced around the OSO, looking out the viewport every few minutes, watching the white speck getting closer. An entire lifetime passed, until finally the vessel attached itself to the docking enclosure on the underside of the OSO. It was inadvisable for a person to be near the airlock when a vessel docked, due to the possibility of a mishap. It was a standard safety precaution on all space vessels, as explosive decompression was a distinct possibility in the vicinity of any airlock. A deep, vibrating thump shook the floor as the vessel docked. He waited, impatiently, until a small green light appeared on his control console, assuring him that the docking had been accomplished successfully, and it was safe for him to proceed down to the sub-level of the OSO.

At this notification, he ran to the small supply elevator that would drop him down to the sub-level, got in, and as the door closed, he pressed the lever that would activate it. Nothing happened. He tried the lever again. Still nothing. Damn! This must be some sort of precaution the administrators had taken – locking out the elevator, so he couldn’t descend when the re-supply vessel was here. That way he would have no contact with anyone else.

But this close, there was no way he was going to be denied. Oh! Just to see another person!

Without hesitation, he frantically began to pry at the panel that covered the elevator control mechanism. He had no idea how long the vessel would be docked, and he had to hurry. He administrators would surely either be watching right now, or would realize soon enough afterwards, what he was doing, and oh how they would punish him. But that was a bridge to be crossed later. For now he was focused entirely on this moment.

He crossed two fiber-optic cables, and twisted one of them so it would make contact with a small control valve. The override was complete and suddenly the elevator jerked into motion and dropped into the sub-level.

Moments later, the door opened. He was shocked at what he saw; people. There were people! several of them, dressed completely in black plastic-looking suits coming out of the airlock. He couldn’t see any distinct features on any of them. Even their heads and faces were obscured by bulbous black helmets. One stood at the now-open airlock, large weapon in-hand guarding the vessel, standard practice in case the individual incarcerated tried to overtake the vessel and escape his sentence on the OSO.

Two other people walked between the re-supply vessel and the OSO, hauling boxes of food, cleaning agents, water and miscellaneous other items he would need for the next few months. He ran right up to one of them, smiling, unable to contain himself, overjoyed at seeing another person.

“Hey! Hi guys! How are you?”

None of them replied, but silently went on with their business.

He followed them back and forth, like a lost puppy that had found its master, darting back and forth in front of them. “Um… it’s been a long time since I saw anybody. Heck, since I even talked to anybody. Are you guys out from earth? Is that where you’re based at?”

No answer. As one of them turned and headed back to the re-supply vessel, he followed, chattering away about all manner of things, desperately trying to elicit some response. The figure in black said nothing, but merely walked briskly. All business. Nothing else.

“Hey, c’mon,” he pleaded, “please say something. Anything. I’m dying to talk to someone.”

There was no response. The person got to the airlock and stepped across the threshold, into the hatch of the re-supply vessel. Not paying attention to where he was, he tried to follow, and was quickly reminded of his status as a prisoner, by the guard’s weapon slamming into his chest, knocking him to the floor.

It happened so fast, he hadn’t even seen it coming. He sprawled onto his back, shocked by the pain in his chest. He rolled over onto all fours and slowly got up, gasping. The blow had landed squarely in the center of his chest, leaving a feeling like it had separated his ribs from the sternum.

“You… didn’t need to… do… that” he said, gasping.

The guard had assumed a defensive stance, now pointing the far more dangerous end of his weapon, and with his left hand, motioned him to stay back.

He now knew that the guard would brook no intolerance of the standing rules. He stood, wincing at the pain, still fresh and hot. “Geez. I just wanted… to talk to someone. C’mon, you must know what it’s like. Just say something.”

The guard stood, frozen in place, his weapon large and menacing.

“C’mon! Say something!” he said, nearly yelling.

No response.

“Anything! Say anything!” he was clearly yelling now.

Still nothing. This was too much. Behind him, the other two people were going about their business, hauling boxes, seemingly oblivious to the drama unfolding before them. He felt his pulse throb in his temples, the pain in his head having overtaken the pain in his chest.

He felt his blood pressure skyrocketing with each passing moment, fueled by absolute rage. Here he was, billions of miles from home, condemned to live in this icy, metal can, as isolated as a person could possibly be, going insane from a lack of sleep, and a lack of company. It was all too much! All this to contend with, and now, there were actual people he could talk to. No, that wasn’t true. He wasn’t talking to them, but at them.

Damnit! Why wouldn’t they talk back! He was begging them for some form of communication, and they wouldn’t talk back. They could, but they wouldn’t! What were they afraid of? That the administrators would somehow see or hear them? Although it was entirely possible, he thought that if they had any shred of humanity in them, it would be a risk they’d be willing to take. He just wanted to hear a voice. God! Anything to hear another voice!

His heart raced, as he fought to come up with something he could say, something he could do that would provoke them to respond. But nothing came to mind. He was getting more and more angry with each passing second, knowing that soon they would leave, and he’d be right back where he started, with no one to talk to, and not even a pleasant memory to savor of a few words uttered by a voice other than his own.

He could take no more. His anger was such that now he didn’t even care if the guard spoke or not; he only wanted to hit him. Punish him for being so cruel! Abruptly he charged, fully intent on knocking the guard down, unleashing the full fury of his pent-up anger. He was fairly certain that he was quick enough to avoid being struck again; and, he reasoned, even if he wasn’t, his rage would help him gain the upper hand, and momentarily set aside the pain of the blow. Once the guard “understood” how unfair this all was, then he would succumb to the pain if need be.

He saw that the guard was caught off guard by his sudden lunge, and he felt a moment of triumph, his hands reaching out in front of him. At that moment, all of reality seemed to slow to a third of its normal speed. He seemed to float toward his target, his scream of rage having become a deep, rumbling growl. The guard staggered back, looking intoxicated and unsteady at this new slow speed. He was assured that he would gain the upper hand, as he saw the guard coming closer. Closer! He felt the fabric of the guards uniform brush his fingertips, when suddenly a blinding pain pierced the muscles in the back of his neck. His vision turned red, as though looking through a filter. The red color slowly faded, and the light dimmed, as he fell to the floor. His own voice, now a howl of pain was deep, slow, and unfamiliar to him. The light dimmed even more, and then was gone altogether.

He opened his eyes, on-by-one, and found himself staring at the wall next to his bed. Was this another dream? He was afraid to know. Most of the time these days he was unable to distinguish between dreams and reality. Most of the time, if he was unsure, merely going through the motions of what he was supposed to do, just in case he was really awake.

He felt the cool, stiffness of the sheets and pillowcase against his skin, smelled the non-odor that everything here had; a sign of its antiseptic cleanliness. He realized he was lying on his side. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, half expecting the view to change. It didn’t. He was still in bed, still staring at the wall.

He closed them again, and rolled onto his back, a dull ache in the back of his neck and head, making him wince. He exhaled a long slow breath through pursed lips, in an effort to assuage the pain he was feeling.

A pulsing red glow off to the right caught his attention, and he turned to see what it was. There on the small table at his bedside, sat a round silver disc, barely bigger than the palm of his hand. On its front edge was a small crystal, looking almost like a ruby. A ruby that pulsed with a warm, almost soothing red light. He stared at this thing for a moment, not knowing where it came from, or why it was there. The blinking red light seemed to beckon him. Perhaps it held some clue to what had happened. How he ended up here in bed.

Uneasily he reached a hand out to the disc. The crystal emitted a small invisible beam that activated the mechanism within the disc, when his hand passed through it.

“Hello.” A disembodied voice spoke.

Startled, he abruptly sat up in bed, and looking around suspiciously, asked “Who said that?”

“I did.” The voice claimed, coming from a blue glow that hovered above the disc. Slowly, the glow took on the twelve-inch-tall form of one of the black-suited people from the supply vessel.

“Who are you?”

“That’s not important. What is important” said the tiny figure as it removed the huge round helmet, revealing the face of a middle-aged man, with a beard and shaggy hair, “is that this isn’t really me. It’s a hologram of me that’s fully interactive. You can ask me questions, talk to me, whatever you want. However, I’ll only last for five minutes. After that it’s phhhhffffft!” it said, waving its tiny translucent arm “and I’m gone.”

“What’s this all about? Who are you?”

“Well like I said, it’s not important who I am. I’m just one of the guys from the re-supply ship. But I want to help you. That’s why I left the hologram.”

“Help me? Help me h….owwww!” he had tried to stand up, and pain flared hotly between his shoulder blades, forcing him to sit back down on the bed.

“Yeah, I’d watch that.” Said the tiny translucent  image. “You didn’t suffer any permanent damage, but the stun effect of our defense weapons isn’t very pleasant. It’ll wear off in a few hours, and you’ll be good as new.”

“What do you mean you want to help me? How? And why?” he said reaching over his shoulder, rubbing the stinging spot on his upper back.

“Well, I got my reasons. Personal reasons that I’m not gonna go into. Besides let’s just say I think you got a raw deal. I know you think so. I looked through your file on the way out here, and for what you did wrong, I feel like this punishment is way too much.”

“Yeah, I’d agree with that. I mean all I did was…”

“Hey buddy, you don’t gotta convince me. I’m on your side.”

“But how did you get my file? I thought that was sealed after the trial? Nobody is supposed to see that without a need to know.”

“True. True. But I’ve got connections. I wanted to know what I was dealing with.”

“Dealing with? But you’re just part of a re-supply crew. I don’t get this. What personal reasons are you talking about?”

 “Look you don’t have to ‘get it’. And like I said, I got my reasons, and I’m not gonna talk about ‘em, so drop it. Let’s face it, you got the shaft. But I got something that can help out people in situations like yours. I wanted to see if you were the kind of guy that is deserving of that help. I wouldn’t do this for some shit-bag, lowlife. But like I said, I think you got a raw deal. You could say I felt… sorry for you.”

“Okay, y’know, I don’t need your pity. I don’t know why you’re doing this, but…”

“You don’t need my pity? Okay, fair enough. You don’t need it, but you might want it after you hear what I’m offering you. That is if we don’t run out of time before I explain it to you. You got about two minutes left.” The hologram lifted its tiny arm, as if looking at an even tinier watch.

“You could get in all kinds of trouble for this.”

“Hey tell me something I don’t know already. Whether you realize it or not, you’re helping me out a lot, too by letting me do this for you. So let’s just say it’s to our mutual benefit, huh?”

He thought about it for a few moments, then licked his lips. “

Okay, how can you help me?”

“Alright. That’s more like it. What I can do for you will make the next two years easy to handle. Well, not easy, but easier. I’ll make it so you can leave your little prison cell.”

“Leave? And go where? Look, I’m in enough trouble. If I break out of here, they will find me. And do you know what they do to escapees? They…”

“It’s not like that. You can leave, but you don’t have to go anywhere. You’ll always be there if the administrators decide to look in on you.”

“What are you talking about? I can leave but not go anywhere? That’s doesn’t make any sense.”

“The only place you’ll go” it said, tapping its little head, “is right in here.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Your memory. You’ll escape into your memory.”

“Escape into my memory?” he chuckled, “What the hell does that mean?”

“Think of it this way; you remember things all the time, and most of the time those memories are good ones. Pleasant ones. Ones you’d like to re-live again, right? I can make it so that you get to do the next best thing to going back and re-living them. You won’t go anywhere, so you can’t get in any trouble, and you’ll get to re-experience only the things you want to. Have a favorite memory? You’ll get to be there and go through it all over again. And it’ll seem so real, you won’t know that you’re not really there. Sounds like a great way to spend your spare time, huh? Better than re-reading the same crappy book over and over again. Too much more of that and you’ll be climbin’ the walls.”

“Well yeah, sure. There’s some things I’d like to do again. But…”

“Tick tick tick.” Said the little figure. “You got about thirty seconds and I’m gone.”

He thought about it. The idea did sound good. Sure he thought about the past an awful lot. There damn sure wasn’t much else to do around here. But the memories were just that: Memories. They served no real purpose other than to remind him of what he could no longer have, and that just pissed him off. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. There were some great things he’d like to relive, but if it was really that vivid, what would happen when he actually realized that it was indeed just a memory? That he wasn’t really there? That couldn’t possibly be healthy for a person. But still… what if he could relive the time Sheila came over to his apartment? God, she had looked so good, wearing that slinky little blue cocktail dress, cut low in the back. No sooner had he opened the door and let her in than they…

”Hey, come on there, buddy. What do you think?”

“Okay, so how does it work?” He blurted, desperate to find out more. It suddenly sounded quite appealing.

“There’s a small machine I left downstairs on your work console. It’s got two flexible tubes, and a blue orb on the top. Stick the tubes in your nose – not too deep now. Y’don’t wanna cause any permanent damage.”

“In my nose…?”

“Yeah, your nose. The olfactory sense is the strongest sense you have that’s tied to memory. Once the tubes are in, place your hand – either one – on the blue orb at the top. It’s got a sensor that can read your thought patterns, just by physical contact. Any physical contact, but it works best with your hands. It reads any memory you want to re-live, and it generates a smell that’ll help you remember it. The smell comes through the tubes, you close your eyes and voila! There you go, on a little trip down memory lane. And it’ll be vivid. Colors, sounds, you name it. Believe me, it’s the next best thing to being there.”

“So why are you giving it to me? What’s in it for you? There must be some reason…”

“Hey pal, you’re helpin’ me out more than you can imagine. And on top of that I got a soft heart. I’m a real humanitarian. Hahahaha.” The sound of the tiny laughter continued for several moments, even after the image itself had faded.

“But where did you get it from?” He blurted. Silence answered him.

He sat on the edge of his bed for a long time thinking about it. Was it really as good as the little hologram had said. No, how could it be? Maybe it might enhance his memory a little, but it couldn’t be as good as advertised.

He wished the hologram would come back. It was really nice to have talked to someone for a change. Even if it wasn’t really a someone, but a something. But this whole idea about re-living memories sounded like nonsense. Why was it left here? Or was it left here? All he had was a minute electronic voice saying all of this. There was no proof.

He decided to walk downstairs and see for himself. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was now early morning for him. Usually by this time, he’d just be waking up. Looking at the stairwell, he saw that it was dark down there. Of course it would be until he placed his first foot on the stairs. Then the lights down there would come on as he walked down to assume his shift duties.

The smell of fresh coffee reached his nostrils, and he thought back to yesterday. And the day before. And before that. The never-ending routine played across the theater of his mind, and it suddenly dawned on him, that the smell of the coffee had triggered this flashback. Was this the same kind of thing the hologram had talked about? Unsure, he walked over to the coffee maker, lost in thought and oblivious to the cold metal floor under his bare feet. The smell was even better, the closer he got to the source, and the warmth of the mug against his hands was somehow comforting.

He sipped the coffee, as he walked and just as it had done a hundred times before, the touch of his foot on the top stair caused the lights below to come on, dimly at first, but coming up just a fraction with each step he took.

Arriving at the bottom step, he looked across the room, and there in the brightening light, it sat on the work console. He walked over and looked at it. In innocuous looking thing, it was. It was cylindrical in shape, but wider at the bottom, altogether no taller than his knee. The top, he noticed, had a dull blue orb, just as the hologram had described. And there, coiled around it, held in place by a small elastic strap, were the two tubes. The tubes he was supposed to put in his nose. He still had a difficult time accepting that part of all this.

He would have to put some serious thought into this, but in the meantime, he had to get started on his shift duties. He put down his coffee mug, and lifted the machine, finding it surprisingly light. He put it on the floor next to his console, sat down and began performing the duties he had become so accustomed to.

For the next twelve hours he monitored information on solar wind, radiation, and the constantly shifting electromagnetic spectrum. The data that the computer ingested, was a constant stream of sounds and numbers that he was required to collect, filter, process and disseminate, and it offered very little free time. But even so, during those few spare moments, he found himself looking down at the machine, it’s dim blue orb a large eyeball, staring at him, questioningly like that of a dog, begging its master for attention.

What would it be like? Would the sensations it brought on be pleasant, or frightening? Would they be dull and bland or alive with sound and color? And, he wondered, would he have the courage to try it? But above all else, did he want to? That was the big one.

Later that evening, when his shift was over, he was still unsure about the machine and what he expected of it. Although busy, he found himself glancing at it constantly throughout the day, but he hadn’t touched it again, since setting it on the floor. He trudged across the room and up the stairs to his living quarters, the light in the room below dimming and going out once he’d reached the top.

The material that the food generator provided was an almost tasteless, colorless paste. Supposedly it had all the nutrients and fiber his body needed to sustain itself, but overall, the entire exercise of eating was a sullen affair at best.

When he first arrived here, the material so offended his palate, that he couldn’t even bring himself to eat it, and so only drank water. But after the loss of thirty pounds of body-weight, he found himself constantly weak, and dizzy, so he decided that he would have to force himself, if necessary, to eat. Or at least to swallow the paste, since the act of eating was something a person usually enjoyed.

He sat at the small kitchen table – room enough only for one and indeed only one chair provided – and picked at his food. The cynic in him rose up again subconsciously, and chastised him for even calling it food.

All he could think about was that machine. He wanted to give it a try, but for some reason he couldn’t quite name, he was apprehensive about the thought of using it. He went to bed that night, determined to wait for a few days. That way he could take his time and think about it.

The room was dark, as he had commanded the computers to leave it. The only illumination was the soft almost non-light coming from the stars outside his viewing window. He stood in the darkness, staring at the thing, unaware of the quiet hum of the OSO’s machinery, to which he’d become so accustomed.

Although he didn’t understand, he now realized that the thing was somehow beckoning him. He doubted if that was entirely true, but it was most certainly how he felt.

Kneeling beside it, he touched the machine’s cold, smooth surface, and he shuddered, feeling both menaced, and comforted by it. His hand slid up the side, feeling the flexible tubing, and then the round top, a cool glassy surface. The entire experience was almost hypnotic.

He shook his head, jarring himself back to the present. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the thing and carried it back up the stairs, commanding the computer to keep the lights down at twenty percent.

He put it on the small table next to his bed and lay down, still staring at it in the dim light.

The elastic strap stretched easily, allowing him to free the tubes. He checked their length, and the height of the machine and found that both were sufficient for him to insert the tubes, and place his hand on the orb at the top, and still lie down.

He looked at the tubes one more time. In his nose. He was supposed to put them in his nose. Well, he thought, steeling himself, if that’s what was needed, then that’s what he would do. Maybe, if this thing worked the way it was supposed to, then he might actually relax and get some sleep. God knew he needed it. With each night that passed, he felt his sanity slipping away, from the lack of any real rest.

He gently inserted one tube into his right nostril, finding it not as uncomfortable as he expected. He let go of the tube, testing to see if it would fall out, and finding it sufficiently in place, he inserted the other. He lay back, pulling the sheet up to his chest, sighed, and reached his right hand up and placed it on the orb. Immediately the orb began to glow, a very dim, soft blue. It was comforting to look at, but he put his head back and closed his eyes.

What did he want to think about? He needed a memory – a really good one to test this machine. But it wouldn’t come easily. There were too many memories he wanted to re-live. His mind was a swirl of images from the fishing trip he took with his father, when he was twelve, to the first time he kissed a girl, to the thrill he felt when scoring a touchdown in his touch-football league. There was too much to think about, and he immediately felt overwhelmed, trying to settle on a single event.

Exasperated, he sat upright.

“Lights off!” he commanded and the room was suddenly, completely dark, as the orb had ceased to glow when he sat up and removed his hand. He sat there, feeling incredibly self-conscious with tubes dangling from his nose. But as he was the only one there, so he decided to ignore it. He determined that he would think of something before he lay back down again.

He forced his mind to come to a halt, so he could collect his thoughts. What was it he wanted right now? He realized that he was sweating. It seemed too hot in here, and he was about to tell the computer to reduce the temperature in the room, when he concluded that this would be a good test for the machine. He wanted to re-live a memory of a cool day. Maybe not a cool day, but certainly at least a cool breeze. Would the machine work with just a vague inclination of what he wanted, rather than a specific memory? He didn’t know, but that would be his test. He exhaled, and smiled to himself, satisfied that he’d made a decision. He lay back down, and once again reached up, placing his hand on the orb.

He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath into his mouth, exhaling it long and slow through his nose. Immediately he felt more relaxed, his weight settling fully onto the bed.

A puff of air blew across his face, interrupting his relaxation. He sat upright, irritated that the computer had decided just then to adjust the temperature by turning on the fans. At this rate, he would never be able to test the machine.

“Computer, fans off! I don’t want the fans on.”

To his left, a light caught his attention. It was the scrolling message board that was mounted on the wall by his bed, used to convey messages from the OSO’s computer to him. The letters slid past, right to left, reading: FANS HAVE NOT BEEN ACTIVATED. AMBIENT TEMPERATURE REMAINS CONSTANT AT 24C

“The fans were on. I felt it, computer. I want them off.”

FANS HAVE NOT BEEN ACTIVATED. AMBIENT TEMPERATURE….

He looked away. The fans had to have come on. He didn’t feel it now, but he was sure he’d felt the breeze across his forehead. This was never going to work if…

Suddenly, it dawned on him. What if the computer was right? No, it couldn’t have been right.

Could the machine have induced the sensation? It couldn’t have. That was no memory, but a very real sensation. He wasn’t just remembering it. He felt it. This was a sensation. A very real sensation. But memories were just pictures.

But what if it was right? The thought crept into his mind..

He decided to try it again, laying his head down almost suspiciously, as if waiting for something bad to happen. He lay there in the dark room, sheet and blanket pulled up across his chest, and stared up at the ceiling that he knew was there, but couldn’t see.

He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply once again, and let it out slowly. Nothing happened. He repeated the process two more times, and felt as though he were on the verge of falling asleep, waiting for something to happen, when a light breeze caressed his forehead. A flit of air no stronger than a baby’s breath. The feeling was so light and overwhelmed him with near ecstacy. A smile came, as the breeze seemed to pick him up, to take him away. He felt like he was floating, swooning, the darkness enveloping him like a lover’s embrace, swallowing him in its eternal pleasure. And it was right then that he realized he was no longer on the OSO.

good detail

Part Eight

He opened his eyes, and felt the wind blowing across his head. He looked down and realized that he was on his motorcycle, riding down an open, lonely stretch of road. The road was long and flat and stretched before him all the way to the horizon, under a beautiful blue sky. On either side vast fields of what he decided was wheat waved to him as he passed. The day was perfect! It was neither cold nor hot, and the wind in his face was utterly refreshing. It was perhaps the finest sensation he could think of, and it was his to experience.

The engine throbbed beneath him, as he played the throttle. It was too wonderful a day not to want to go fast. He couldn’t recall having ever felt so free! The sky, the wind, they were his brothers now. Where had that thought come from? It may have been the words of a poem he’d heard somewhere long ago. Now, it became apparent to him. He was in northern Nebraska. This was the road trip he’d taken when he was twenty-three.

He had wanted to visit California, and so packed up whatever he could fit onto his bike and quit his job to be free and go see the Pacific ocean, a place he’d only seen on television or in pictures. God, that road trip was the time of his life! He was on his own, free to do as he pleased. Free of everything except his own desire to make it to the coast; a desire that had no set time schedule. So he was free to take his time, and that is exactly what he did, deciding to take back country highways and avoid the pollution and congestion of the cities along the way.

He eased back on the throttle, and down-shifted, slowing the motorcycle, eventually brining it to a stop along the gravel shoulder of the road. He shut the engine off, lowered the kickstand, and sat there for a short time, listening to the almost-silence of the wind blowing through the wheat fields. There was no other sound. Just the wind. Peace. He felt utter and total peace just now. Stepping off the bike, gravel crunched quietly beneath his boots.

He looked back the way he had come from. The road went as far as he could see, eventually becoming lost in the haze on the distant road. He saw no other vehicles, or people. The direction in which he was headed was identical.

Above him the sky had puffy, fair-weather clouds, and somewhere a bird cried. The wind blew steady, but not strong, causing the wheat fields on either side to hiss, a wonderful sound. He closed his eyes and inhaled the fresh air, feeling it leave a cold trail down his throat and into his lungs. It was so incredibly good.

He leaned back against his bike, reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigar – one of the few vices he allowed himself – and lit it. The smoke tasted good in his mouth, as he looked out at the fields, their ocean of yellowish-brown stalks waving gently. This was unreal. He was actually here! Or at least he felt like he was. And what made it all the better was that he was not only able to re-live it, but he was able to interact with it. Take part in it. To do things differently.

Back when he took this trip for real, he had never stopped along the side of a lonely, dusty Nebraska highway to have a smoke. Yet here he was, doing just that.

This was unbelievable. He hadn’t felt so good since they stuck him in that damned metal can. It was far better than he could have ever imagined. It really was just like he was here. He remembered when he planned this route. He chose it not only to avoid traffic, but also because some of the areas this route passed through, were the last of their kind; untouched. Unspoiled. War, crime, population explosions – they had all taken their toll on America over the earlier part of the twenty-first century, until the new laws, new judicial system and new enforcement techniques had gotten things back in hand. But even now, as the country struggled to rebuild itself, there were very few places like this left. He had read about them, but rarely seen them.

But how would this end? When would it end? He knew that he didn’t want it to end. If it could just go on like this, that would be ideal! He could go on to California, to the ocean. He could even stop in Wyoming like he wanted to the first time. He could just stay here, lost in his memories, never having to go back to the harsh reality of his miserable existence.

But wait, he thought to himself. That idea was completely ludicrous. He couldn’t stay here. This was nowhere. Nothing. Just a series of electrical and chemical impulses traveling across synapses between the billions of neurons in his brain, letting him recall the time he’d actually traveled this way. And somehow, it had morphed itself into an almost dream-like state that he was actually able to interact with. It was an incredible experience.

But he knew he couldn’t stay here. There was no here to stay in.

But what if he could keep this memory/dream going? He could theoretically ride his motorcycle all the way to California, savoring every sight, every smell, every sensation along the way. And perhaps, if it were possible, he could even create some new memories.

But how long would it take? It had taken him days to reach the coast in reality. Would it take as long here? Or was time here, much like that in a dream; hideously warped and distorted, so that he could re-live the entire journey in the span of a thirty-minute dream?

He shook his head, trying to comprehend all the possibilities and indeed the impossibilities that this presented. And all of it was pure theory, in any event, because he truly wasn’t even sure how it all worked. He realized he’d been staring at the ground, and not really even seeing it, lost in his own thoughts. Daydreaming within a dream. The thought amused him and he chuckled to himself, looking out again at the amber sea before him. Amber waves of grain, he remembered the lyrics to a very old song.

This would take some serious thought, and that was something he didn’t want to do right now. He was enjoying the entire experience too much to get bogged down with a thousand probabilities and questions. He felt the wind ruffle his hair. He felt it. God this was amazing.

He placed his cigar between his lips and inhaled, but drew no smoke. He looked at its end and realized that the fire within had gone out.  Feeling around in his pockets he came across the lighter. He opened it, flicked the wheel and a satisfying bluish-yellow flame erupted. He held the fire to the end of the cigar, and puffed, attempting to draw the flame into the tobacco, a difficult process given the breezy conditions today. The wind-whipped flame danced and flickered, and abruptly played across his finger, singing it, causing him to yelp.

He sat upright, panting, eyes wide open. The blue sky was gone, replaced by darkness. The gentle roar of the immense wheat fields, by the quiet hum of the OSO’s electronics and machinery. Beneath him was not the cool, steel frame of his motorcycle, but the crisp, sterile, white sheets of his bed.

He strained to see anything in the darkness. He turned his head, and felt the tubes protruding from his nose, at which he pulled them out, letting them drop to the bed.

He swung his legs over the side, letting his feet touch the cold, metal floor, and then simply sat there, staring off into the blackness. He was here in the OSO. Wasn’t he? Maybe he was really on a dusty back road in Nebraska, and only imagined he was on board the OSO. Which was real and which was in his mind?

His hands groped around in the darkness, feeling the familiar shape of his bed, the soft sheets beneath him. They felt real. But then, everything about Nebraska had felt real too.

Feeling overwhelmed by this back-and-forth train of thought, he abruptly stood up, and commanded “Lights.” And then, instantly realizing his mistake, he shouted “Belay that! Lights fifty-percent.”

Slowly, dimly, the lights came on, and he began to pace, trying to sort this all out. The more he paced, the more confident he became that the OSO was reality, and the wheat fields in Nebraska had been imagined. Or was “remembered” a more appropriate word? No matter. Arguing with himself over semantics was a waste of time. The issue here was to determine what was real and what was not.

“Computer, how long were the lights in here, off just now?” He looked at the scrolling message board by his bed, waiting for the emotionless response. He was shocked as he saw the numbers scroll by: 02:34:38.

Interesting twists and turns of the mind....we are heading out tomorrow morning and will be driving through Nebraska....sounded like the Route 2 drive....if you have never done it, drive through the Sand Hills in Nebraska and then on the roads you describe in your story....keep posting, we will be checking in over the next month as we travel.

Wow - what a coincidence that I'm writing about Nebraska and you'll be traveling out there! I was stationed in eastern Nebraska from 1996-1999, just across the river from Iowa. Never made it to the western portion, which is where I was trying to describe. I've seen pics and heard descriptions though, and it sounds so barren and pretty. Much like the pictures I've seen of the great plains in South Dakota - so open, and so beautiful! Isn't that where you're from?
Over the next few installments of the story, please do me a favor and be very critical - I've only got a few more chapters actually written, and I had a difficult time with them. I know where I want the story to go, but getting there is strange and difficult. The whole idea of how the character takes these journeys of the mind seems a bit cheesy to me, but what can I say? The story has taken on a life of its own.
Anyway, enjoy your travels - be safe out on the road, and thanks again for reading!

Steve

Yeah, we're from South Dakota....I'll take some pics as we drive through western Nebraska. The Sand Hills are beautiful and in the summer LOTS of sunflowers. I do remember a rendering plant somewhere along the way, our eyes teared for awhile after THAT.  lol

....as for the critical, the only thing for me so far is this part:

"Although he didn’t understand, he now realized that the thing was somehow beckoning him. He doubted if that was entirely true, but it was most certainly how he felt."

THE ONLY THING I WOULD HAVE DONE HERE [caps to delineate]  I would have put something like: The coldness of the floor sent a shiver through him as he put his foot down. He wasn't sure if it was the actual cold or the anticipation of the machine.

"Kneeling beside it, he touched the machine’s cold, smooth surface, and he shuddered, feeling both menaced, and comforted by it. His hand slid up the side, feeling the flexible tubing, and then the round top, a cool glassy surface. The entire experience was almost hypnotic."

I write a completely different style, I would never be able to do the detail and intricacies that you have in your story. I'll try to be more critical, just not much in my nature.  :)

That sounds really beautiful, with all the sunflowers.... I can almost see it.
I like that part about the anticipation - that's got a great feel to how it sounds!
I appreciate all your comments!

thanx....we are heading out but will be checking in daily....take care....got the camera ready, hopefully no pics of snow   LOL

Sorry I haven't posted for a few days.....

Part Nine

He had been dreaming (yes, he decided. That’s what he would call it) for over two and a half hours! How could that be? The entire length of the dream sequence itself couldn’t possibly have been more than twenty minutes!

Okay, he thought. Now that he had figured out which was real and which wasn’t, he had to decide whether he would want to do this again. How did he feel about it? Or more accurately, how did he feel? He stopped his pacing and looked out into the dim light, trying to clear his racing mind. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose, letting the cool, sterile air expand his lungs. He held it for a moment, then let it go, smoothly, evenly though his mouth, and repeated the process several times. He had to get himself under control, and this exercise always helped him do that. Finally, his head felt clear enough to think clearly about it. How did he feel?

Good. He realized he felt incredibly good. Well rested. Relaxed. And actually, he hadn’t felt this good in weeks, since he’d begun to have trouble sleeping. Refreshed. Yes, that was a good way to describe it. He felt refreshed. If this was the effect it had, he definitely wanted to do it again.

But how often? And how long would this thing last? Obviously it had to run on some kind of power. Some internal battery of some sort. He didn’t want to use it all up inside of a week, and then spend the rest of his time out here, clawing his way from day to day as he was doing now.

Well, he decided then and there that he wasn’t going to worry about that. This thing was a gift. A miraculous gift, and he was going to enjoy it.

But again, the question presented itself; how often? Once a day. Or once a night. Apparently from the way he felt now, that would be all he’d need, to be left with a wonderful feeling of having re-lived a treasured memory, and a feeling of complete rejuvenation. He felt now, like he could go for another few days without rest. That’s how recharged he felt. Although his work schedule was rigid, and inflexible, his sleep schedule was completely up to him. But he decided not to push it. He would stay on his sleep routine, and with a little help from this new device, he would catch up on much-needed rest.

He walked back to his bed, happy with the choices he’d made, and excited about this new device and all it was offering to him. He lay down, and pulled the sheets back up to his neck, smiling, looking at the device, seeing its silhouette in the dim light, wondering about the science behind such a thing. He’d never heard of anything even remotely like it, and thought about the person who might have invented it. Was this the only one? If so, it was a shame, because there would certainly be a market for it. People would pay good money to have an experience like the one he’d just had.

And once again, he thought about the member of the re-supply crew who’d left it for him. Was it really because the man had a soft spot for a lost cause? He thought of the old saying about things that were free, and how they were rarely, if ever, really free. Maybe this guy wanted something from him. But what could it be? He certainly was in no position to grant anything to anyone, being stuck way out here. Maybe the guy would try to contact him when his sentence was served and he was back on earth.

All of that was pure conjecture at this point. All he knew for sure was that the thing was here with him. And it worked, exactly as promised, and better than he could have ever imagined. Yes, the device was here, and no matter what the future held, it was his now.

“Lights off.”

Sorry I haven't weighed in so far, I check in at work. Through some quirk of their system I can read and look but not interact. I'm definitely hooked. Keep it coming. I still haven't decided which is the reality and which is not. Is he having nightmares about this steel encased terrorscape, or dreaming of days gone by? Ah well time will tell.

Honestly, I'm not even sure which is reality and which isn't. The story seems to write itself, so I'm just along for the ride. Who knows where it'll take us? Thank you so much for reading! I'm so flattered! Here's the chapter for today....

Part 10

It was cold outside, that was for sure, but it was nice and toasty warm in the house. He was pulling off his coat, and hanging it on the hook behind the back door, as the snow on his shoes melted and fell onto the doormat. His dog, Max, ran up to him, tail wagging, begging for attention- after all he hadn’t seen his master all day.

He bent down and scratched the dog’s ear, to which Max responded by standing on his hind legs, and licking his cheek furiously.

“Hey buddy, did you miss me? Hmm?” The dog growled his approval of the treatment, then abruptly ran off to grab some food, tail still wagging happily. It had been so long since he’d seen his dog. In fact his dog had died some twenty years ago, but he was here now, alive again, even if it was only in a memory. A very cherished memory. His parents had gotten the dog from some family friends, when it was just a puppy, and he and the dog had pretty much grown up together

He kicked off his shoes, without untying them, something his mom never liked, turned the corner, and went up the stairs into his room. His older brother must have just been there, he reasoned, able to smell the signature scent of his cologne, mixed with his leather jacket. He must have been here getting ready for a date, because that was the only time he ever splashed cologne on so heavily.

“Hey bro, what’s up?” His brother said, as he bounded up the stairs into the room.

“Not much. Got a hot date tonight?”

“Maybe. Forgot my keys.” He said reaching past him, to get his keys from the dresser.

“So where you going?”

“Crazy.”

“No, really.”

“Crazy.” His brother said, matter of factly, and just like that he was down the stairs and gone again, the smell of his cologne even heavier in the air, now.

He hated it when his brother was so stand-offish with his answers. He’d just asked a simple question, and it’s not like his brother was on some secret spy mission, so why not answer. So what if he was six years older. Now this was something he hadn’t thought about before now; apparently even though the memories he was re-living were in his own distant past, as the people in those memories interacted with him, they saw him just as he was when they had originally occurred. The memory he was re-living had actually occurred at least twenty five or thirty years ago. His brother was around eighteen years old and he, around twelve. But even though he was now in reality, in his late thirties, his remembered brother apparently still saw him as a kid. Strange, the way this all worked.

He didn’t know how long this would last and he wanted to savor it, so he decided that he would try to reason it out later. For now, he was merely going to enjoy it.

Beef stew. Suddenly, he could smell beef stew! He quickly made his way downstairs, feeling the warmth on his skin, as he did. The ventilation system in the house had never been all that good, and in the winter, the heat didn’t always make it upstairs. There was always a drastic temperature difference between the first and second floors of the house.

The kitchen felt even warmer, and had the smell of the wonderful stew his mom cooked. He loved her beef stew, and wished she’d cook it more often. He saw the pan on the stove, covered with one of the metal lids that seemed to have been in the family for as long as he could remember. He looked around, and his mom was nowhere to be seen, so he lifted the lid on the pan, and looked into the bubbling brown liquid. Steam rose from the pan, the smell filling him. He could smell the meat, the green beans, the carrots. Oh, it was heavenly, and nearly overwhelming.

“Get out of that! It’s not done yet!”

Startled, he slammed the lid back down, and turned around. And there she was.

His mom. His mom was standing there! She had passed away over fifteen years ago, but here she was.

“Your dad will be home, soon. Just let that stew simmer a little while longer.”

“Mom…? I just… I…” He tried to speak, but could find no words. He had always been close to his mom, but especially so since his dad had passed away. He had been devastated when ten years after his dad died, his mom followed. But now, he was here with her again. He knew that it was only a memory, but it was so real. There were so many things he’d wanted to tell her. So many things, and he’d only realized them after she was gone. He remembered crying so hard after she died, that it seemed as if all the air had gone away, and there was no more to breathe. He cried until his entire body ached and he was sure he was also dying.

Now he would have the chance to tell it all to her. All the opportunities he was deprived of before were available to him. So what if it wasn’t real. It was real enough to him now.

“What’s wrong?” She was asking him.

“Mom… I…” he still couldn’t speak, overwhelmed as he was. Instead he merely reached out to her, hugging her close, nearly falling on her as he did. “Mom, I just wanted to say…. That I… I love you. I know I never say that enough.”

“Well, son, I love you too.” She hugged him back, seemingly confused by what to her was a sudden burst of emotion. To her, it was a normal day. She had probably seen him just a few minutes before this. But to him, it had been years since he’d seen her, and all the emotions resulting from regrets and opportunities lost, were pouring out.

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t…” he caught himself speaking in a past tense. “…That I haven’t been a better son.

“Well, that’s okay. You’ve always been a great boy.” His mother replied, hugging him back, seemingly unsure what brought all this on, or what to say about it.

He pulled away and looked at her. “I really mean it, mom.”

“I know you do. But what’s going on? Why are you crying?”

He wiped at his cheek and felt the wetness of his tears. “Nothing, really.” She seemed so real. How could he tell her that he wasn’t really here? That none of this was real? Or should he tell her? It didn’t really matter. For him, the illusion was real. “It’s just that… I’ve thought about it a lot lately, and realized that there’s so much more I could have been. That I could still do. And that I wasn’t always the nicest kid. And I’m sorry for any pain I’ve caused you.”

She was shorter than he was. Even back then, when he was a teenager, which is how she saw him now, he was taller than her. She patted him on the chest.

“Well, that’s okay, son. I don’t know what brought all this about but why don’t you go get washed up for supper. Your dad will be home soon, and you can tell him, too. It’s been a long time since you hugged either one of us like that. I guess teenagers outgrow that sort of thing. But it was nice.”

“Dad? Dad’s coming home?”

“Well sure. He must have left work by now. I’m sure he’ll be coming through the door any minute now.”

His dad. He was going to see his dad again! Ever since his dad died, he had realized how much closer to him he could have – should have – been. Since his death, there had been a thousand times that he had inwardly chastised himself for not being closer to him when he had the chance. All he had left of his father were distant, muted memories. Memories of him working in his garden. Of the time he was moving the refrigerator and damaged some of the tiles on the kitchen floor. Countless little snips of memories. All of them were so very far away, dulled by the filter of many passed years. But now, he would see his dad again.

And when he did, the memory would be full, and rich, and lifelike. Oh, he wanted to see his dad again. To tell him all he’d just told his mother and more.

His heart raced at the thought of the incredible reunion he was about to have. He ran to the living-room, and looked out the window, waiting to see his dad walking up to the door.

“Son, what in the world has gotten into you?”

He turned and his mother was standing there, her face a mask of absolute bewilderment, with more than a hint of alarm. “Are you sure you’re alright? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No, mom” he chuckled at her reaction to all this “I guess I just… “ He had to stop for a moment and think about what period in his life this was. Was he a little boy? Was he…? No. he remembered his mom had said he was a teenager. And he was taller than she.

“No, mom, it’s nothing like that.” He had a hard time expressing himself, as he pretended to be a teenager again. It was so difficult to do, because he wasn’t a teenager. He was a grown man. “I guess I’m growing up. I’ve done a lot of thinking and I realized what a bratty little kid I was. I’m so sorry that I wasn’t – I mean that I haven’t been – the kind of son you could be proud of.”

“What are you talking about? We are proud of you, your dad and me.”

“Mom, there’s a difference between being proud of someone and loving them. You love me, but I haven’t given you a single thing to be proud of.”

“Well, of course you have, what about the time you…”

Abruptly the image of his mother melted into itself, turned black and instantly enveloped him. Then, just as abruptly as the old image faded, a new one formed in front of him. Not an image, really, but a color. Just a color, a flat gray. Dull gray, and very cold looking.

Where was his dad? His dad had been just about to walk in the door. But the door was gone. So was the livingroom.

“M…mom?”

Only a cool, unemotional humming sound answered him.

”Dad?” He realized he was lying down, staring up at the ceiling. Had he passed out? Perhaps the emotional flood of which he was about to be subjected was too much to deal with, and his body had just shut off momentarily.

But no. Something was wrong with that idea, although he wasn’t sure what. He sat up, and felt something stinging in his nostrils. He clawed at his nose, and pulled out two long, flexible tubes, with blood on the tips. He let them fall next to him, the blood making dark stains on the white, sterile sheets.

The light was dim, and he felt around with his hands, discovering the cold, metal bed frame, the smooth, uncaring wall it nestled against. No! It couldn’t be! Not now! He swung his feet over the edge, and they touched the icy floor. He quickly drew them up again, pulling his knees right to his chest. He circled them with his arms and quietly lay down on his bed, his head sinking into the soft pillow, listening to the hiss of the air processing unit, felt the dull vibrations of the various machinations below him, and came to the unwanted realization that he was still on the OSO. He had never left.

Blood seeped unnoticed from his nostrils, as he lay there in the dark, thinking about the whole experience. He understood that this wasn’t really a revelation; he had known all along that he was still here. That it was all a memory that he was re-living. Interacting with. But it had all felt so real. The sights, the smells, the sounds. The feelings.

Why had the experience ended at that exact moment? That exact moment? He was just about to see his dad again. The passing of so many years had dulled his conscious memory, but he was certain that this device would have tapped into his subconscious memories, clearly, brightly, and he would have seen his dad again. Seen him as he hadn’t remembered him in years. He wondered if he would have been able to feel the scratch of his dad’s whiskers against his cheek, the smell of his after-shave, as he hugged him, some of the most precious memories of his long-distant childhood.

For a long time, he didn’t move, trying desperately to lose himself in the memory again. The overwhelming feeling of emptiness was crushing, to the point where he didn’t even want to move to re-insert the tubes. He cried out for mercy from a god he wasn’t so sure he believed in anymore. The memories. The feelings. All of it - he just wanted it all back. But it wouldn’t come. And he cried.

Here's today's installment....

Part 11

He sat at the console, staring out the observation port, at the flat, inky blackness. Distant stars twinkled silently, but he didn’t see them. Recycled air hissed quietly through the vents, but he didn’t hear it. The floor vibrated gently, a sign of the vast mechanical workings beneath, but he didn’t feel it. Lost in his own thoughts, as he had been since he sat down in his chair, he mindlessly went about his daily routine, recording and disseminating his solar observations with brain-numbing redundancy. Was anyone even interested in this data? Did anyone even care? He doubted it. But he was obligated to do so anyway, for fear of retribution by the administrators. So he went about his business, and did as he was told, his hands doing all the work, but his mind far away.

Ever since he’d slogged his way out of bed, muscles achingly stiff from the fetal position he’d finally fallen asleep in, all he could think about was the moment when his shift would be over, and he could once again connect himself to the device and lose himself inside his own head. The memories had seemed so real, so vivid, that he was almost unable to believe that they weren’t real, that he in fact had not traveled back in time to relive them. It felt like they were not really memories, but more as if the whole thing was some kind of spiritual (perhaps even physical) journey to an alternate reality that he could interact with. It was a real head trip.

And above all, he was frightened. Frightened of what another experience like last night’s could do to him emotionally, if it ended badly again. Yes he was frightened, but the mere thought of the device sent an overpowering thrill coursing through him. A thrill he knew he could not deny.

For a time, he had tried understanding the technology behind it. What made it work? He even toyed with the idea of dismantling it to find out. But he was afraid to. The experiences he had with it were so delicious, that he was afraid of damaging the thing in the process, rendering it unusable. And after seeing what it could do, that was a risk he was unwilling to take.

Perhaps, he mused, it was some form of alien technology. After all, he’d never heard of anything even remotely like it. And he knew nothing of the person who left it for him. Who knew where this guy had traveled to, what other life forms he may have encountered, and what technology he may have been exposed to. This thing looked like it was made for a human, with the tubes for the nostrils. Homo Sapiens weren’t the only beings in the galaxy who had dual nostrils, but they were definitely in a minority. Perhaps a friendly alien race had made it as a gift for their human friends.

But this thing was wondrous. If it was indeed a gift, why had it been passed on, rather than kept and savored.

And what powered it? Obviously it had some form of battery-type power source. But was that source of limited endurance? He was almost afraid to use it; afraid that whatever power source it used would run out, leaving the thing no more than strange looking decorative object. Great as his fear of using it was, his fear of not using it was greater.

For the first time since he was abandoned in this icy metal shell, he felt like he might be able to survive the experience. The freedoms this device allowed were enough to keep his mind from coming unhinged. Without its influence, the loneliness, the maddening nightmares, the near-paralyzing uncertainty of what awaited him when his sentence was over, would quickly drive him headlong into the dark, stinking pit of insanity.

But perhaps the most vexing question to him was that of why the man had left it here? He said to do so, was good for him, as well. What did that mean? How could it benefit him to leave such a valuable item in the possession of a perfect stranger? A convicted criminal at that.

There were a million questions he could think of. More than that, really. And now the constant second guessing, twisting himself in circles in an attempt to figure it all out, was sapping him.

He tried to take his mind off the whole subject, by concentrating on his work. But for the better part of an hour, he found himself constantly having to pull his mind back to the tasks at hand. The device called to him. It tempted him. Reasoned with him. Pleaded with him. He was unable to not think about it.

I'm liking the way this is going....back and forth between the 'work/prisoner' reality and the 'dreamscape' reality. The looming 'crash' is building nicely. 

Thanks for posting these installments.  :)

Part 12

It was utterly dark. He looked around in all directions in an attempt to find some sliver of light somewhere. Something that would tell him where he was. But there was no light. He reached out like a blind man trying to feel his way through a room. He wondered if he were in a room. Or a cave. There was nothing for his hands to feel. No point of reference to let him know for sure where he was. Panic welled up within him. He spun around drunkenly, staggering, clawing at that darkness as though it were a living thing for him to lash out at. He felt as though he would fall over, but in the overwhelming blackness, there was no point of reference – was he about to fall down? Or up? Was there a down or an up? What was there?
He tried to scream out, but realized that there was no air – there was nothing to rush through his vocal chords. No sound came out. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to gulp down a huge breath of air, but only drew in the blackness. Thick, black nothingness filled his lungs, displacing the last whisper of oxygen that remained. His throat constricted. His heart pounded. His chest heaved, desperately trying to breathe. But there was nothing.
His life was draining quickly away – he felt it. He was dying, and it was horrible. Painful. His lungs burned, his diaphragm heaving spasmodically, trying to draw in non-existent oxygen. Black lightning flashed through his limbs, crackling into his fingers and toes. Pressure inside his skull made his head feel as if it were an over-inflated balloon, ready to pop. He thrashed about in torturous agony, his mouth a silent scream of the most exquisite pain. He crumbled, knowing he was about to die. No human could tolerate this kind of pain. He knew it was happening and he begged death to take him – to drink him in and drown him in the mind-numbing ecstasy of complete nothingness.
An abrupt feeling of peace rose within him. He was dying, but it wasn’t so bad. Consciousness was flowing away from him, but it didn’t matter. His oxygen starved limbs twitched, but it didn’t hurt. He felt his brain shutting down, but he didn’t care. It would all be over momentarily. Then he would drift away. Drift away to… to who knew what? But mercifully the pain would be gone. Even now, it was draining from him. Life was leaving him. Everything would be alright. He was about to be free from everything bad. There would be no more OSO. No more regrets about his life and the choices he’d made. No more guilt. No more anything. Even if there was no heaven (he wasn’t certain he’d be going there anyway) whatever awaited him had to be better than this. Death had begun with an electrical storm of agony, and had now faded to a whisper, a soothing voice caressing him like a lover, telling him that it would alright. His dying heart boomed in his ears, an ancient tribal drumbeat, slowing. Boom. Boom. Boom. The insistent knocking of death at the door of his existence. He opened the door. Invited death inside. Welcomed it. Yearned for it.
Light suddenly flashed in his eyes blinding him. Explosions of green light flared behind his eyelids, and a violent, icy wind scoured him, blasting his ears with the sound of a thousand thunderous screams, rolling him over and over, tumbling until he came to rest against a solid object. He tried to open his eyes, but the light was like the core of the sun, a dichotomy of blistering hot and the whitest, coldest light. He squeezed them shut again, reeling as his body was battered repeatedly by the terrifying wind, and hundreds of small objects pelting him. The wind forced his mouth open and shoved its way in. His lungs, moments before empty, were now filled nearly to the bursting point. He tried to exhale, but the wind was so strong he could force no air back out. The sweet oxygen his body craved was now a forceful enemy that threatened to kill him.
He was certain that death had changed its sinister tactics, and that the peaceful end he craved had been a cruel trick. He would now die from an exploded chest cavity, from the horrible battering his body was sustaining. Tears, mixed with blood, began to crawl from beneath his eyelids, the wind dragging them into pink streaks across the side of his head and into his hair.
Just as he was certain he could no longer take it, that his insides would burst through his ribs, smashing them into bony splinters, the wind began to subside, the noise to abate, and the light to become more tolerable. Slowly, carefully he opened one eye, then the other. He managed to push some air from his lungs, in a painful coughing spasm, and he realized that he was lying on his back on a flat surface. He propped himself up on one elbow, as the wind faded to a low hiss. The cold interior of the OSO greeted him. His breath puffed in front of him, in a moist gray cloud. A damp mist hung in the air, and furniture, tools, writing instruments, papers, and all manner of loose objects were scattered around the floor.
He painfully stood up, dancing from one foot to the other, in a failed attempt to avoid the floor which was colder than anything he’d ever felt. His feet were bare, and he looked down at himself to find that the rest of his clothing was torn and tattered, barely hanging onto him. He saw a chair lying on its side, and he tip-toed over to it, wincing each time his feet touched the floor. His fingers felt as if they would freeze to the metal as he gripped the chair, standing it back up. He quickly sat on it, finding it bitterly cold, but not as cold as the floor, which he drew his feet up, and away from. His knees were up against his chest, and he circled them with his arms, trying to generate some body warmth. His breath escaped between his chattering teeth, in tiny clouds.
What the hell had happened? Had there been some kind of accident? An explosive decompression? What had he been doing before it happened? Perhaps something had struck him in the head, and that’s why he couldn’t remember. His thoughts did seem scattered, and disjointed.
Numerous lights blinked on the control console, begging for his attention, silent alarms of all types. He ignored them, trying to gather his wits. His chest ached. His head throbbed. Nausea rolled over him in waves.
The pain was awful, the cold biting. But he ignored it all trying to figure out what was going on. Perhaps a stray asteroid had banged into the OSO, breaching the hull. After all, the thing had no defensive capabilities. No way to protect itself from an approaching foreign object. But that didn’t make any sense: if the hull had indeed been breached, nothing could have stopped it from turning the OSO inside out, expelling everything, and him, out into space. There were no redundant safety features to prevent such a scenario from occurring. The administrators deemed them too costly. Once the hull was open to the vacuum, there was no stopping it, and that was one of the hazards that they deemed as an acceptable risk. After all, the only people out here in these damned metal cans were convicts of one sort or another. If a few of them died while serving out their sentences, they didn’t consider it a huge loss.
So if it wasn’t an accident, what the hell happened?
The lights flickered and dimmed. The floor rumbled. Terror rose inside him, as he feared that at any moment, the tear in the hull that he’d just convinced himself was non-existent, would open wide, and he would be sucked out into the cold, empty waste.
A red glow flared in his peripheral vision. He looked and saw that it was a light blinking insistently on the main control console. It was a light he couldn’t recall ever having seen before. He put his feet down, and pushed his wheeled chair over to see what it was.
The light was a glowing trail of text that blinked quickly, angrily, as it scrolled across the portion of the console that was reserved for incoming messages.
It read: “LAST OBSERVATION DISSEMINATED THREE HOURS AGO. SCANNERS INDICATE ATMOSPHERIC CONDITIONS INSIDE OSO TOLERABLE. CONVICT LIFE FUNCTIONS NOMINAL. NO RESPONSE TO REPEATED HAILS. INSUBORDINATION WILL NOT BE TOLERATED. PUNISHMENT PHASE ONE IMPLEMENTED, AND COMPLETED. PUNISHMENT PHASE TWO IN 45 SECONDS PENDING RESUMPTION OF WORK. ACKNOWLEDGE RECEIPT.”
The message began again. Punishment phase one? What the hell? Looking around, he saw his coffee cup, and a half-eaten doughnut sitting on the console, right where he had placed them earlier. He saw his sketchpad sitting there, the outline of the woman he’d been drawing trailing off the page. He looked at the clock, and at the dissemination log, seeing the discrepancy.
“Jesus…” he muttered to himself, now realizing what had happened. He had fallen asleep in the middle of his shift. In between observations he had been drawing and he had fallen asleep! When the administrators couldn’t rouse him, they thought he was rebelling, and decided to punish him. They had opened a vent somewhere and let the vacuum suck out the air, then pumped it back in right before he succumbed. They were crazy!
The floor rumbled again. If what he had just been through was phase one of punishment, what was phase two? Phase one had nearly killed him - or at least made him pray for death to end the nightmarish agony of his insides expanding like an overfilled balloon. Phase two would have to be much worse, but what could possibly be worse?
The floor rumbled again, and he decided he didn’t want to find out, so he quickly slammed his hand down on the “acknowledge” button, sending out a single electronic pulse to let them know he understood.
The lights continued to dim, and the rumbling increased until he felt like the metal plates beneath his feet would buckle under the strain. The wind began again, slowly, but increasing. What was happening?! He’d acknowledged their message. Small objects began to whirl around, and electrical charges crackled light tiny blue lightning across the console, the floor, the walls.
The air was thinning, and it was getting harder to breathe.
“Dammit! I acknowledged! Stop it!” He screamed at nothing. His knees gave out and he toppled to the floor, gasping “Stop it! You’re killing me!”
Wind roared through the OSO now, and spots flickered in front of his eyes, as he began to lose consciousness.
Abruptly the wind ceased, the lights brightened and he could breathe again. His foggy mind reasoned that the punishment had begun again, because of the delay it took for the trans-space signal to reach those maniacs running this thing, then time for their signal to reach back out to the OSO and tell it to stop trying to kill him.
His head pounded. His throat and chest burned with invisible fire. His battered body ached and had the strength of a glob of gelatin. He lay on his back, eyes closed, wheezing.
A shrill alarm sliced through his hearing, impossible to ignore. He rolled over, clutching at his ears, screaming in pain, his voice impossible to hear over the din.
The angry red letters again scrolled across the console again: “NEXT OBSERVATION NOW DUE. DISSEMINATE IMMEDIATELY. NEXT OBSERVATION NOW DUE. DISSEMINATE IMMEDIATELY. NEXT OBSERVATION NOW DUE. DISSEMINATE….”
“Jesus, give me a minute – you just tried to kill me!”
The cold response came “NEXT OBSERVATION NOW DUE. DISSEMINATE IMMEDIATELY. NEXT OBSERVATION NOW DUE. DISSEMINATE IMMEDIATELY. NEXT OBSERVATION NOW DUE. DISSEMINATE IMMEDIATELY. NEXT OBSERVATION NOW DUE. DISSEMINATE IMMEDIATELY.”
Again the floor began to rumble, and the lights dimmed.
“Oh my God!” he staggered the short distance to the console, and fell into the chair, crying. His implanted instructions took over, and with no conscious thought, his eyes scanned the sensors, his mind processed the information, calculated the parameters, his hands keyed the necessary controls on the console, and after several terrifying seconds he pressed the “disseminate” button.
The alarm ceased. He found himself suddenly in a massive deep ocean of silence, punctuated only by the sounds of his wracking sobs.

The description in your story is really good. At one point, I flashed on an old 'Twilight Zone' show where the 'Earth' people found that they were an exhibit in an Extraterrestrial zoo.

Can't wait to see the next chapter....sorry for the delay, we have been traveling alot.

btw....when I said that I hoped there was no snow in Nebraska, as we left for Oklahoma, there was SNOW. :(

I'm glad you like it... I hope you had a good time traveling. I'll be doing that a bit here very soon. As a matter of fact, I haven't written much lately because I'm getting ready to move to a new duty station (I'm in the Air Force) in Florida. I do have a few more chapters, though.....here's the next installment -

Part 13

It was dark. Gentle whispers caressed the thin hair at his temples, soft and cool as the touch of a wispy cloud passing by. It was such a pleasant sensation. A quiet moan slipped past his lips, as he felt the warm breath he exhaled rising through his throat, contrasting with the cool air around him. It was cool. But not cold. Just… right.

He realized that the darkness was due to the fact that he had his eyes closed, and he then opened them just a tiny bit. It was still dark, but not totally. He was lying on his back, and turning his head, he could make out, just barely, dark shapes around him in the murky gloom. He thought about that word for a moment. Gloom. Said it over and over to himself in his mind. The word sounded strange. Ancient. Cold. Damp. Like a silent swampy forest. He listened to it echoing quietly through his thoughts. The word felt lonely. Made him feel lonely. But if that was the case, then gloom wasn’t a word for what he saw around him. Because what he saw was darkness, filled with intermittent darker shadows. But it wasn’t lonely feeling. It was just quiet. Restful.

A gentle, cool blue glow to the right caught his attention. He turned his head and saw the blue digital numbers of a clock. It was 5:48am; the pre-dawn twilight peeked in quietly through thin, filmy curtains. Where was he? Indeed, when was he?

A slight chill crept up his back, as he grappled with the thought, almost afraid of what he might find out. Almost afraid; it was so quiet. So peaceful. How could he fear this? Normally he wouldn’t, but the past few experiences with the device had left him apprehensive about this sort of thing. This wasn’t the OSO, that was for certain. It seemed so real. He was so at ease that he never wanted it to end. He actually felt like he was resting.

But it was still there. The nagging doubt that told him it wasn’t real. Like ghost, it whispered silently to him. Told him not to believe it.

He wanted to. Oh how he wanted to. This was the kind of memory he could lose himself in.

But again, where was he? Even if he did lose himself in the whole experience, just as in the real world, a remembered sun would eventually rise. A remembered day would begin. It was inevitable. But what day would he find himself in?

He tried to relax. To let the illusion overtake him. To let it give him the rest he so desperately needed. So, he exhaled long and slowly, looking up into the rich blue-black darkness, at what must be a ceiling, unseen above him somewhere.

But he knew it wouldn’t work. The unease clawed at the bottom of his brain. Poked at him. Annoyed him. Another chill made him shiver. There was no way he was going to let himself be drawn into a false sense of security, so he decided to end this whole charade before the device could do it for him. To wake himself up. If he could. He reasoned that if he could do it, at least he would be able to maintain some control of the situation.

He went to sit up, and only in that moment realized that someone was lying next to him, asleep, a heavy arm draped across his bare chest. He wasn’t alone. Someone else was lying next to him. On him!

Who was it? Dammit, where was he?

He gently – hesitantly -  touched the soft, warm arm, tracing his fingers quietly down toward the forearm toward the hand, feeling every slight bump, each curve and tiny indentation. He felt the silky skin, the delicate bone structure, the slender fingers, and long nails of the hand that rested on his chest near his right armpit. A woman’s hand. It was a woman!

But who was it? He searched desperately through his memories, for something like this. Part of it all seemed familiar. He was fairly certain now that this was the bedroom in his first apartment. But who was this sleeping with him?

So gently, he grasped the wrist, and lifted the arm from his chest. Abruptly the arm wriggled out of his hand and wrapped itself again across him. A quiet moan came to him out of the darkness next to him, and the person gripped him tighter, still sleeping. He could barely suppress a slight gasp, thrilled as he felt the warmth of the female body next to him snuggle closer, the soft flesh of her breasts pushing against his ribs. She was naked! He felt beneath the blankets, and realized that he was, also. One of her legs crossed over his, and tensed, drawing the two of them tighter together. His heart thudded in his chest, his body flushed, and he could feel his temperature rising.

The woman next to him moved her head, and he felt her chin and cheek now against his chest, the small breeze of her exhalations blowing gently across him and he realized for the first time that his left arm was around her shoulder. He couldn’t help it, and with the arm that encircled her, he pulled her closer, the scent of her hair intoxicating. This was heavenly, even though he still didn’t know who it was. It had been such a long time since he’d had an experience like this. His fingers slid tenderly, lightly, from her behind, following her spine up the small of her back.

The skin felt tight. Flawless. Warm.

The teasing caress of his fingertips gave her a chill, she wriggled slightly, and he felt her pubic hair brush against his thigh.

“Oh God….” He uttered quietly.

“Hi lover.” She whispered. “I felt that. Mmmmm…you must like this.” Her hand slid whisper soft across his belly, tracing the faint outline of the muscles, then slowly downward, with a touch that felt like no more than her fingertips. The purest ecstasy coursed through him as he felt her hand abruptly gripping him, tightly, but gently.

He couldn’t remember feeling anything so good, as her hand slid up and down on him, slow and insistent. He felt himself swooning, panting quietly, feeling the building pressure already. He squeezed her tighter against him, taking in all of her - the feel of her skin, the faintest breeze of her breath, the scent of her hair – of her femininity. Oh God, the sensations washed over him, like ripples across an otherwise still pond. Her hand moved faster, and he began to move his hips, in rhythm.

But it’s not real! hissed a silent voice in his head. He tried to ignore the voice. Wanted to ignore it. This was too good, too intense. This was by far the most incredible memory he had re-lived since he’d been on the OSO. He had… wait. This was… a… a memory! That’s all this was! He was still….

The OSO!

He was still on the OSO, and none of this was real!

Suddenly he knew what was about to happen –he would be taken to the highest heights of passion, only to be dropped back down. Dumped. Slammed. And it would happen right before the peak of the experience. That’s the way it always worked. Always would work. And it would leave him devastated. Perhaps more so than ever before, considering how strong this felt.

But he wouldn’t allow that to happen. No matter how good it felt – and God, it felt good! He had to end it now, before he lost control of the situation.

“I’m not here!” he yelled, pulling away from her, leaping out of bed, banging his hip painfully on one of the small matching tables at his bedside. He was pulling the covers off the bed as he backed away from it, wrapping himself in them as he did, suddenly even in the dark, ashamed of his nakedness.

“I’m not here! You’re not real!”

A light flared on, dim it was, but even in the darkness of the room, momentarily blinding him. He shielded his eyes with one arm, held the covers tightly around himself with the other, staggering backward.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” the woman asked. “Are you okay? Did you have a bad dream?”

Slowly lowering his arm, and looking through squinting eyes he could see her sitting on her knees on the bed, naked. She had turned on the light, frightened at his sudden outburst. As his eyes became more accustomed to the light, her image became clearer, and slack-jawed he drank it all in.

Her milk-white skin, lightly freckled, looked cool and smooth. Long brown hair, curly and unkempt, flowed halfway down her back. Her dark eyes looked at him with a mix of confusion, fear, and compassion. Her full lips, even in the dark, looked beautiful and red. Good God, she was gorgeous. And he hadn’t seen her in… it must be ten or twelve years.

“Diane….” The name dangled precariously. “Diane, it’s been so long. I just…. I don’t….” he was utterly at a loss for any coherent speech. It was his girlfriend. The one whom he had very nearly married. The one who occasionally stayed overnight in his apartment. The one to whom he loved to walk around the block with, during the cool of the evening. The one he loved to cook for. To care for. With whom he made desperate, passionate, incredibly hot love. The first and only real love of his life. And he was here with her. She looked just like she had when she was twenty-two, when their relationship was at its peak. God he loved her so. Even now, he still did.

“What’s wrong. Honey?” she asked. “It’s okay. You just had a bad dream is all. C’mon over here and I’ll make it better.” She patted the bed, gesturing for him to sit.

Hesitant, he took a step forward, then stopped.

“Babe, come on. It’s cold,” she giggled, “and you have all the covers.” She lay down on her side, her hair cascading across the pillow. So beautiful. “Come and warm me up.” She lightly traced a finger across the outer curve of her hip. And smiled coyly. “Make me warm.”

He resisted, although her most certainly didn’t want to. “No. This isn’t real. You’re not real! I’m not really here!”

He wanted so desperately to let himself go, to be swallowed up in this memory, but he knew it would only lead to frustration as all the others had before.

He and she had broken off their relationship some years before, and had gone their separate ways, still on friendly terms, vowing to stay in touch. Neither one had for very long. After a year she was gone completely from his life, and he had no idea where she was, indeed if she was even still alive.

It was the single worst regret of his life, and he missed her every day. Time had muted some of the feelings he had for her, but it could never cover them completely, and he lived every day with the hurt. It was pain deeper and more complete than the one he had regarding his parents, and that one was deep enough. There were so many times when he wished he had stayed with her. That they could have worked things out. That he wondered where she was, what she was doing. It was always a curiosity that he was afraid to satisfy. In the age in which they lived, looking her up would have been more than simple. He often wondered why she hadn’t done the same. Perhaps it was because she had found someone. Moved on, and forgotten him.

But their life together had been filled with such passion, that he found that idea nearly impossible to believe. But why hadn’t she? He wanted to know, but he was afraid to find out. And so he moved on, but never got over her.

“Not here?” She asked in a voice like liquid velvet, dark, smooth and inviting. “I don’t know what you mean. Come on back to bed, honey. You just had a bad dream is all. I’ll make you forget.” She said, patting the bed, her words dripping with the promise of sexual mischief.

Hesitant, but drawn on by a primal urge he was fighting a losing battle to ignore, he took another step toward her. “Diane….” His voice choked off. “I love you… I’ve always loved you.” The words began to tumble out faster. “It’s been so long since I saw you. I’m so sorry about everything. It was all my fault. I love you!” This was it – his chance to tell her that he didn’t want their relationship to end. He had to let her know how much she meant to him. It was more than even he had ever realized right up until this point. Seeing her. Touching her. Smelling her. And lying beside her he suddenly had realized that he loved her much more than he had ever dared let himself believe. “Diane, please, don’t go! I can’t go through that again!….” His voice was cut off as the world around him slowed down. Blackness rapidly crept in from the edges of his field of vision, and everything then imploded in upon itself, as if all reality was a pool of water and someone had just pulled a drain-plug from beneath it. Diane’s voice was still speaking but much slower, deeper. Muffled as if it were a recording that was slowing down, her words all but unintelligible.

He called out her name, and his voice was likewise distorted, but much deeper, booming painfully in his own ears. Darkness surrounded him, sucked him in, slowing him down, his voice, his movements, everything. The dark enclosed him in velvety, warm nothing, utterly silent. Diane was gone. His apartment was gone. He was gone. Everything was gone. Nowhere.

Suddenly a brilliant, blinding white light assaulted his eyes, as existence exploded into being like a bomb. His own voice came up from the silence, rapidly building into a crescendo that threatened to burst his eardrums, screaming, as he slammed down onto the floor on his back, with a metallic thump.

“Diane…. Diane! Come back! Come back!!” His voice echoed back at him, mockingly, from all the metallic surfaces around him. But she wouldn’t come back. Couldn’t. And he knew it, crying as the terrible weight of reality crushed him.

Hi, just wanted to let you know that I enjoyed your story. Keep up the writing.

Thanks so much! I'm glad you like it. I haven't written much lately, as I'm on the tail-end of a move from Texas to Florida. If you've ever moved before, you know what a huge effort it is. Not sure when I'll write more - hopefully it won't be too long

Part 14
He was obsessed.

And he knew it. The reunion with his mom was wonderful, but he wanted more. The near-reunion with his dad was heartbreaking, having ended just before he would have actually seen him, leaving him so frustrated, it hurt.

And the experience of waking up in bed with Diane, only to lose her once again had all but killed him. He wasn’t sure how it all worked – back here in reality he had to have been walking during his memory/dream. He’d fallen down when it was over, and now had a large purplish bruise on his lower back. God it was sore!

But besides the physical pain*, his soul ached*. He needed to see his dad. To tell him all the things he’d told his mom. Not to clear his mind or conscience of any long-standing unresolved guilt, but just to tell him.

In the years since his dad had died, he knew how important it should have been for him as a boy, to be closer to his dad. All of the things he could have learned from him. All the things he needed to talk to him about, to ask him. To experience with him. So what if it wasn’t real? It was real enough for the moment, and that’s all that mattered.

He needed to tell Diane not to leave. To hold her tightly against him. To make sure she knew how very much she meant to him, and that he would never again be so foolish as to drive her away.

But it was gone. And he was alone.

He couldn’t do it. He had tried for the better part of a week, to slip back into these specific memories, with no success. Sure he found himself re-living some good memories, but with being so fixated on these very ones, they all left him feeling unfulfilled.

Indeed several times he found himself in situations where he was a boy, playing with childhood friends, or playing with his dog in the yard. But always the thought that perhaps he’d be able to see his dad again, drove him dream-running to the house, leaving friends and toys behind in the time-shrouded tatters of his remembered landscape. And always, he would wake just as he was bounding up the front steps, or reaching for the door.

Every time he came so near to having Diane’s warm body beneath him as they slowly made love, or even just to kiss her, it ended and he awoke, frustrated, He would find himself still in the OSO, sometimes in bed, sometimes in other parts of the structure, unaware of how he got there. Invariably he found himself cursing the damned device for its maddening ability to take him to the very edge of what he sought, only to yank him back.

He even tried a different tactic; he attempted to just relax and let the memories take him where they would, certain that they would eventually lead him to what he sought. He was just going along for the ride, but hoping somewhere deep in his being, that the memory pulling him in, would be the one he sought . But this reverse psychology bore no more fruit than his earlier attempts, and the entire experience drained him.

Each day he seemed more tired than the one before. Once he awoke from a memory, he rarely fell back asleep again, but rather turned over and over in his mind, the thoughts, feelings and emotions he had felt. What might he have done differently? What could he have said to make it last longer, or turn out some other way? Such a rush of feelings couldn’t easily be turned off and he invariably found himself beginning to doze just as his alarm clock sounded, to awaken him for another day of drudgery.

Exhausted, he would shuffle tiredly down the stairs, and begin his day, trying not to think about what he’d just been through. But the device tricked him. It connived him. Wormed its way into every moment of conscious thought, teasing him with delicious ideas and the promise of wicked pleasures. He couldn’t resist thinking about it. Using it. Even though it let him down every time, it always assured him that with just one more use he could get what he so desired. It never worked, but he couldn’t quit. Just one more time. Just one more!

He remembered reading about a similar phenomena in history studies as a boy. People used to put foreign substances in their bodies through a variety of methods, wanting to alter reality, to make them feel better or even just to forget about how miserable their existence was. Or at least their perception of it. They knew what harm it could do, but they felt powerless to stop. It’s how he felt now. There was a word for it. What was it called?

He turned the question over in his mind several times before it came to him. Addiction! That was the word! He was happy with himself for remembering it.

Was that really what was going on? Was he addicted to this thing?

No that couldn’t be it. Addiction was a physical thing. If a person was physically addicted to something, it could do them harm to not have it. This was different. It was an emotional thing. An emotional desire. But…. Addiction.

He hesitated to even use the word, for the ramifications it brought with it. It couldn’t really harm him physically if he didn’t use it. Could it?

Perhaps it could. Already he was in bad shape from using the thing. And when he didn’t use it, he felt just as bad. Worn out, in pain. Depressed.

Whatever the name he wanted to put on it, he knew he would die at this pace. The emotional strain, coupled with the lack of significant rest would do him in very quickly.

For the next week he did little more than work, doing his very best to focus his mind on his job. He attempted to convince himself that if he could zero in, laser-like, on work, and nothing else, then he would be so much better off. When he wasn’t working, he would lay on his bed, staring off into empty air, praying that he would doze off, yet afraid to do so. A point on the ceiling would fix his gaze and he would glare at it with such intent, that he was sure his mere vision would burn a hole in the metal. Afraid to look to either side, for fear that the device would catch his eye and tempt him beyond his means to resist, he stared for hours at the ceiling, doing his best to empty his mind. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.

He managed fitful naps, but restful sleep eluded him, as disturbing visions chased him through the nightmare landscape that had become his mind. If he could just not think about the device, perhaps it could give him the opportunity to rest. If he could just escape back into a restful memory. Perhaps a memory from when he was a boy, and hadn’t a care. Maybe the vacation he took in the ancient Scottish Highlands, where all he did for ten days was hike in the mountains, drink beer and catch up on some long-neglected reading. That was a memory he would love to go back to. But what if he couldn’t? He had tried to force certain memories to come to him, but only rarely was it successful. More often than not, he ended up in an entirely different memory, which so far hadn’t really been a bad thing. No, the memories themselves hadn’t been bad, but coming back to the present was awful. The memories played themselves out in such bright, vivid detail, that they evoked an incredible emotional response from him. Leaving them behind was the exact opposite; it was so emotionally devastating that it left him a wreck, unable to cope, nearly unable to function physically. And he knew what the result of that would be: Another experience with decompression. If there was a more awful way to be punished, he certainly couldn’t think of it

That was so far.

At times he suspected that perhaps this whole experience was itself an implanted dream. That maybe he was really still in suspended animation, on his way to the OSO, and this was some kind of cruel experiment that the administrators or a group of government paid scientists was subjecting him to.

But every time he thought about that, he found himself facing what he’d heard as a boy – that to have a dream within a dream was impossible due to mankind’s limited mental capacity. So he abandoned that train of thought each time it seeped into his head.

He had to focus on what was at hand, not what he was fairly certain was mere conjecture; he needed to try and wean himself off the device. But in order to do so, he would need something to keep his mind occupied.

Fashioning some crude paint from the rudimentary food paste that the re-supply team brought on board, he tried his hand at painting. Using a metal rod, with scraps of cloth tied to the end for a brush, he painted on any surface that struck his fancy. Soon many of the walls in the OSO had splashes of color, albeit dull, on them. Most of it was mindless drivel; streaks, and marks with no real form, no real expression in them. Ironically, the only painting that made any sense to him was one of a bowl of fruit. He joked to himself, chuckling over the fact that it was a picture of food, made of food. That he could literally eat it if he wanted to. The thought usually distracted him momentarily, but always his mind was pulled magnetically back to the device.

Love this....good luck with the move.