Wiggle Ghost Posts

The first thing humans do when landing on a new planet is plant the flag. The second is kill something for dinner.

They’re called Stakers. They’re a group of adventure junkies that live to be the first to try a new meat. How do you skin it? How do you gut it? What will it taste like? Will it kill me? They thrive on the unknown.

It can be a dangerous thing. If the terrain or animal doesn’t kill you, the meat might. Sure, there are tests that tell you things about common poisons and such, but you really never know.

After a bit, the market takes over. Soub from Axis 29 is amazing. It’s a buttery, sweet meat with a divine texture. Brastum Eel is beyond the best thing you’ve ever had. Luminescent meats are a recent fad.

Me? I like to try them all.

Andy’s Big Beef is my shop of choice. They may not have the best prices, but the selection is beyond compare. Andy is this old guy. I guess he used to be a freighter pilot who became a Staker after the war. He had a knack for distribution. Getting the meats to market was the hardest part of the whole thing, supply chain and all. He settled down a couple years ago and now lets others chase down the new meats. His shop is amazing.

It’s not without its risks. See this lump on my side? Doc says its probably going to kill me. I wanted to try some of the new Velorian Stremp. It’s hard to explain. Imagine if crossed shrimp with a cow. Some might think that sounds horrible, but it is DELICIOUS.

Andy had a new shipment in and I took a pound. Marinated it all day and then grilled it. Lemons are hard to find these days, but I was able to scrounge up a few. Nothing fancy. Salt, pepper, lemon, flame.

You have to be careful with alien meat, with the prep and cooking. It didn’t matter. Stremp is pretty new and this one has a parasite that can survive cooking. Look at it, it’s a nasty thing. I’m told it’s eating me from the inside out.

Hell, I knew the risks. I mean Andy does require you sign a release. Although, I’ve never read it.

If I survive this, I’ve got some Kaker coming from RS-195. I’m told it’s best raw. I may just cook it this first time.

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Space didn’t cure the monotony of life. The dishes still needed to be done. Clothes still needed to be washed. You even had to dust those tiny buttons on those tiny screens.

Yeah, once the thrill of SPAAAACCCCCEEEEE was over, life up here is still a to do list.

I miss bugs. I know that sounds weird, as there are probably a million people who would love a bug free life, but I miss them. Not the natty, swishy ones, but real bugs. I’d love to come across a big spider while working in the bulkhead. Or a cockroach. A big orange one.

You take these things for granted when you’re in space, like the sound of the washing machine. I miss that, swish, swish of the water as it goes around and around.

You get up here in space, for what? The adventure? That wore off pretty quick. So there you are dry washing clothes and reconstituting your dinner with recycled water.

But, the amazing view!! After awhile, it’s the same old thing everyday. There are no seasons, there is no rain. Just those same stars in those same places.

Ask me, I know. I’ve been staring out this escape pod window for the last three days.

We’re just a bit away from that red giant. Yeah, that one there. We were transporting minerals back to the space station. Pretty routine stuff.

That’s when the fire hit. I’ve never seen so many failures. We tried to control her, but it just wasn’t our day. So here I am, sitting in an escape pod watching space.

I bet Peter overfilled the washing machine again.

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You never get used to dimensional storms. They come at you like an angry elephant sliding sideways, through the mud, downhill. All you can do is cower, and try not to shit yourself.

Every time it feels like it’s going to kill me. Every fucking time.

Sure, it’s magical once you are inside, slipping into some random dimension.

A different earth. A different future. A different whatever.

They’re pretty safe. I mean, sure, you hear a few stories, but they are rare enough that it doesn’t bother me.

Most of the time, you are just an observer in there, waiting for it to clear out and send you back to reality. I love that tingly feeling of coming out the backside of a storm. The point where you are drifting in and out of both dimensions. Goosebumps, I tell ya. Goosebumps.

I’ve gotten pretty good at tracking them, so I usually know when they are going to hit me. Fuck. Last month, we were out chasing on the Red Plains and just got blindsided by a doozy. I didn’t even have time to brace myself, which is kind of bullshit anyways, because while it looks like it’s going to knock you on your ass, it doesn’t. You flinch and flex with everything you have, but it doesn’t really feel like anything.

Every season I’m out here getting hit by these bastards. It gets old, but I’m trying to catch THE storm, you know, the one that throws physics in a blender and serves it to you upside down through the door from yesterday.

Some day.

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Bethalshine had four kings. They each sat in the corners of a large square throne room. Nobody really remembers why there were four. I’m sure it’s written down in a book somewhere.

Every day at midtime they would come together to drink tea and sing a song. If a king was late or missed the first note ceremony for whatever reason, they were ejected and replaced. The replacement rules get pretty complicated, but it’s something like – next in line as long as they are old enough to sing the song. You can imagine that before a Bethalshine baby could talk, they could sing that damn song.

Each king’s part of the song was different. It’s represented the coming together the four lands, the four families. But, they don’t sing the song anymore.

Early one morning a few years ago, the Brakens decided they didn’t want to sing anymore. They kept bringing in the next in line. They all refused to sing. Soon there were no more to consider.

None of them wanted to sing anymore. None of them wanted to be part of Bethalshine anymore.

The other three kings tried to continue on singing the song, but it didn’t work. The song could not be sung by three. They tried. Believe me, they tried. Every day they tried. After awhile the kings stopped singing. After awhile they stopped coming for tea.

After awhile there were no more kings in Bethalshine.

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While the other brothers slept, a solitary monk made his way through the monastery, collecting all the gold. He put the coins in a small leather bag on the side of his horse, and rode off into the night.

No one noticed.

The evening was warm, but it didn’t bother him or his horse. The monks were known for strong horses. They rode out past Desdel and Cartin. The road was dark, but familiar to both of them. The sun began to break and he decided to stopped to eat.

His breakfast was as impressive as his horse. He spread a wide variety of breads, cheeses and meats out on the ground over a gigantic red blanket. He picked and poked at the food with a small silver fork. After each bite, he would roll back a bit and smile. The monk loved to eat.

After the meal, he napped. The forest, in the midday sun, was a wonderful escape from the monastery buildings, and more importantly his work. He laughed that he was eating the bread today instead of making it. This made him happy.

He heard the sound of approaching horses, but it did not raise him. Eventually the shade of two large horses draped over his face. He sat up a bit and wiped his mouth.

“Hello, my friends, ” said the monk. Towering over him were two grimy men on two grimy horsed. The monk’s nose curled as he caught a whiff of them. “Are you my contacts?” he said.

The larger of the two men dismounted his horse. “Sure. We’re your contacts. What do you have for us, brother?”

The monk reached into his wicker basket and pulled out a package. “You are in luck, my fine fellows, ” he said. “I have some fresh blood sausages for you. These are much better than the ones I’ve been able to bring in past. Brother Sandom made them. He makes the best.”

“Sausages? We’re going to need more than that?” said the other man as he dismounted.

“Well, I have the gold, but that can wait. Can’t it? We have time. Don’t we? I don’t have to head back to the monastery just yet. Do I?” asked the monk.

The monk turned from them and walked over to a small smoldering fire, “Sit my friends and I will stoke the fire and put these on.”

While the monk had his back turned, both men drew daggers from their side. The larger of the two moved toward the monk.

“The gold. We will take the gold,” he said.

The monk stumbled back, tripped a bit, and turned toward them. He put his hands out to his sides. “Oh dear. You aren’t my contacts are you?”

“No, we aren’t my brother,” said the larger of the men as he slipped his dagger deep into the monk’s side.

The monks body found its way back to the monastery. It had been tied to the horse by the robbers. It was disturbing sight, as a monk had not been murdered since the reforming wars of a hundred years ago. Sure, monks came and went in all kinds of natural ways, but this was different.

Everyone came to his funeral. They placed his large red blanket over his large body, put his silver fork into his pocket, and placed him in a tomb next to Brother Bislon. Bislon had died earlier in the season from an infection.

After awhile, things settled down, but the question still remained: Why was the monk out on the road with all the gold? The senior monks did their best to squelch the scuttlebutt, but it would not go away.

The scheme had to be revealed to the ranks or there was going to be a revolt. It took days, but the message was personally delivered to all the brothers.

Every quarter season, all the gold in the monastery was collected and taken out to a point where fake robbers would ritualistically steal it. The money would then be given back to the townspeople by the robbers. The people used the money to enrich their lives with food and shelter. This money would eventually find its way back to the monks though gifts, goods and tithing from the people.

Turns out he monks had been doing this for many, many decades. They enjoyed the goodwill of it.

Some time passed and things got back to normal. The monks coffers again filled with gold.

That night, a solitary monk made his way through the monastery and collected the gold. He placed into a large leather bag on the side of his horse. He then made his way into the darkness.

No one noticed.

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A king had a wizard make him a magical bath tub that required a password. If you didn’t say the password as you got in, the tub would spring to life and kill you. One night while drinking, eating and being merry, the king slipped off his clothes and sank into the tub. He mumbled the password, but his mouth was full of roast chicken and mead. The tub pulled him under the water and killed him.

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I need it now. But I can’t. I can’t. No, no, no. It almost killed me last time.

Maybe I’m stronger now? Maybe I can handle it this time? Maybe? No, no, no.

But if not now, when? Why own the silver tree if only to dust it, clean it, look at it. Why have all that power if just to look at it on a shelf?

It was given to me! It’s mine!

Of all the enforcers in the land it was given to me. The Silver Tree is mine. 40 ago this year it was presented to me in the ceremony. They stood there in the field and gave it to me. They wanted me to have it. I am the Enforcer of the Silver Tree.

And what good did that do? I have yet to wield it. I have yet to master it.

There is sits taunting me. It’s not really silver. It’s not metal at all. It’s a plant, a tree. You would have to get pretty close to it to see that. I’ve been close to it. I stare at it every night. How do I hold it? How do I wield it?

That was before the darkening. That was before they came. I didn’t need to hold it, then. I didn’t need to wield it.

Now I do. Damn it. NOW I DO.

What if I die? What if I pick it up and it kills me this time. It tried last time. I cupped the tree in my hand and it’s roots pierced my hands. The raced to my heart. They raced through my veins. I could feel it stealing the life from me. I panicked and threw it to the floor.

Who cares. Who cares. WHO CARES.

If I can stop them we will all die. I am the Enforcer of the Silver Tree. I am a hero. I am here to save them. But I am nothing. They chose a coward. I’m going to die. We are all going to die.

I am the Enforcer of the Silver Tree.

I AM THE ENFORCER OF THE SILVER TREE.

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The Plesorian race practiced the concept of pleasant elevation. They believed that if you traveled at the right elevation for a specific amount of time, your mind would reach a higher place. It was a core tenant of their religion.

A huge industry emerged on the planet to provide flights for Plesons seeking pleasant elevation. Of course none of the sects could actually agree on the exact elevation that constituted a pleasant one. That didn’t stop them from trying.

Every day ships of varying size and status filled the sky providing elevation service. The flights were somewhat manageable at first. But years into the latest population boom, things became unhinged. In the last cycle, the number of deaths or near misses have become quite intolerable.

Late last season the planet high council ruled that pleasant elevation was exactly 20,000 migtons from the planet surface. Everyone was now forced to fly that exact elevation. This really limited the number of flights over the planet.

Soon only the rich could afford to fly. The poor did their best to get up. They would stowaway or steal a ship. Renegade journeys were shut down and treated quite harshly.

Nat Soladoid stole a ship. He promised his dad he would reach pleasant elevation before he died. They were just short of the target as they crashed into a mountain.

There is a new movement growing in strength these days. Led by the teachings of an old Mestorian woman. She says pleasant elevation is where you find it.

It’s a radical thought, but it’s catching on.

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