Science Fiction

I was challenged this week to write a short story in a science fiction genre, or in the style of William Shakespeare. As I hope you can deduce from the title, I chose science fiction.

I composed the beginning of a story that was quite different from this one. It was a lot more of what I think science fiction ought to involve, and was a bit more creepy. However, it wasn't really that inspiring on top of all my homework and the other things I needed to do, so I went in a completely different direction and wrote this. I hope you find it enjoyable. I'm sure I'll return to the other story at another point in time, but here is my untitled work for this week:

“These are really good, how did you make them?”

“One is not sure one understands the question, miss.”

Katie examined the piece of pie on her plate. “Well it had to come from somewhere…”

“The apples came from orchards, and flour comes from wheat.”

Katie laughed, but felt frustrated. “Yes, I know that. But who put these things together to make them something new?”

“New?” asked Sheila. She tilted her head. “New?” she repeated.

“Who made them into a pie?”

“Oh,” Sheila said. “Arthur did.”

“How?”

Sheila didn’t seem to know how to take the question. “One doesn’t see why miss wishes to know, but one can plug into him and ask.”

Her tone seemed skeptical. Katie didn’t even know they could do that.

“Please,” Katie said, and with a mechanical nod, Sheila whirred off into the preparation room.

The pie’s flavor was not extraordinary. In fact, it tasted the same as it always did. Katie supposed that in its own way it must be sort of perfect, but somehow she wanted it to taste different. She wanted something new.

She picked up her fork again, and dug into her slice. She brought her fork up to her mouth, and let the apple and cinnamon flavor ride her tongue like a wave. If she could just find that elusive extra something… she could finally have exactly what she wanted.

Sheila came back into the room. “Arthur did not understand the question.”

“I could try to ask him in a different way…” Katie said hopefully.

Sheila shook her head. “No humans are allowed in the preparation room. Something will be contaminated.”

Katie sighed. She knew that no one would let her in there. “Could you try asking him again, maybe in a different way?”

“One could, but one would receive the same answer. Arthur is not conscious of the manner in which sustenance is prepared.”

“I see,” Katie said sadly.

Sheila nodded. “If miss is done, one would gladly take her plate.”

“You don’t have to do that, I can put it on the belt myself,” Katie said nodding towards the conveyor belt the dirty dishes traveled on. Sheila held out her arms, and Katie reluctantly placed the plate and fork in her hands.

Hopping down from the bar stool she had been sitting on, Katie walked out of the Common Room, with its tile walls and dozens of tables, and walked back to her own room where she had been meaning to finish an extremely dull history assignment.

She walked down the corridor, up two flights of stairs, and then turned to the right. She passed one, two, three, four doors, and stopped at the fifth. She punched a code into the panel on the right side of the door. The glass door slid open, and light flooded the room. On the other side of the wall, she pressed another code to frost the glass. It was easier not to be disturbed by people wandering around the halls.

“Good afternoon, Katie,” said a gentle voice as Katie sat down on her bed.

“Hi, Lena.”

“Are you ready to begin?”

“Go for it,” Katie said, lying back onto the pillows.

A clear glass screen descended from the ceiling in front of her. Pictures appeared on it. “We left off just before domestic life in the mid 20th century,” Lena’s voice began.

“Yes,” Katie said, wishing she had chosen a more interesting time period, like the early 21^st century, with all its technological advances, to study this term.

“After soldiers returned from the war in the mid 1940s, the suburban lifestyle began to boom. Women became obsessed with creating homes for their husbands and their families. Many of them did all the cleaning, cooking, and caretaking of their children by themselves. A few of them relied on domestic help.”

“Cooking?” Katie asked.

A definition appeared on the screen, alongside footage that was labeled as a Julia Child Cooking Television Show. Her exuberant personality, and her round, deep, maternal voice completely captivated Katie.

She was making an omelet. She actually touched the food with her hands, as though she intended to eat it afterwards.

“Did all women do this?” asked Katie.

“Not all women, but many women cooked. However, not all women cooked like Julia Child, who was best known for French cooking. Many cooks in the mid nineteenth century,” she said returning Katie to the subject manner, “made food more like this.”

More images appeared. Katie sat up and stared.

“Does anyone still do this?”

“Only a very few elderly chefs. No dwelling has had to produce its own food since almost fifty years century.”

“So only machines create food now. Why is that?”

“Mechanized food preparation allows humans more free time, as well as better planned and balanced meals. It also cuts down on preparation related accidents, food born illnesses, and waste due to improper cooking methods.”

“Can people still learn how?”

“Government regulations require permits for such activities.”

“How do I get one?”

“A human must show a substantial interest in the subject area in question. They must take the required courses.” A list flashed onto the screen.

“I’d have to completely change my major,” Katie mused.

“Yes. It is a full program of study. Not many students wish to pursue it.”

“Show me everything you’ve got on the subject, please,” Katie said eagerly. Images and phrases whirled around her brain.

“Can you get me my advisor please?” His face appeared on the screen.

“Well, Katie, it’s good to see you. Are you studying diligently?”

“Yes, sir. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I want to change my major to Culinary Studies,” she said, savoring this unfamiliar word.

He looked shocked. “Katie that will add another year onto your program. You will never find a career that requires that degree. In fact, I think you would be hard pressed to find a position at all. Your business studies are going so well…” he lamented.

“I want to switch.”

Two years later, she watched as her friends walked in long robes and mortarboards up the aisles to receive their diplomas in engineering, mathematics, business, and education.

She pulled away after the ceremony to go back into her room.

“Hello, Katie.”

“Hey, Lena. What did they say?”

An official looking letter popped up on the screen. “Dear Katie Wilson, We are sorry to inform you that your application for a permit to practice culinary lab work has been denied. We are only able to allow three permits to be issued per year, on a first come, first served basis. Please reapply next year-”

Katie cut her off here. “Please stop.” Lena obliged, and the screen lifted into the ceiling. Katie felt her stomach lurch. She looked up at the ceiling willing the tears to stay in her eyes.

When Katie returned home for the summer a few days later, she shared the bad news with her mother. She gained little sympathy.

“I think it’s better this way, darling. It was such a silly idea. What would you ever do with a permit like that? It’s much better to leave the preparation to the robots. They know what they’re doing,” her mother said knowingly.

Katie nodded, but couldn’t shake the disappointment, or the longing.

Their robot, another Sheila, took her bags to her room in a little house off the main building. Katie had never been in here before, but her mother had redone her old room into an exercise area, and had moved all her things in here.

“Thank you, Sheila,” she said. Sheila nodded and left. Katie removed her sunglasses, and looked around. She noticed there were two doors leading off of the bedroom. One opened onto a newly remodeled bathroom with purple tiles and butterflies, and the other- the other was locked.

There was an extremely old keypad fixed to the wall. Katie was frustrated, but unwilling to give up without trying; she entered the date that the house was built almost 200 years ago on a whim. 2005. The door opened. Katie stepped inside an extremely dusty and dark room. She waved her arms trying to activate the light, but then she noticed a switch near the door. She flipped it up, and reluctantly the area lit up. Warmth spread through Katie’s entire body as she ran her fingers over counters and ancient appliances.

Then she dashed out of the room, and picked up a glass board. She tapped something on it, and then a face appeared.

“Hi, Jack.”

“Katie,” he said, nodding.

“How’s the new engineer doing?”

“Can’t complain.”

“You busy?” Katie asked.

“Um. Nope.”

“Good. Because I think I have you first project.”

My Public Library

Nothing is better than a well used library, and the public library in downtown Corvallis is well used and loved. As a lover of the written word, I can't help but love my library and my library books. In these books I sometimes discover things that have been left in them: pamphlets, to-do lists, drafts of letters, recipes, and even the fortunes from fortune cookies. This makes reading library books a whole different kind of adventure, and to add to it, I've decided to write a poem, and include it in the library books that I take back to the library:


I can take you to a far off place,
So many stories do I encase.
My pages turn and turn again,
Always am I somebody’s friend.
I’m your book now but not forever,
Soon I’ll be someone else’s treasure.
So take care with me and treat me well,
And it’s with sadness I shall say farewell.

- From Your Library Book

Hopefully this will inspire someone else to start leaving their own keepsakes behind. I hope that it will make people feel connected or make them smile. It will make me happy to even just give someone a bookmark!

So if you live in Corvallis, OR keep an eye out for my little treasures. The first book I'll put it in is Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf, along with the others I'm bringing back on Monday or Tuesday.

Happy Reading.

Something New

Despite the name change, this site is still going to be housing original writing by yours truly. I've been challenged by my parents to write a short story a week. It can be no longer than three pages, and it will be based on a prompt supplied by said parental units. I hope you enjoy the fruits of my labor, raw as they are.

The first story, which is untitled, was based on the following prompt: a message in a bottle.


Sally and I used to pretend that we were pirates. Together we sailed to the farthest corners of the Earth, robbed the rich and gave to the poor, and were the greatest explorers that the world had ever known.
While everyone was looking the other way, Sally and I would sneak off to the lake house. We learned how to row, and we would spend all day on the lake with an old spyglass and a map that we drew. Sally made us hats and eye patches out of newspaper. I was continually lifting mine up so that I could see out of my glasses.
“Stop that.” Sally admonished, swatting at my hand so that the patch would drop down into place.
“But I can’t see, Sally!” I said.
“David, that doesn’t matter. When the pirates wore them, they didn’t lift them up all the time.”
“Yeah, but they weren’t eight years old with glasses either…”
“That doesn’t matter, David. All that matters are our spirit and our courage and that our map is accurate,” she said as she turned the paper side to side, and then upside down. “Which way does this thing go again?”
I turned the map for her, and she instructed me to row onward.
When we finally got back to the boathouse, our mothers were waiting for us with bottles of Coke.
“You must be thirsty,” my mother said as she handed them to us. They dusted off imaginary dirt from their hands onto their Bermuda shorts and headed back off to the adults, laughing as they went.
Sally drank hers quickly, only pausing for air a couple times. She dipped the empty bottle in the water and scooped some up. Placing her hand over the mouth, she shook the Coke bottle vigorously and then dumped the water back into the lake. She tossed some dark brown hairs out of her face.
“This will be perfect!” she said.
“For what?” I asked.
“For the messages of course. I’ll put a message in the bottle, and float it out to sea. That’s what the pirates did when they got marooned on an island,” she said knowingly.
“How exactly did they get the bottles?”
“The captains gave him a bottle of rum before they put him in the row boat.”
“Oh,” I said, “but what if I never get the message? What if the bottle just sinks and never finds me?”
“Don’t be such a spoil sport, David”
So just like that, Sally got her way. Sometimes we wouldn’t find the messages for months. Other times only an hour would go by before we scooped the bottle out of the lake. A few times a friend would find it and deliver it. This went on and on.
But one day, we ran out of things to say, and she never answered my last message.
I’d see Sally at school with the other girls, whispering and giggling. Her hair had this way of bouncing over her shoulder every time she walked past me. Her lips were painted, and her hazel eyes sparkled.
Then someone tapped me on the shoulder and my attention turned to a pretty blonde girl, with bright blue eyes. “I’m Annie,” she said.


Years later, my mother was hosting a dinner party. “Now, now,” she said, rising to her feet, “I have an announcement to make. It is my pleasure to tell you that we are about to welcome another member to the family.”
Several people looked at her stomach expectantly. “Oh what nonsense,” she said blushing. “My boy, David, has finally proposed to Annie!”
Annie smiled, and David kissed her on the cheek. “We couldn’t be happier to welcome you home, Annie,” mother said.
“Let me see the ring, Annie,” the crowd was clamoring. She held out her hand, letting people ooh and ahh over it. David’s father popped a few bottles of champagne open.
“David, help me pour, would ya sport?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I’m sure glad you did it, son. I thought you might let that girl get away.”
“There wasn’t much chance of that, sir.” I finished pouring and took a glass over to Annie.
“Thank you, dear,” Annie said.
“How’d he do it? How did he pop the question?” a neighbor asked. I left Annie talking and went outside by the lake.
Sally was outside by the water’s edge. She turned around and looked at me, her hand flying to her hair to smooth it down. “Hi, David,” she said.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Sally, I didn’t know you were out here. I’ll just leave you to it.” I started to turn away.
“Don’t go, David. Please.”
I walked over to where she was sitting and sat down. I looked across the lake, up at the sky, and back to the lake. I couldn’t quite meet her gaze.
“Annie’s a wonderful girl,” she said.
“I know.”
“I hope you two will be very happy together.”
“Are you and Jake happy?” I asked.
She shook her head, “We’re not together anymore,” she looked down at her shoes, which were sitting a few inches away from her. “I’m sorry I stopped coming down to the lake, it was just time to grow up.”
“I guess you can’t stay young forever,” I said, finally looking at her.
“When I was eight, I would have smacked you for saying that, but now I…” she trailed off. “We had fun, didn’t we?”
“We were the feared pirates of the lake. Nothing could stop us.”
“I loved you,” she said suddenly. Shock pulsed through me.
“I thought you didn’t like me anymore,” I said.
“No, I loved you. And a pirate captain has no right to fall in love with her first mate.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did tell you. It was in the last bottle I sent.”
“But, Sally, I sent the last bottle.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said simply. She pushed herself up off the grass, and patted down her skirt. She slipped into her heels and walked back towards the lights.
“Bye, David.”
I didn’t follow her. Instead, I sat by the lake and watched the sun go down.
“There you are,” someone said, I turned and saw Annie walking towards me, “Everyone’s been looking for you.”
“I’ve just been watching the lake.”
“You and this lake,” she said, shaking her head. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Sally just told me the strangest thing,” I said, ignoring her last words.
“Really? I saw her walking back up there…so what did she say?”
“It’s not important,” I said.
“Sweetheart, I have to tell you something,” Annie said in a rush. Her cheeks were flushed from the champagne.
“What?”
“It’s just that- I mean we’re going to be married, and I don’t want any secrets between us.”
“I didn’t think we had any.”
“Well, I do. I did a terrible thing, and I feel incredibly guilty.” She finally had my undivided attention.
“Well, what is it?” I said, shrinking back from her a little.
She sniffled. Damn, she was going to cry, I thought. “It’s just that I knew you liked her, and I knew you’d never even look my way if I didn’t….” She looked up at me with tears in her eyes, “I wasn’t trying to be awful.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I took it.”
“Took what exactly?”
“The Coca Cola bottle. I’d seen it floating around all over the lake. It was taunting me, David. I just had to read what was inside. And when I saw it, I decided I couldn’t let you see it.”
I stared at her. “I just loved you too much, David,” she said.
The words washed over me.
“When you thought she wasn’t your friend anymore, you started to pay attention to me. And aren’t we happy together, David?”
“You lied to me.”
“Aren’t we happy together?” she said desperately.
I turned to face her. “Are you happy?” At this, she burst into tears. I tried to comfort her; I couldn’t stand seeing her cry. I gave her my handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
“Here,” she said. I took a piece of paper from her.
“Thanks,” I said. She nodded and ran back up to the house.
I looked down at the note, which said: David, I can’t play pirates with you anymore until I tell you something. I love you, and I’ll always love you. –Yours, Sally.
I looked up at the sky. “Thank God for happy endings,” I said as I pocketed the note.