Sunday, August 30, 2009

Fur Wars - Return of the Judy

Hi Readers. Sorry I've not posted much lately, I've been busy writing a story. Not Citizen Journalism this time either. I thought I'd give fiction another try.

I'll admit, my mojo took a sever battering thanks to the crushing disappointment of the Secret Seed Society's rejection letter. However, after the sound advice of my lovely follower Tennyson ee Hemmingway, I thought I'd best give it another crack.

So, all this week I've been staying up late working on my masterpiece. It's called Fur Wars - Return of the Judy. You might recognise some of the characters, although, it's not plagerism, it's an homage or maybe a pastiche, I'm not sure....

Here's chapter one:

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, some bad ju-ju was going down on the dark and brooding Planet Nob.....

Fur Wars

Episode VI: Return of the Judy

The first sensation that he had, or least could remember that he’d had, was a dull ache pushing and pulsing against the back wall of his right eye. The pain’s epicentre was buried deep in his skull. An ignition key had been turned somewhere though, and neurons starting sparking across the receptors of his brain.

Aware, but unmoving, his motor skills had yet to fire up completely. Unable to open his eyes fully, he croaked for air and hydration in equal measure. This was either the worst hangover of his life or something was seriously amiss.

When he came to think of it, which he did eventually, imperceptibly, without conscious effort, he couldn’t for the world of him, work out how he’d got where he was. Wherever, indeed, that was. He recollected visions of home, of his friends and family, flashing without rhyme nor reason from one to the other—a disjointed, train wreck of a dream or, more accurately, nightmare.

The periods of nothingness could have been seconds, minutes, maybe even hours long. It was impossible to tell, because the periods of somethingness were indiscriminate and tangential to his appreciation of them. The mists of his consciousness were rising slowly. Intermittent random visions sprang forth, his memories as haphazard and jagged as fresh smashed plate glass.

He was lying on his side, his movements restricted. Tight-fitting, twisted, garments clinging to his body, enveloping him utterly, his right arm extended up above his head was numb, unlike his bladder, which was full. Very full.

“Albert, we have a problem,” he whispered to himself as his eyelids finally triumphed in their battle against the superglue sleep that had fused his lashes shut, cracking open he saw, blurred at first then clearing, a familiar yet confusing panel of coloured dials and displays. He was down and, apparently, in one piece.

Down he may have been, but his safety was far from assured. Concern morphed seamlessly into panic. Where was he and how the hell was he going to get back? He stared uncomprehendingly at the ship’s now obviously non-functioning controls realising that the dark black circle floating in the foreground of his field of vision was, in fact, a reflection of his own dilating pupil. His breathing had quickened, repeatedly steaming the plastiglass barrier inches from his nose.

Rocking back and forth slightly, he freed his left hand from whatever it was caught up in and reached up to his right hand, twisting over onto his back he managed to drag the lifeless limb back down. The relief he felt as the blood coursed through his veins into his arm was outweighed almost immediately by the onset of crippling paresthesia.

This would be the last time that he listened to Garth. His brother had assured him prior to take off, in no uncertain terms, that inducing temporary paralysis in your arm by sleeping with it above your head guaranteed an early morning hand job of unparalleled perfection. “It feels like someone else,” Garth had said with the sort of unerring conviction that only a simpleton could muster.

It slowly dawned on him that he must’ve put his arm above his head prior to the ship’s life control system placing him into total cryogenic stasis. It wasn’t seconds, minutes or hours he’d been asleep, it was years.

Eventually, the pins and needles started to subside and Albert pushed up the visor of his space suit helmet. Taking in a deep lung full of, frankly, fetid air he said: “Right then, I s’pose I’d best see where the fuck I am before I bleedin’ well piss mesen.”

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