Author Archives: momdude

(For those not familiar with NaNoWriMo, it’s the National Novel Writing Month – in brief, slap 50,000+ words onto the screen as a “zeroth” draft of a novel. It’s not pretty, it’s not even a first draft, it’s simply an exercise in “Just – Keep – Putting – Words – TOGETHER!” and seeing what comes out the other side. I’ve done it five times and “succeeded” twice. I’ve decided to be incredibly self centered and foolish open about my process so I’ve put my work up here on this site for the last three attempts. Just do a search to see some of the crap I’ve inflicted on my loyal readers in the past. Actually, that might not be totally true – while being “zeroth” drafts, at least three of them had stories and characters that I actually thought were pretty good if I ever managed to get past the NaNoWriMo stage, finish them, and then start editing.)

A good start on getting caught up. Not a lot over the 1,667 target word count per day, and I do have ground to make up after missing three and a half days, but I feel like I’m back on track.

I’m also so sleepy it’s not even funny. The last half of this may be complete gibberish. If so, just assume that it’s truly hilarious but being told in Elvish or Leprechaunese and I’ll translate it back into English for you later.

All comments will be welcome.

ANY BAD SITUATION CAN BE MADE WORSE

CHAPTER FOUR (continued)

Just as with the light, sound was returning. Suddenly noticeable but with the knowledge that it had been there earlier, gradually getting louder, some spinning, whining, mechanical sounds mixed with…purring? Like the biggest cat she had ever imagined was just out of sight somewhere, breathing heavily, purring with utter satisfaction of being scratched behind the ears and distributing loose hair across the universe. But with a base line that would make any heavy metal hair band bassist jealous.

The mint green light grew a dot right in front of her face, which split into a line heading off in opposite directions toward her head and toes. With that her field of vision either came into existence or into focus, or both, and she could see in her peripheral vision her chest and arms down below her chin. Good, she had started to worry that the leprechaun army had left those behind and just kidnapped her head.

Kidnapped! That’s what Bubba had said he was doing to her! She wasn’t sure how kidnap victims were supposed to react or what they were supposed to do after being gassed or drugged, but she was pretty sure that coming back to reality as a disembodied entity in a green, minty fog was on the far end of the reality spectrum.

The line started to separate, pulling apart like a clamshell or the payload fairings on a rocket after it cleared the atmosphere. Smoothly, steadily, way out of focus since it seemed to be only a fraction of an inch from her face, it wasn’t clear if it was solid and opening or simply dissolving from the crack outward in a steady motion.

It turned out to be irrelevant. Quickly it was gone, only to be replaced with a featureless, yellowish-tinged, off-white something. It was like being inside of a giant egg shell with no floor, walls, or ceiling. Everything curved into everything else, no corners.

Whatever it was that she was lying on (she WAS lying on something, wasn’t she?) started to transform, the back sitting up with a hinge behind her butt while her feet went down from a hinge behind her knees. The flat surface transformed into something like a dentist’s chair and swung “up” to somewhere short of vertical by about 20º. Her inner ear told her she was sitting up.

“You may proceed. The seat will absorb and remove your bodily waste products.”

Deb suddenly had second thoughts. “Wait, am I just supposed to piss on the seat? I can’t even SEE the seat! Is there a hole I’m supposed to hit? And can I have a little privacy?”

“The seat will absorb your bodily waste products. We can modify it to have a hole to aim at if you wish, although in our experience that is more useful to males. Privacy is not needed.”

“Well, maybe not for you,” Deb said, “you exhibitionist little monster. Fine, whatever you want for your jollies. None of this is real anyway. I don’t know what you put into that crap you blew into my face, but this particular acid trip needs more colors and music and less weird bullshit.”

Deb waited for a response but got nothing. Who knew that the little monsters would get their feelings hurt by being cussed at?

She tried to twist around to get a look at the chair or surface she was sitting on, but there wasn’t anything to see. She was held pretty firmly to the surface along her back, butt, and thighs, almost like she was glued there but without any real discomfort or pain. She could move and slip and shift a bit, but she couldn’t get loose and get off onto the floor. If there was a floor. She really couldn’t see a distinct surface or a floor, just the inside of a giant egg shell. Or the inside of one of a ginormous version of those plastic eggs that panty hose used to come in.

She was still wearing the bikini she had been swimming in before being kidnapped by a not-a-leprechaun into the inside of a humongous egg. Since it was the only clothing she had, she wasn’t going to soil it if she could avoid it. She found that she could lift her hips a bit, so she untied it and slid it off.

“I hope you get a good view, you psychotic little pervs. And I’m not going to clean this up!”

With that, Deb let her bladder cut loose.

It wasn’t clear what she was expecting, but the fact that things worked pretty much like Bubba had said they would was not what she would have bet on. The urine just disappeared into the seat beneath her, there was a small chime and a table reached out from where the wall would be if there were walls, and on the table was a small package of tissues of some sort. After cleaning herself, with no further instructions, Deb simply put the waste tissues back on the “table” and it proceeded to vanish. Deb put her bikini bottom back on.

“Hey, Babadook, can I get off of this thing? Whatever it is? I seem to be stuck and I’ll bet you know something about that and can let me go.”

There was a pause, some skittering noises like rats in the walls, and then a voice from her left. Not Bubba’s voice.

“You may not. You should not be uncomfortable. If you are uncomfortable, which you should not be, please tell us and we will adjust you.”

“Wait, are you not Bubba? Are you Bubba’s boss? Who’s in charge around here and what’s going on? I want to talk to your supervisor!”

“I am not-Bubba, correct. There is no supervisor. You are being saved. Are you uncomfortable?”

“I’m fine, but I want to be released. I want to know where I’m at and what is going on!”

“You are here. We are saving you, as you requested.”

“Saved? Requested? Where are you? Who are you? Get in here where I can see you, or let me loose to come and see you. This whole disembodied voice setup isn’t working for me. Let me see you!”

“I am here. I am non-Bubba. I will request permission to come to you.”

“Permission! From who? Why? Just get in here!”

“I must request permission from God. God will know if it is safe for you if I come to you. One moment.”

Twelve years of Catholic school hadn’t prepared Deb for that answer. She had long ago given in to skepticism about God’s existence at worst, his efficacy at best. Being kidnapped by not-leprechauns had ways of making her more open to the improbable, but it was also a LOT to take in over a very short time span.

The thought of just going back to sleep until the drugs (which she had OBVIOUSLY taken) wore off was sounding better by the second.

“I may join you,” non-Bubba said. “Stand by.”

Far off in the distance, a form appeared. Barely a dot, it quickly grew as it approached. Perspective kept shifting, trying to make sense of the bizarre visual inputs being received. The scene finally snapped into focus when she remembered that Bubba had looked like he was about 18 inches tall. Assuming non-Bubba was about the same height, he was there quickly and had never been that far away. Maybe.

An off-white sort of appendage appeared from where a wall should be and not-Bubba sat there, cross legged. Deb tried to see how he sat with his tail like that, but she couldn’t get a good view. She did notice that there was a bright yellow ribbon-like something tied near the end of non-Bubba’s tail.

“You have a thing on your tail,” Deb commented dryly.

“It is to help you distinguish me from Bubba for you.”

That most certainly made sense. Except for the tail ribbon, it would have been almost impossible to tell them apart.

“Are you a leprechaun?”

“I am not.”

“What are you then?”

“I am a scientist. Or an engineer. Or a biologist. Or a medical doctor. It is all the same.”

“Obviously not human then?”

“Obviously.”

“So, you are a hallucination.”

“I am not.”

“Reality doesn’t include tiny dudes with tails and magic powders. Reality also doesn’t include me being this calm after being kidnapped by the aforementioned tiny dudes with tails and magic powders, so whatever’s in that green dust, I’ll have a dozen.”

“Reality is what it is. You are here. I exist. No hallucinations or visions are currently occurring. Yes, there is a sedative.”

Well, that was an interesting admission. But wasn’t that exactly what she would expect a non-reality based, kidnapping hallucination to say?

“You said I was being saved. Why are you saving me?”

“You requested it. We have our mission which happens to align with yours and we have the means to save you. We have chosen to use those means to our mutual benefit.”

“What did I request?” Deb was getting more confused by the moment, but had a feeling there was something important to learn here if she could just ask the correct question. “What am I being saved from? Or is it a who am I being saved from?”

“You said, ‘getting old sucks.’ We are saving you from getting old.”

Deb just sat there for a few long seconds, mulling that one over. For one thing, she was starting to miss reality. Yes, she had been thinking of all of those things which were annoying her and seemed to all be tied to getting old, but she didn’t think she had asked to be rescued from that condition. Reality might be particularly fluid at the moment, but even here, wasn’t the only way to not get old…

“Are you going to kill me?” Deb shouted. So much for the sedative.

“Of course not.” Not-Bubba hadn’t even bothered to flinch or pull back from her.

“Thank you. So, enlighten me. What’s your mission to rescue me from getting old if it doesn’t involve death?”

“We’re going to make you immortal.”

Deb swore that for the briefest of moments a facial expression drifted across the tiny dude’s face. It was a self-satisfied, smug smirk.

(For those not familiar with NaNoWriMo, it’s the National Novel Writing Month – in brief, slap 50,000+ words onto the screen as a “zeroth” draft of a novel. It’s not pretty, it’s not even a first draft, it’s simply an exercise in “Just – Keep – Putting – Words – TOGETHER!” and seeing what comes out the other side. I’ve done it five times and “succeeded” twice. I’ve decided to be incredibly self centered and foolish open about my process so I’ve put my work up here on this site for the last three attempts. Just do a search to see some of the crap I’ve inflicted on my loyal readers in the past. Actually, that might not be totally true – while being “zeroth” drafts, at least three of them had stories and characters that I actually thought were pretty good if I ever managed to get past the NaNoWriMo stage, finish them, and then start editing.)

Wow! Day Eight already. Wait, what happened to Days Five, Six, and Seven?

In short, “life.” If you remember the diagram that I shared on October 31st, I didn’t have time to do NaNoWriMo this year, and I knew it, but I started anyway, because HAVE YOU MET ME? There are other commitments and conflicting priorities and NaNoWriMo is somewhere above raking leaves or crushing recycling cans, but well below hitting critical work deadlines. Let’s keep it real here.

So after three days of lots of stress and very little sleep, deadlines have been hit, there are a couple of hours before the next crisis hits, so here’s about 400 words. It’s not going to get me back on track or even keep me from falling further behind today, but it sure beats a poke in the eye with a sharp stick!

All comments will be welcome.

ANY BAD SITUATION CAN BE MADE WORSE

CHAPTER FOUR

Mint. Something smelled like mint. Not a lot of scent, not overpowering, but with that omnipresent presence that told you that it was 100% artificial and chemical and desperately trying to mask some other smell that was truly horrible. And Deb hated the smell of mint to begin with.

A second and third brain cell finally activated and joined the party, causing Deb to realize that if she could smell mint, she must be alive and might possibly be conscious. The good news was that there wasn’t any pain or even discomfort. The bad news was that the mint was 100% of the sensory input. Nothing to see, feel, or hear.

How about moving? Attempts to move her arms and legs were inconclusive. She tried to touch her face, but there was no feedback from her face telling her that anything had touched it, so something wasn’t working. She didn’t seem to go anywhere or hit anything. She just was.

After an indeterminate amount of time when she might have been asleep again, or maybe unconscious, the mint scent came back into focus and she had another sensation, this time more familiar. She didn’t know how long she had been gone or here, whatever or wherever “here” might be, but she really had to pee.

Decades of training said that she couldn’t do that without the proper facilities, and hopefully some toilet paper. The big, minty, dark didn’t seem to have either.

What was it that that astronaut dude had said in his TED Talk? “No problem is so bad that you can’t make it worse”? She had a problem and it was time to make it worse. She prepared to release her bladder.

“Please do not expel bodily fluids.”

That voice was familiar. The command forced her to belay that last order to the bladder. The surprise forced out a squirt of adrenaline. Suddenly memories and questions started popping up like mushrooms.

The hammock, the pool. The freakin’ little leprechaun! The army of freakin’ little leprechauns! Who was it to tell her not to pee? What was its name?

“Brian? Buddah? Bowser? Hey you, the shrimp with the weird name that starts with a ‘B’! Where am I and let me out of here! I gotta get to a bathroom, double time!”

“I am Bubba. I am here. We are creating a urinal for you, please stand by for one minute.”

Deb noticed at some point that there was light. It wasn’t like someone turned one on, but one second it was still totally dark and the next it was just almost totally dark. Then a little less totally dark. Within a minute or two she was in a ball of light.

Dim, green light. Mint green light.

(For those not familiar with NaNoWriMo, it’s the National Novel Writing Month – in brief, slap 50,000+ words onto the screen as a “zeroth” draft of a novel. It’s not pretty, it’s not even a first draft, it’s simply an exercise in “Just – Keep – Putting – Words – TOGETHER!” and seeing what comes out the other side. I’ve done it five times and “succeeded” twice. I’ve decided to be incredibly self centered and foolish open about my process so I’ve put my work up here on this site for the last three attempts. Just do a search to see some of the crap I’ve inflicted on my loyal readers in the past. Actually, that might not be totally true – while being “zeroth” drafts, at least three of them had stories and characters that I actually thought were pretty good if I ever managed to get past the NaNoWriMo stage, finish them, and then start editing.)

There’s a saying about old airplanes with radial engines. They’re always leaking oil – if they’re not leaking oil it’s THEN that you need to worry, because that means they don’t have any oil left to leak!

I bring this up because The Long-Suffering Wife graciously pointed out that she had found a couple of typos… 😂😵😂😂🥴😁😎🍾 That’s good news! The only time these stories won’t have typos if if I didn’t do any writing that day.

It’s also fun to listen to her guesses about where the story’s going. Since I have pretty much zero clue myself where it’s headed, I simply smile and nod a lot.

As everyone might have guessed (I’m a little bit transparent at this stage), last evening I had on some video and information on the new potential volcanic eruption in Iceland. I was fascinated by the one in 2021 and the follow up, smaller eruption earlier this year nearby. One thing led to another.

By the way, the current semi-official name is “Any Bad Situation Can Be Made Worse.” That’s from a quote from Cmdr. Chris Hadfield (more or less, I was going from memory) where he was talking about crisis management and decision making in an emergency as a test pilot and astronaut. In particular I think it involves an EVA on the ISS where he had a problem with his spacesuit and things were getting dicey fast. Important lessons there, I suggest everyone check it out.

All comments will be welcome.

ANY BAD SITUATION CAN BE MADE WORSE

CHAPTER THREE (continued)

“Where is all of our equipment?” Sara asked.

“We have seismometer stations in a ring all around this region. You can see their locations here…”

The Civil Emergency Alarm system activated. Both of their phones and watches started wailing, and they both checked their wrists to see a bright red display with neon yellow text scrolling by. This was going to be a big one. (NOTE FOR EDITING – Earlier in this chapter add a quick scene where an alert comes in for a small earthquake with a green or yellow alert, to set up this scene.)

Both Sara and Carl ran around to the still open doors of the Jeep and jumped inside. Before Carl could start the engine and get moving the swaying of the ground started. Slowly at first, but then much more quickly and violently the vehicle began to rock on its shocks, pushing them around the interior.

As experienced volcanologists, earthquakes were not an uncommon occurrence. Most of them were small, magnitude 3 or 4, simply because M3 and M4 (or smaller) earthquakes were by orders of magnitude more common than “the Big One.” But it went with the job description that when “the Big One” hit, there would probably be seismologists in danger on the front lines. Ask those who were monitoring Mount St. Helens in 1980.

They had parked at the base of a small hill. As the landscape shook, gravel-sized rocks came bouncing down the hillside and striking the jeep. Slowly some of the larger rocks started to follow. On basketball-sized piece slammed into the back tailgate and the rear window exploded with the impact, spraying glass into the back.

“It’s not local!” Carl screamed over the din. “The p-waves are too damped out! Rolling, not sharp”

“Right!” Sara screamed back. “I noticed that. Good that we’re not gonna die quite yet. But where is it coming from? I thought we were the most active site around!”

Carl glanced at his watch, which was still flashing red. “Two minutes so far!” Despite the swaying and jolting, he tried to reach into the back seat to pull his tablet out of his backpack. As it powered up, it joined the cacophony of alerts telling them that there was an earthquake in progress and they should find a safe place.

They finally found the control to cancel the audio alarms. Carl tried to connect to their server in the Grindavik trailer, but it was apparently offline. Not too surprising.

“Three minutes!” Sara yelled. “There shouldn’t be anything this big or this long going on, even here!”

“Right!” Carl was trying to enter the correct instructions into his pad to connect via their satellite link back to their university in Arizona, but it was like trying to type while riding a bucking bronco in a dogfighting F-35.

The good news was that the violence of the shaking they were experiencing hadn’t gotten worse. There had been a couple of moments when the intensity had slacked off for a bit, but it had always gone back up again. The power in the shaking wasn’t their main concern by this point. The length of it was.

As the shaking neared four minutes it finally began to fade out. Slowly the jeep settled, the last few stones pinging it as they rolled downhill. The air was thick with dust, restricting their view to less than a mile in a grey-brown fog. With the back window shattered the dust started filling the jeep. Carl reached into an equipment box underneath his seat and pulled out two dust masks, which they both put on.

Now that the shaking was over, Carl was able to get connected through their satellite link. The site’s landing page of course was streaming information on the event they had just survived.

“Are you okay?” Sara asked. “Did you get through?”

“Yes, I’m okay. How about you?”

“I want to dust off some of this broken glass before we do too much more, but other than that I’m good.” She looked outside the jeep at the debris surrounding it. “We’ve picked up a foot or more of rocks surrounding us, but I would hope that this thing could still get us out.”

“It should, but even if it doesn’t, there are camp shovels in the back, we can dig our way out. I’m checking us in as ‘safe’ and letting everyone know where we are.”

“Good, any work on what the fuck it was that just happened? Where did that come from? The only site anywhere within five thousand miles that could have produced something that big is right under us, and if it had gone off we would be crushed, smashed, steam fried and we would be lucky to have any bodies worth being found.”

“Preliminary report is a M8.9 with an epicenter about 100 miles due east of here. That puts it just on the other side of Eyjafjallajokull.”

Sara pursed her lips. “What are the Icelandic words for ‘impossible’ and ‘ridiculous?’ I studied Eyjafjallajokull’s 2010 eruption at some length for my Master’s thesis and there’s no way it’s capable of anything bigger than an M6. It’s a volcanic region, not a fault zone. Some lava, tons of ash to mess up the air traffic, but no big earthquakes.”

“I’m just reading what the site says. And, by the way, Carolyn congratulates us on not being dead, says they’re getting ready to evacuate with everyone else in Grindavik in case of a tsunami, and they need a status check on all of the seismographs out here. We’re elected since we’re already here, have a functioning vehicle, and of course, the aforementioned ‘no dead’ thing.”

Carl tried to push open his door, but there was enough debris piled up to block it closed. He started to roll down the window so he could climb out.

“Let’s get out, get mobile again, and start checking that equipment. We don’t have a lot of spares or hardware to fix anything that’s smashed, but we can at least give them an idea of where to send someone who does. Let’s go, we’re wasting daylight!”

“That’s a stupid phrase up here at this time of year,” Sara muttered, rolling down her window.

“I know. That’s why I use it!”