Lost Astronaut

The smell of burnt toast made Glen smile. Must be Carrie at it again trying her hand at breakfast. The alarm clock beeped.

“Alright, alright. I’m up.”

Glen motioned to get up. Restraints clamped him back down. He opened his eyes. Red light pulsated through thick smoke. Glen coughed and wafted smoke out of his face.

“Oxygen critical. Oxygen critical.” The robotic female voice boomed throughout the small cockpit.

Glen reached under his seat for the fire extinguisher. But the fire was almost completely dead. It had eaten up most of the oxygen, leaving behind white plumes of smoke. His fingers ran along the command console. Nothing worked. Backup power had been damaged. Life support on its last legs. Glen grabbed his suit's helmet and clamped it on. Fresh air swirled around his head. He reached for the red emergency exit lever.

Glen stumbled out of the craft. The rear fuselage had crumpled, absorbing most of the impact. All supplies destroyed. He kicked the hull of the spaceship. A pain shot up his leg.

“Goddammit.”

Glen clenched his teeth and balled his fists. He punched the damaged hull.

“Piece of shit.”

He regretted the outburst, having consumed more oxygen than necessary and now feeling every ache and pain from the crash. He twisted his torso and stretched out his arms. Sore, but serviceable. His temples throbbed. He read the atmospheric gauge on his suit—too much carbon dioxide to be breathable.

“Ground control. Glen reporting in. Copy.”

Radio static. Neon blue translucent grasslike nodules stretched beyond the horizon in all directions. Glen craned his neck behind him. Nothing back there but blue and moon. Was it the moon?

Glen remembered blast off and leaving the atmosphere. A resupply mission to Mars. Maybe a one-way ticket but hopefully not. He needed to see her again. At least one more time.

“Baby, the stars look funny tonight.” Carrie lay beside him on the rough red and black checkered blanket.

The night sky looked stretched out with stars smudged against its black canvas.

“Scientists say it’s some strange weather phenomenon.”

Glen knew it was a wormhole. It had all the characteristics of one. But he didn’t want to frighten her.

“Isn’t that going to delay your mission?”

That’s why they’re sending me up there. He wanted to say it, but couldn’t.

He rolled on top of her. She giggled.

“Don’t worry about me, darling. I’ll be fine.”

He kissed her.

“Ground Control. Anyone out there?”

Faint static—the soundtrack to a leisurely walk in a field of grass. Glen read the oxygen gauge on the old spacesuit. At least it was retrofitted with the latest gizmos, care of Space Corp. Cheap bastards.

The fields—alien, yet familiar. He thought back to the rolling fields of his youth. Running through them for hours, back at his dad's place. One day he had cut his foot on some broken glass, buried deep in the grass.

“I’m sorry, daddy.”

He wasn’t sorry. Dad bandaged him up, then gave him a spanking. But he was back in those fields in no time. When faced with an obstacle you push through. You don’t quit.

He walked through the alien fields. He looked behind—the craft was now far off in the distance, its silver hull illuminated by the moon. Glen made his way up to the top of a small hill. He could figure this place out from there. He breathed heavy. The oxygen gauge had reached 50%.

“Glen here. Good ol' Glen. Hellooo.” His voice started to sound strange. The static in his helmet crackled.

He thought back to Buddy. The dog whined as Glen packed up the last of his things. Buddy knew he was going away—dogs seem to have a sense of those things.

“I’ll miss you, Buddy.” Glen ruffled his coat and kissed the top of his head.

The dog’s sad eyes looked at him through the window. Carrie was waiting in the car to take him to Ground Control.

Glen kicked at the roots of the grass. His foot flared up in pain.

“Stupid fucking grass.”

He started swinging his arms at the blades. They only bounced back into place. He took one deep breath and continued up the incline.

He reached the top of the hill. Behind him, the spaceship was a dot on the horizon. Ahead, a structure off in the distance that looked like some kind of silo—its metal cylinder standing proud amongst the blue rubber grass. Glen picked up his pace.

Carrie. She didn’t want him to go but she understood what it meant to him. Together for three years and they were only starting to get sick of each other. That has to be true love, when after so long, you’re only a bit tired of each other’s crap. He wanted to really get sick of her shit, grow into old age, but he pushed the thought out of his mind. He’d be happy to live a few more hours at this rate.

An alarm sounded in his suit. Oxygen down to 15%.

“I love you,” Carrie had mouthed the words as she stood on the other side of the thick glass.

“I know,” Glen had mouthed back.

He looked back once. She waved, he waved back and fought back tears. She didn’t know about the wormhole—most of the general population didn’t. But he knew, and he knew that Space Corp knew. His suit had way too much retrofitted communications gear. They give him a crap suit with all the bells and whistles. A god damn guinea pig sent into a wormhole.

The oxygen alarm droned. The silo was coming into view. There was text splayed on it.

Property of Space Corp.

Glen slumped down to the ground. The blue blades gently cushioned him. He turned off the radio and the oxygen alarm. Complete silence. He stared up at the sky. There were so many stars. Like being back there in the fields. Like being back there with Carrie on that rough checkered blanket. Sweet Carrie. And Buddy, the best friend any spaceman could ever want. Glen felt tears on his cheeks. But he smiled. He could see them running across the fields together, through the smudged stars. He closed his eyes for the last time.

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This was my entry for a sci-fi contest over at the Writers' Block fiction workshop. Unfortunately, it didn't make it to the next round but thank you to those who made editing suggestions.

The art that inspired the story:
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