Doug in Damarthy - A fantasy story ending
For https://steemit.com/contest/@f3nix/finish-the-fiction-story-contest-week-9
One of those who says this is called Doug, and this is the story of why.
Doug had left his job as an assembler of toilet bases because his horoscope had told him that adventures awaited him. He wasn't a big believer in horoscopes, but he was looking for any reason to hope that the future was more exciting than the past. Yesterday, as he sat on the bus, he thought he could see his entire life stretching out before him, like the fields and fields of corn that flew by. He lived in what some might call the future, because public transit connected worker enclaves to factories, and in betwixt the polluting factories grew Indiana corn fields, which were specially modified to turn all the excess nitrogen and carbon dioxide into edible goods and keep the harmful air from getting to them where they work.
But the future that Doug knew he lived in wasn't exciting to him. He knew his own future here. He'd work his days and sleep his nights, and in the other 8 hours, he'd imagine adventures he couldn't have.
So when the tiniest thing nudged him, he broke it all.
And now he sat in his home that he couldn't afford in a worker enclave when he wasn't a worker, and he stared at the paper with yesterday's horoscope.
He'd begun questioning his choice. Who was he, after all, to give up security? In 20 years, he'd have gotten a raise that would allow him to work only 20 years beyond that and then have enough to retire for twenty years before having to begin the cycle anew. No one, after all, died anymore.
That was when he forgot.
And here he was, trudging to work in Indiana with his Kohler plant overalls, and it was 1987, and he remembered a life of work, and he thought he could see his future.
At home, he had 20 microwave dinners in his freezer. He had linoleum tiles, and he had a plan to go to the bar after work, before home, and maybe there would be someone to love him there, but probably not. Maybe he should join a gym, and there would be someone to love him there, but probably not. Isn't love the greatest adventure?
And then he forgot.
And for an instant, which felt like ten years, he was in Damarthy.
In that instant that felt like ten years, Doug met Kiranstiliana. He climbed a mighty redwood and helped her harvest the Tinaturanium and fold it into a giant paper airplane shape. Then they rode the lighter than air and yet metal that didn't float ship they'd folded to the deepest cavern where she told him about the stagnancy that was slowly folding into Damarthy. He told her about his horoscope. Together they hatched a plan.
When the sun went down, they went to all the deposits of Tinaturanium and waited. When a hyperhuman came, they took turns telling her jokes. They had devised jokes the night before. When they finally saw her pause to consider the proper response, they began to tell stories that had never been told. They made up things that could not be, like flowers and hummingbirds and clouds. The hyperhuman stopped entirely and gaped. Then they told her stories of dragons and luck and pure coincidence. They told her about art and randomness and chance. And dance. Then they danced. The hyperhuman was enthralled. They begged and wheedled until they all danced together. The hyperhuman danced... and then made up a story. Together they created out of pure thought that which could not be.
And then Doug remembered. And he was in Indiana. And he told stories.
And he is one who swears that a mysterious sect of hyperhumans who live in the ruins of Damarthy have found their souls again.
I'm going to keep reading your fiction to keep me alert long into my olde(er) age. You give me much to speculate over.
Wow, I was not expecting it to end, lol. Glad you joined us.
Week #10 has landed with your contribution! :-D
Yay!
Wow! I'm glad you joined the fun, and what an articulate and poetic story you have given us! There are many things to think about in it: fantasy as wings to fly beyond the daily grind, a subtle hope in the end, for all of us transhumans or enclave workers...
Heartache, in the good ways.
Because of hummingbirds, right?
This reminds me of The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath, by H.P. Lovecraft. One of his non-horror, oniric Dunsanian works. I also can visualize your story ad one of Moebius drawings, made of fantastic creatures whose silouhettes stand out against the moons of unknown worlds. I am always amazed by your capability of challenging the ordinary with unexpected alchemic conoctions of words. Thanks for being here and for your contribution!
I'm glad you liked it! I love a good collaborative storytelling contest, and I love prizes!
If you want, you could write the next script for week #10 (that would be awesome for the way you write and honestly also insanely fun watching the guys trying to untangle themselves with your mind creations). Collaborative is the magic word for me. Isn't this a bit of an RPG?
Indeed. I'd love to! Any rules about how? Or, I can just write any story beginning?
Fantastic! Shintiara or not, write what you feel like, my friend ! I'll send you my e-mail through wallet so you can send it to me by next Tuesday and I'll publish Wed. I'll make sure to quote your pun contest too, btw..
That'll be great!
Have you sent your email yet? I haven't seen it.
Sent it now! ✌️