“A ship out there, dearest. Two of ’em!”
“Have you been eating carrots for lunch again, love?” Sam Port stared into the horizon, couldn’t see anything. The phone rings in Tisha’s pocket. Pulling it out and seeing the caller, she didn’t want to answer but knew she had to.
“Hello? Baker?”
——-
“Just stay under the umbrella. He says there’s too many characters in this here photo-novel already and wait for the next one to expose ourselves.”
“Fair enough.” Astronaut Sam Port had patience. He’d waited 2 years for these ships to come rescue him from this always room temperature, never rainy island on the equator of Our Second Lyfe. Paradise, but also mix in some hell because of the imprisonment thing. Tisha was a fine reward for his efforts but he was ready to go home. Junior would be, I guess, 15 1/2 by now. Exactly. Tisha elbows his ribs, reminding him that he needs to stop thinking and that we need to end the post. But he couldn’t. Tisha had to pull the plug herself. Took her a while to find it (too obvious).
So in the meantime, he was able to recalled arriving here in his own ship, fast sinking in the waves due to that underwater meteorite hit he took back at the cape. First solo flight by man, some say wrongly. Fellow named Glen was first, but it wasn’t advertised as widely as his own. Suspicious in retrospect. He was made out to be a star. Maybe it was his rugged good looks in contrast to Glen’s smooth, unattractive surface. Almost featureless, some said. Like the Orb’s 3rd album.
“Still looking, dear,” Tisha called beyond camera range now. “Just try to switch *off*.” No luck. Unlike Myrtle, he didn’t have that type of button on his belly. Or anywhere else for that matter.
I could have died there, he kept ruminating. I *should* have died there. Would save me a lot of grief and pain later. Two ships, he thought, still straining to see them from his flowery umbrella spot. Two more of my kind, ready to join me, he knew. Because he then realized they were goners as well once they stepped foot on this place. The realm of Lemon, not Lime. Not any longer. Philip Linden had no control here.
He wanted to warn. He wanted to wave them off, send up a blue flare for danger ahead or something. But he still couldn’t see. Maybe Tisha was wrong. Maybe she didn’t have carrots for lunch. Could be just some sort of reflection off the tails of the ever-passing killer whale sharks.
“Found it dear!” she now gurglingly shouted underwater somewhere. “Phone all the time!” If he could see her in front of him she would be blushing. And then (*press*) they were gone, ships and all. If they were ever there in the first place.
(*not* to be continued?)
Sunklands 