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Funny Science Fiction Adventure

It was a sultry, mulch-scented late autumn day; when leaves squelched underfoot and caterpillars concertinaed their fat green bodies under old bricks and fell asleep. Hanging low in the sky, the sun prickled the bronzed shoulders of busy gardeners. The allotment bloomed with ruby-red plums, plump, sweet blackberries, and row upon row of fern-like fronds of juicy carrots. Douglas’s heart swelled with pride; his vegetable patch stood every chance of winning a gold medal at the annual produce show. 

        Scraping mud from his Wellington boots, on the honed edge of his shovel, he inhaled the earthy scent of his compost bins. His stomach lurched, reminding him of when he took part in the Chipping Magna raft race and disgraced himself by heaving his breakfast over the side. It wasn't the smell that threw his equilibrium; his wellies were six feet off the ground by the time he grabbed for the roof of his shed. A rough-hewn finial came away in his hand, and as he ascended, like a tweed-wrapped Michelin Bibendum, he flung it with force into the trees beneath his feet.

"If that's you, John, this isn't funny," he said, his voice booming, his eyes seeking whatever crane or contraption had pulled him into the air. But there was none, and Douglas grimaced as a tenuous idea formed in his mind. Elchinor.

#

       Questioned later, Douglas remembered it was a Tuesday because it was pasta night, and he had anticipated the peppery Jalapeno Muenster cheese sauce his mother ladled on in generous measures. Wearing pink slacks with a smart crease down each leg, an M and S polo-neck jumper, a well-arranged Hermes lookalike scarf, and serving mac 'n' cheese meant Tuesday. His mother's idiosyncrasies were a talking point among Armstrong Avenue's Am-Dram Society.  

       "Wednesday?" one thespian would ask in a stage whisper. 

       "Ham omelette, beige moleskin," the reply.

        Amateur dramatics made an excellent cover for the self-styled Mrs. Adams, who learned English from the collected works of Coward and Wilde and spoke like an eccentric flapper. The milkman had objected to, 'darling boy, leave it there and peel me a grape instead,' complaining to Douglas that he felt, 'used.' 

       Her silver turban was not part of the usual costume, but neighbours still spoke of her portrayal of Lady Bracknell with hushed awe. Rolling her crimsoned lips around the phrase, 'a handbag?' she stole the show. 

       Douglas was little more than a spoiled egg when his mother set up home in Chipping Magna: his birthplace was the dim-lit cellar of the library, between the musty piles of late returns - A to D. Within months, she had assumed the role of the chief librarian and obtained a small mortgage on the stone-clad semi-detached property in Armstrong Avenue.

       At thirteen, and inseparable from his woollen hat, she told him the truth of her arrival on Earth, and taught him his native language, 'just in case.' He practiced the sibilant alphabet, made easier by speaking while chewing his toothbrush,

      "Visssh, topeshh, moossik, glouzz." 

       The letters sizzled in his mouth. 

       That he was different, not odd, comforted Douglas, and knowing that his father had not deserted him, but his mother had, 'metaphorically missed the jolly old boat, dearest,' he celebrated by sleeping with his beanie hat in a drawer. But he was a sensible boy, and next morning, bouncing, long-limbed, to school, he kept his head covered and his mouth shut.

#

        As an impromptu spaceman, Douglas gave little thought to his mother's wardrobe or her potential as a Mastermind subject. No longer at the whim of gravity, he ascended, arm outstretched, his garden spade tugged by the impatient magnetic field of a passing spacecraft. He flew, like the six-foot-six string of an eccentric balloon, through the gossamer of space. The solar panels of the International Space Station dazzled his eyes, and he missed the waved fists of the astronauts completing their first, but no longer ground-breaking, space walk. Gloomy Saturn thundered past like a sweat-drenched pugilist in a ring, surrounded by its cheering and jeering satellites. Douglas glowed with warmth - glad to be wearing his comfortable duffle coat, hat, and wellingtons - despite the stream of frost-laced air from the oxygen-powered spacecraft. 

       Gaseous elements tickled his sensitive nostrils; pungent sulphur and methane, from the spacecraft's exhaust. Vague worries formed in his head; would the allotment committee give his plot to John Arnold, who coveted his courgette patch and tried to sabotage his cabbages with black-fly? Was a spade's iron content enough to keep him in the spacecraft's magnetic field? Best hold on tight to the implement, he decided. Crashing into China might cause a breakdown in interstellar relations. 

       A preference for fibreglass shovels meant no one else from the Chipping Magna Allotment Association tumbled in the spacecraft's tow. Douglas was as alone in space as he was in life. 

       Getting close to someone is hard when you can't remove your hat. 

       He waved the spade above his head, in the direction of travel. Would anyone see him?  he wondered. Did interstellar vehicles have a rear-view mirror? The spacecraft slowed as Neptune appeared, glowing azure blue like a royal diadem. His mother had told him, Earth was an oxygen refuelling station, but Neptune was a launch pad. Images of his body, torn apart by the immense speed, blood falling like crimson raindrops, filled his head. For a moment he considered letting go of the spade and taking his chances with China. 

       Douglas felt the increasing tug of the vehicle as it reversed toward him, its frosty emissions sprinkling him with a fine white coating. If he'd had one of his carrots with him it would have made a fine nose. Gripping the spade, hands shoulder-wide, knuckles protruding, his body dangled like a snowman-gymnast. A hatch opened; a mechanical hand flexed and grabbed the toggles of his coat. The airlock clunked closed behind him. A purple aroma tinted the air. The scent filled his ears. He laughed aloud, an unaccustomed noise, overflowing with the gooeyness of a chocolate caramel bar. Holding his hands over his ears he pumped to create a vacuum, until his ears popped and his normal senses returned. Patting himself down he counted his limbs, and finding they were all intact, gave a silent fist-pump.

        His wellies left their mark on a pristine corridor. It reminded him of home, except for the Laura Ashley floral paper his mother chose for the ceiling. He wondered if she missed him yet, whether she ever would, and, if he sent her a postcard would they accept an IOU for the postage.

#

       On the bridge of the ship, the pilot waited, sniffing the arrival of his stowaway. He would not recognise the pungency of compost or the rubbery stickiness of Wellington boots, or know the outcome of a moment of passion thirty Earth cycles earlier. Yishak and his co-pilot had buried themselves under a bush behind the Chipping Magna library. It was fortunate for them both that the library had not yet installed CCTV, but instead relied on the honest citizens of the town to snitch on the dustbin surfers and the dog walkers who failed to scoop their poop. He returned to the ship; she disappeared to seek out a bathroom and missed the shuttle back to the orbiting spacecraft. Had he caught the rich effusion of the books in the library, he might have remained with her.

       Reaching the bridge, Douglas's eyes widened like saucers. The pilot stared back, mouth agape at his mirror image. Flinging aside his spade, Douglas tore off his hat. Crackling with static, his cerulean blue hair reached for the stars; the three small buds, which his mother said resembled the moons of Elchinor, pinged cranberry red.

       Tears washed his cheeks with the scent of a motorway service station in the rain. 

       "Yishak," he said. "Mikmazz," a crack in his voice, his arms open wide. "Daddy."





October 03, 2023 21:31

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15 comments

Ken Cartisano
08:29 Nov 09, 2023

I read this the other day and thought it was fabulous, then forgot to 'like' it. I hope you didn't think I was being sarcastic or ironic. I think your stories are exceptional.

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Wendy M
18:04 Nov 09, 2023

Thank you kindly young sir!

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Ken Cartisano
19:48 Nov 06, 2023

I loved this. And I think it's brilliant. No tidier explanation for the likes of Douglas Adams could be devised. I enjoyed every bit of this story, except for the first paragraph. I know you'll think I'm joking or being 'Douglas Adamsy' when I state this, but for his sake, I must. I refer only to the first paragraph. I would delete the second sentence altogether, then, reverse the order of the remaining sentences. Instead of this: It was a sultry, mulch-scented late autumn day; when leaves squelched underfoot and caterpillars concertinae...

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Wendy M
18:10 Nov 09, 2023

You are hilarious and I am happy to adopt you as half British. Is that an insult? If so, consider yourself lucky, I've written worse! I would be willing to make a small sacrifice of a miniscule sentence, the caterpillars were my favourite. Are you a Globe Soup'er? I've entered a few of their comps had a few finalist places and an early version of this story was one of them. But no book, yet!

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Myranda Marie
15:49 Oct 09, 2023

I too, was completely drawn in by the first paragraph, which by the way made me miss the autumn season all the more. {Living in Florida robs us of that earthy, mulchy, decaying leaves smell in the air.} I immediately thought of my grandfather and his garden I remember so fondly, compost and all. Then, the otherworldly twist I was not at all expecting was so entertaining. {at first, I thought the language was simply another aspect of Mom's eccentricities.} I loved all of it !!!

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Wendy M
18:03 Oct 09, 2023

Thanks, Myranda, glad you liked it. 😊

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Kevin Logue
18:06 Oct 07, 2023

You drew me in with such wonderful earthy descriptions at the start, I could really feel and smell that allotment, then bam we are off on an intergalactic family reunion. Simply delightful, I was wondering if this was a fictional take on the origins of Douglas Adams ha. Thoroughly enjoyable Wendy, great submission, thanks for sharing.

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Wendy M
19:31 Oct 07, 2023

Thanks for your kind comments, popping over to read your latest shortly.

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Suma Jayachandar
10:15 Oct 07, 2023

This is a delightful read. It starts off on a deceptively familiar ground (really lovely description of the produce and throughout) and then vrooms through a surprising trajectory. The bittersweet ending is perfect.

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Wendy M
10:41 Oct 07, 2023

Thank you so much, I'm glad you like it.

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Mary Bendickson
14:19 Oct 06, 2023

A delightful family reunion. What a trip! Thanks for liking my Where the Wild Things Aren't

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Michał Przywara
20:33 Oct 04, 2023

Ha! What a great premise, and a surprise ending :) I suppose Douglas took "Don't Panic" to heart, as he was lifted through the atmosphere. "The milkman had objected to, 'darling boy, leave it there and peel me a grape instead,' complaining to Douglas that he felt, 'used.'" lol The aliens are charming, and for the most part seem to fit right in - including Douglas's musings about not fitting in. Very fun, thanks for sharing!

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Wendy M
21:44 Oct 04, 2023

Thanks Michal, I love all things Hitchhiker, & remember the original radio broadcast some 40 years ago, that got me into the books. Glad you enjoyed this small tribute.

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Rebecca Miles
18:12 Oct 04, 2023

Ha! A Hitchhiker's Guide to family values indeed. Well clever you, putting your aptly named Douglas (Adams) off on a homecoming like no other. If you are a believer in the number 42 and the necessity of always carrying a towel this is a very satisfying sort of pastiche. I think you hit the prompt fully on the nose too with all the olfactory imagery in particular: compost heaps and the spacecraft's exhaust but lots of hard working verbs too like all the clunking etc to really get the sounds firing up. Yep, I loved your homage and found you ga...

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Wendy M
18:38 Oct 04, 2023

Thanks Rebecca, I'm glad nothing 'mars' it for you and I haven't left you spaced out! I always appreciate a good pun too.

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