More Short Stories to Read on a Bus, a Car, a Train, a Plane (or a comfy chair anywhere)

Sadly, the creator himself had not made the journey because he had died some months before the project completion. His name however, was evident inside and outside the ship, on the drones, every piece of equipment, each casket and the uniforms presently hanging in a myriad of personnel lockers. His name was etched everywhere, on cutlery and utensils, on crystal glassware in public and staff bars, even embroidered into every chair, lounge, napkin and towel. The name was less numerous from the outside but what was there was visible for tens of kilometers because of their size, the largest situated on each flank of the huge ship. Each of these letters was fifty meters high and the name stretched almost two hundred meters along the sleek elegant hull.

TRUMP.

There was a time in human history that this name was synonymous with hate, greed, social and race discrimination, and some historians remained convinced the ancestors were responsible for the end of human habitation on planet earth due to pollution of the atmosphere. General consensus was that over population was more to blame, however successive Trump administrations had certainly contributed to the demise. In recent centuries, the Trump name was seen more as saviour, responsible for deep space exploration and the creation of alternative “living planets” that allowed the migration of humanity to more sanitary locations in the galaxy. At present there were only two such planets but a further four were in development, all thanks to the Trump dynasty.

And now, for the very first time, the opportunity existed to return to where it had all begun, the evolution of man, Earth.

In sixteen different great halls, almost two million staff and crew were the first awakened, their intensive training automatically sending them to assigned stations. Hosts moved amongst the lower level of caskets as the lucky paying clients slowly roused. Families, couples, individuals were assisted from their caskets and escorted to preparatory cabins for ablutions and refreshment. As the lower levels of caskets were vacated, they slid seamlessly into the walls of the great halls, and the next level of caskets lowered automatically to floor level. Every customer was bursting with excitement – they would be the first to see where it all began.

Finally, the lower levels cleared and only the highest caskets remained, on their final descent to floor level, thousands of canopies opened synchronously across all the great halls – except one casket. This one remained sealed and as programmed, the drones had not initiated the opening procedure. A young family had alighted from neighbouring caskets and the two children pointed and stared excitedly, first as their own caskets resealed and disappeared into the walls, then as the pulsing air of expectation invaded from the multitude of people surrounding them. Many glanced at the sole casket that remained, the curiosity a short interruption to the anticipation of this new adventure. The children allowed their curious nature to voice a question to their parents and escorting host. “I don’t know” was the unsatisfactory response but it was a short-lived disappointment as they moved out of the great hall and onto the next amazing discovery. The sealed casket was soon the only thing gracing the great hall.

The massive ship slid into position and halted briefly before beginning a geo-stationary orbit. None of the occupants inside felt the different movement, shielded and oblivious to what waited below, their only knowledge from documentaries and the sales brochures that accompanied their tickets to this historic tour. Every customer took their assigned seats in the great halls from whence they had awoken not an hour previously. The magnetic drives positioned each chair into an arena like position of tiers so that all would have an unobstructed view, the occupants firmly secured so that it was impossible to fall, nearly ninety meters for those in the highest tier.

The two children with their parents had returned to the great hall, curiosity aroused once more as they noted the unopened casket still present. Again the casket was forgotten as their chair whisked them from the floor but only to a height of two meters as they were, ostensibly, the front row. Surround sound modules built into the individual chairs gave instructions and announced forgoing proceedings, the excitement of the audience building with each passing second and word. The little boy and girl reached out and held hands – and then a loud collective gasp and more than a few screams resounded through the great halls as the walls and floor diminished then disappeared entirely. The audience was left suspended in seemingly mid-space, looking down at views of a planet nobody present thought they would ever see. Planet Earth.

Swirling clouds, a strange mix of surface colours, the occasional burst of light energy through the atmosphere itself was all explained in the running commentary. A warning was posted that the viewing window would now zoom, bringing the planet and the continent immediately below into clearer perspective, and that each client had the choice to zoom closer should they so desire. Maximum zoom was recommended so that any life forms, animals, plants, would become identifiable, and most people chose this option. However, as their views broke through the ever-present cloud, it soon became obvious that there was no life. The commentary announced they were over a once grand city named New York, though no mention was made of where the Old York had gone. The assumption was made the new was constructed over the top of the old.

The view was amazing, gasps of astonishment at every grid pattern evident in the red dust (the grid pattern believed to be a road system explained the ongoing commentary) or a crumbled dust laden hulk of what were once enormous vertical buildings. A constant strong, gusty wind kept the red dust flying and sometimes restricted the view until special filters cleared the viewing zone again. A particularly strong gust almost blanketed the screen for several seconds, the inherent lull afterward creating the greatest view of all. A giant arm reached up out of the red dust with an enormous torch in its grip, panicked screams now ricocheted the lengths and breaths of all the great halls until the commentary allayed their fears by describing the Statue of Liberty.

Whilst the millions were absorbed with the Statue and unseen by any except the two small children, a drone and several attendants approached the heretofore unopened, and forgotten by the masses anyway, casket. The drone did it’s duty and retreated, the attendants waited, the canopy opened but instead of a person dismounting from the casket, the casket itself tilted toward the view. The casket went on to occupy the space where a seat would normally have been, right beside the children who were watching now with real interest. To them, this was much more interesting than all that red dust blowing around down on that dirty old planet below!

Not a little unlike the arm of the Statue had done but just as surprising, and to the two watching children, just as old, an arm extended from the casket pointing to the scene below. The kids heard a sotto voice, too low to discern the question but an attendant immediately replied, “yes Sir, New York.” The children clearly heard the sounds of crying, broken sobs rare in their world now. The attendants did their best fussing over the occupant, his ancient arm still hanging out of casket … the braver of the two children, the girl, reached out and grasped the paper dry skin, the hand startled by the touch and instinctively withdrawing before slowly unfolding and returning to where the girl could again curl her little hand around some of the fingers. The face of a man leaned forward and over the top of the casket, his eyes roaming between the view below and that of the little girl holding his proffered hand. Tears streamed down both sides of his weathered old face, and if the little girl felt fear, she did not betray it.

“Why do you cry?”

The old man closed his eyes for brief seconds, brief because he had waited so long for this chance and was not going to waste it crying and dreaming. Though short in duration, he had enough time to think, go back, the thousand years or so since he’d been in cryogenic suspension waiting for this very opportunity, to see his home one more time. He saw, the animals at the zoo, giraffes and lions, hippos and zebras and those ever funny penguins, he saw them all now as they flashed before his eyes. He saw people climbing mountains, mountains covered in snow, deserts of white fine sand, the beaches, the oceans and streams teeming with fish, the green earth teeming with life. He opened his eyes and saw the redness of the planet below him, the hostility, the loss, and a few more tears escaped. The little voice urged his attention again.

“Why do you cry?”

He took a deep breath, aware it was one of his first for a very long time, aware it was close to his last, meaning the longest time. He looked directly at the little girl, looked into her eyes, saw the mirror image of another pair of eyes as her less than brave brother peered across her shoulder and he surveyed his young guests with as much dignity and respect as he could tiredly muster. Before she could voice her question again he answered while delicately squeezing her little hand.

“That was my home,” he nodded at the red dust swirling across the bare planet below them, then went on. “It didn’t used to look like that you know. Once it was very beautiful,” and a choking sob erupted from his chest forcing him back into his casket and releasing, slowly, reluctantly, the hand of the little girl.

She shrugged her shoulders and looked at her brother who returned her shoulder shrug and they both switched their eyes to the view of horrible planet below. They forgot about the old man. They forgot about the casket. And when the tour was over and the walls of the great hall solidified, the casket was no longer there.

Later, as the huge ship prepared for the long return journey, caskets replacing seats, the great halls filling again, a small dot was ejected from a service port, accelerating away toward the hostile atmosphere of Earth. A casket, but a special casket carrying a special client, a customer who had paid to return home. His casket bored the Trump logo, everything from the ship did, but this casket also carried an inscription;

…I REMEMBER BEFORE …

============= THE END ============

W155 – The mind replays what the heart can’t delete

KNIFE

Luigi was the last in a long, long, line of master craftsmen. Their skills, precision, and traditions were handed down from father to son over many generations. They made blades, cutting implements, not just battle weapons like swords, daggers, long knives or scythes but anything for any purpose that required the keenest edge available. He’d heard many times in hushed tones that his family was responsible for the mythical sword wielded by Arthyr himself, and closer to home the dagger Brutus used to betray his Emperor, though Luigi scoffed at the idea of either!

In recent centuries of course, most of their products were sold to overseas buyers – Kings, Dictators, Pharaohs, Despots, any warlord willing to pay the exorbitant price for the best. Their wares were all custom designed and made, and in keeping with expectations and desires of the purchaser, as plain as a cheap market trinket or elaborately scrolled with the best metals and jewels money could buy. Each buyer knew their item was unique, one of a kind, and regardless of decoration, capable of cutting through almost anything without losing its edge.

The modern world however, was taking its toll on Luigi – his Grandfather and Father had passed decades earlier and he had no son to pass on the skills he had painstakingly learnt under their watchful paternal supervision and guidance. Then came the day that changed his life, not that Luigi would live to see the final result of his labours. He would instead become the first victim, a first of many.

The little bell over the shop door heralded a new customer, the custom tinkle something his great grandfather had worked very hard to achieve using left-over material from a large order of katana blades bound for a Japanese samurai clan. The bell design would be viewed by most as a windchime, however the blades were wafer thin and, in accordance with their heritage, sharpened to an edge of infinite keenness. The tiny weighted blades hung from individual fine chains – the shop door’s upper edge sheathed in protective alloy to stop the blades from slicing through the timber frame and contributing to the fine tinkle produced by the bell. The tinkling was a rare occurrence nowadays, customers almost always ordering online or through an anonymous middleman. The very occasional tourist or windowshopper sometimes activated the tinkle but as the shop bore no sign or displayed any wares, these were usually wayward accidents. Oh how Luigi would wish this time had been one of those instead of the vision who now stood before him.

At first, she appeared to shimmer but as Luigi allowed his middle-aged eyes to focus and adjust to the bright noonday sun silhouetting her from the street behind, he saw the curvaceous figure of a woman. She was looking slowly around the small shop, devoid of products or advertising. Finally she noticed Luigi sitting behind the small desk and she stepped forward, her low heeled boots clicking against the wooden floorboards almost at the same pitch as the bell over the door. Her piercing dark eyes sparkled as she watched Luigi observing her from head to toe. She was pleased to see that he appeared absorbed in his examination because her preparations for this visit had been lengthy and detailed, not to mention painful at times. His eyes finally arrived at hers and he was startled quickly to his feet as his brain registered the beauty before him. He dropped his gaze quickly before speaking, his hands wringing together and advertising his embarrassment at being caught.

“I’m sorry, Miss? How may I help you? Are you lost?” He shuffled his feet adding to his look of abject misery.

“You are Luigi?” Her voice was deeper than expected but in a sultry, smoky way. A slight accent was evident but her question too short for Luigi to assess further.

“Yes, that’s me – how may I help you?” Finally he lifted his face and his eyes widened as he took in her beauty from less than a metre away. He frowned slightly, “how do you know my name?”

She reached out a gloved hand, a dainty lace glove trimmed in gold edging which highlighted her slender long fingers. “Chovani you may call me, and for me you shall be Armandino!”

She spoke the two different names with a much heavier accent than the rest of her sentence and Luigi recognised an Eastern European clip but couldn’t possibly determine the source of the accent. It was not unusual at all for the middlemen or customer to have a foreign accent, in fact, it was the norm but what wasn’t normal was for that person to be a woman, an extremely beautiful woman at that. In her face Luigi could see an almost Central-Asian countenance tinged with some Slovak and something else almost middle-eastern in her dark eyes. She wore short, patent leather boots and the glint of sunlight on metal showed a small stainless cap backing the rear of the stumpy heels and probably the source of the tinkling sound as she walked. He legs were sheathed in patterned soft-pink stockings until the fine lace hem of her below the knee dress interrupted his view. The dress was multi-coloured but the tones were subdued and the pattern itself random, set off with lace edging on the half-length sleeves, bodice and neckline to match the hem. A soft pink mantilla draped across the top of her head and slinked around her shoulders, with her dark eyes making her almost appear Spanish. She held a patent leather clutch in her left hand. He studied her amused gaze.

“So, Armandino, are you ready to do business? Do you approve of what you see?” She smiled showing her even white teeth and making him drop his gaze again. “Look at me Armandino, there is no need of shyness, I do not bite!”

Luigi complied and tried a smile himself but even with his head up, his eyes kept casting to the floor. “Why do you call me that, Armarn … Armen?”

“Armandino! Do you not know your own name?” Her smile tightened a little as if addressing a little boy. She watched patiently as he composed himself, his bushy eyebrows raising as she added, “we are ready to do business, yes?”

“Signora…,” he began.

“Chovani, if you cannot remember your own name then perhaps you can remember mine?” She raised a single eyebrow.

Luigi swallowed, then continued, “Showvarrni,” he enunciated slowly and carefully and seeing her nod and smile, he relaxed somewhat. “You are aware of my expertise?”

She smiled widely now, “of course, do you think I would go anywhere else other than here, to the best?”

Luigi wasn’t sure if she was actually flirting or being patronising but he was certain that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She looked like an exotic Sophia Loren and he was willing to let his mind believe she was flirting … nothing wrong with a little fantasizing! He hurried around his little desk and made a show of dusting off a padded armchair and offered her a seat. She primly sat down, crossing her legs and arms and raised both eyebrows at him this time. “Yes, so, Showvarrni,” he waited again for her smiling acknowledgement, “how may I help you?”

She opened her clutch purse and drew out a slip of paper which she placed on the desk in front of him without a word. She watched as he looked at the elaborate patterns on the paper and could see the obvious question developing across his face, then as he opened his mouth to speak, she quickly interjected one single word. “Trishul.”

“What, Signora, sorry, Chovarni? I, I didn’t catch that …”

“You don’t know what a Trishul is? I thought you were the best? Perhaps I was mistaken.. " she made to stand up, reaching toward the paper on the desk as she rose.

“Trishul is a cross,” he look her squarely in the eye as he spoke and she nodded and resumed her seat. “What I don’t know is what this is,” his eyes glanced to the pattern on the note before him. “You were not mistaken, I am still the best but perhaps you could help me with this and what it means in relation to a Trishul?” He was looking directly at her eyes, his master craftsman brain was working hard now and effectively masking his previous shyness.

“What else could Trishul represent, besides a cross which you correctly identified. You surprised me a little Armandino. I like your surprises. Give me more!”

“Ah, it was originally a trident, and I wish I could pronounce the name, and yours, as eloquently as you do, but Trishul in more modern times is in the form of a cross, like a religious artifact. And this pattern …?” He didn’t glance at the paper again, instead maintaining their steady mutual gaze. Beautiful woman or not, he was still the only professional craftsman present.

He had his finger on the slip of paper and she reached out and put her hand near his, tracing the elaborate pattern neatly with a finger without even looking. “It is indeed the cross that I seek and this is the adornment I want on the haft and the quillion.”

His bushy eyebrows rise together again, “that is a knife or a dagger then rather than a traditional cross,” he nods at her, “and the blade?”

“As you would normally create Armandino, the sharpest of sharpest edges available,” she smiled.