Post by myrthman on Feb 6, 2008 3:18:22 GMT -5
What follows is some narrative (not sure whether to call it a story yet or not). I'd like some feedback in general and opinions on whether this is complete or not. Thanks! You guys are awesome!
==========
It was eighteen years ago today. My father rushed my screaming mother to the hospital. For some reason, the delivery ward was near the top floor, so my dad took the elevator. I don't think my mom would call it an uplifting experience, but I was born in the elevator. Drugs had not been given, doctors had been called but not yet seen, and the only other person who knew I'd been born at that moment was the old lady on her way to see her sick grandson. Let me tell you, it was quite a fiasco that day on the ninth floor of the hospital as the elevator doors opened.
Half a city away, at the same moment, an alien space craft came to a very sudden halt as it collided with Earth's fragile crust.
I can never forget the day it happened because it was the same day I was born. Today is my eighteenth birthday. I'm celebrating by graduating from the River City Institute of Technology. The funny thing is, it doesn't seem like much of a celebration–for the birthday or the graduation. The whole day seems overshadowed by the fact that the alien ship has yet to be successfully opened and studied.
Except for three weeks of smoke-and-dust-darkness, nothing has happened as a result of the crash. The National Guard surrounded it about as fast as possible–they had to have tracked it down from space. But they were only there in force for six months. When nothing happened, they sent troops home. We used to think that when aliens came to Earth, there would be either panic or rejoicing–perhaps both. No one ever thought we would become bored.
I shared the front page of River City's newspaper, Ebb, with reports and photos of the downed ship. "Local Elevator Gives Birth to Jaundiced Wonder," read my headline. Of course, my day was overshadowed then just as it is now. "Craft of Unknown Origin Crashes in Oxbow Heights: Government Scientists to Investigate" kind of leaves Elevator Boy in the dust. At least I can claim that my story didn't stray out of River City. The crash was, of course, instant international news. I think they actually called a cease fire in the Middle East once the word got out about the spaceship.
Overnight, it became known as a miracle. Overnight, River City became the most popular tourist attraction on the face of the planet. News of the spectacular event traveled quickly through cyberspace. Hundreds of new websites sprang up immediately, each claiming proof of the craft's origin, each posting the rarest of pictures. Pictures on the nightly news soon became obsolete as military satellites provided up-to-the-minute replacements. There were thermal images showing the area of impact, and the trail of damage left in its wake revealed the now famous manta ray shape of the vessel. Those people who survived the event were systematically relocated to safer parts of the city, their houses and loved ones forever lost. Low altitude pictures showed that Otter Field was near the crash site and was about twice the size of the ship. The Otters hadn't had such a bad season in at least fifteen years; I think the lack of crowds at their games had quite the impact on their abilities. Everyone was in awe over the thing next-door.
Eighteen years. You'd hope something would have happened immediately after such a tremendous incident, but nothing has happened for eighteen years. The "government scientists" investigated the outside of the ship relentlessly; they couldn't get to any other part. Construction crews, military demolitions experts, and the world's top chemists have tried everything short of nuclear explosion to create some sort of opening in the hull of the ship. Nothing ever worked.
When the ship crashed, there was no fanfare of dreadful music or spectacular light show. The thing just sat there with steam pouring off it as it cooled down from atmospheric entry. As far as anyone could tell, there was no damage to the ship. It lay there, intact and unmoving, for eighteen years. The world's most amazing event ever–itself proving that life on other planets not only existed but was intelligent far beyond anything humanity had yet imagined–quickly faded from people's memories. They got used to it. It became usual, normal, mundane, mediocre even. People remembered River City but forgot why. But not me. I couldn't possibly forget. Everyone else became bored.
Maybe that's what they were waiting for. This morning, the thing that had so occupied the attention of the whole world for six months, that had been forgotten for nearly eighteen years, made international headlines yet again. This morning, it opened.
I find myself standing in a throng of people, all moving intently with only one purpose in mind. We scurry in a close approximation of a line–more like a mob–toward the object of our attention. Crowds have already gathered; I am disappointed like I imagine everyone around me is also.
I crane my neck to see beyond the heads of people doing the same. We are all aching to see what new wonders or monsters have emerged from the familiar spaceship. The crowd weighs on me and surges forward; I imagine a rock concert. But we can't get any closer.
What remains of the National Guard forces and the River City police have established a perimeter line with two objectives: keep the crowd from rushing into the spacecraft and keep the occupant of the spacecraft a safe distance from the crowd. I ponder the irony of this arrangement and press forward, ducking under people's legs. I have to know what has been the real eclipsing force for all my life.
I was the last hope for my team. The Mountaineers were up by three, and it was the bottom of the ninth inning. By some stroke of strategic genius, our coach had managed to get runners on all three bases. He scored two outs to accomplish this feat, but he had faith in me.
That faith ran out with my second strike. I stood at the plate, sweat beading down my face despite the cool autumn air. The bat, or maybe my hands, felt like jelly. The crowd hushed; I eyed my enemy as he began his windup.
The ball crawled at me through the air (I later learned that the pitcher had dislocated his arm by throwing a record-breaking fastball). I gripped the bat as tightly as I could. The bat seemed to swing on its own. Epic battles were waged in the instant I had my eyes closed.
Relief came in the form of a thunderous "CRACK!" I tentatively peeked out from under my eyelids and saw a small, white object flying away. It soared over the fence; I stood in awe, wondering what the thing was.
Then I was swarmed by my teammates. We all started jumping and shouting. I don't remember what I yelled, but they all chanted my name as though I was a great war hero.
The Ebb reported two stories the next day on the front page: the Otters' miraculous comeback in the final game of the River City Little League Championship and the rare bird struck by the winning baseball that crashed into a seven-year-old mystery. The spaceship did not react in any way but caused a bigger reaction in the media.
I'm not so arrogant as to lust after fame and glory, but every time it comes my way, I get pushed to the bottom of the page. It's just a little disheartening. I've searched for a solution nearly all my life. That's why I went to RCIT. That's why I now find myself at the edge of the National Guard perimeter looking at something I've hated since I knew that I could hate.
The thing looms before me, obscuring the sun a bit now that the day is waning. Shadows fall on curious faces. The ramp that didn't exist until this morning ascends to the darkened portal where people's fears and hopes mingle to produce a monolithic mystery. I gaze in wonder just like everyone around me, my forgotten camera dangling from around my neck.
A uniformed man approaches me; I recognize him like I would something from a dream. "Son, why aren't you at your party?"
"My party left and came here. I followed."
"Does your mother know where you are?"
"Yeah." I look at my dad directly for the first time. The badge on his chest glints in the fading sunlight. "What's gonna happen now, Dad?"
"Well, Army Intel has been called and should be arriving any minute with a team and some equipment. I can't say anything else–top secret stuff–you know, right? Why don't you go home? I'll tell you what I can later." Without so much as a handshake, my father saunters off toward his station. Like so many times before, I disregard his suggestion.
Floodlights come on; the area inside the perimeter is once again in broad daylight. A TV reporter asks a question of a man in a dark suit. I move closer to hear his response.
"No, Gwen. No one has been inside yet. We've got strict orders to maintain this area and await further instructions. My understanding is that a team of specialists is en route at this moment to begin an interior investigation."
"Am I hearing correctly? This thing has been here for about eighteen years. It opened this morning–of its own accord–and no one has been inside? I find that a little hard to believe, Agent Warrick."
"Well, Ma'am. That's the truth. We established our perimeter before dawn when the vessel opened, and no one has been inside since then." He turns his head away to listen to his two-way radio. He turns back to the reporter and says, "Well, I've just received word that the specialists are here but can't get through the crowd. If you'll excuse me." He turns and runs off.
I find myself next to a reporter with a TV camera and eighteen years of second-rate headlines to make up for. "Excuse me, Gwen? It's exactly eighteen years since that thing landed."
"What?" She's surprised by the source of the voice.
"It's been eighteen years today since the ship crashed," I reply.
"Who exactly are you?" she asks as she signals her cameraman to resume filming.
"I'm the guy that's gonna make your career. You want an exclusive about that thing?"
"Yes, of course. I'd do anything."
"Well, save your money. I'll do it this once for free. Besides," I grin, "I'm gonna enjoy this!"
==========
It was eighteen years ago today. My father rushed my screaming mother to the hospital. For some reason, the delivery ward was near the top floor, so my dad took the elevator. I don't think my mom would call it an uplifting experience, but I was born in the elevator. Drugs had not been given, doctors had been called but not yet seen, and the only other person who knew I'd been born at that moment was the old lady on her way to see her sick grandson. Let me tell you, it was quite a fiasco that day on the ninth floor of the hospital as the elevator doors opened.
Half a city away, at the same moment, an alien space craft came to a very sudden halt as it collided with Earth's fragile crust.
I can never forget the day it happened because it was the same day I was born. Today is my eighteenth birthday. I'm celebrating by graduating from the River City Institute of Technology. The funny thing is, it doesn't seem like much of a celebration–for the birthday or the graduation. The whole day seems overshadowed by the fact that the alien ship has yet to be successfully opened and studied.
Except for three weeks of smoke-and-dust-darkness, nothing has happened as a result of the crash. The National Guard surrounded it about as fast as possible–they had to have tracked it down from space. But they were only there in force for six months. When nothing happened, they sent troops home. We used to think that when aliens came to Earth, there would be either panic or rejoicing–perhaps both. No one ever thought we would become bored.
I shared the front page of River City's newspaper, Ebb, with reports and photos of the downed ship. "Local Elevator Gives Birth to Jaundiced Wonder," read my headline. Of course, my day was overshadowed then just as it is now. "Craft of Unknown Origin Crashes in Oxbow Heights: Government Scientists to Investigate" kind of leaves Elevator Boy in the dust. At least I can claim that my story didn't stray out of River City. The crash was, of course, instant international news. I think they actually called a cease fire in the Middle East once the word got out about the spaceship.
Overnight, it became known as a miracle. Overnight, River City became the most popular tourist attraction on the face of the planet. News of the spectacular event traveled quickly through cyberspace. Hundreds of new websites sprang up immediately, each claiming proof of the craft's origin, each posting the rarest of pictures. Pictures on the nightly news soon became obsolete as military satellites provided up-to-the-minute replacements. There were thermal images showing the area of impact, and the trail of damage left in its wake revealed the now famous manta ray shape of the vessel. Those people who survived the event were systematically relocated to safer parts of the city, their houses and loved ones forever lost. Low altitude pictures showed that Otter Field was near the crash site and was about twice the size of the ship. The Otters hadn't had such a bad season in at least fifteen years; I think the lack of crowds at their games had quite the impact on their abilities. Everyone was in awe over the thing next-door.
Eighteen years. You'd hope something would have happened immediately after such a tremendous incident, but nothing has happened for eighteen years. The "government scientists" investigated the outside of the ship relentlessly; they couldn't get to any other part. Construction crews, military demolitions experts, and the world's top chemists have tried everything short of nuclear explosion to create some sort of opening in the hull of the ship. Nothing ever worked.
When the ship crashed, there was no fanfare of dreadful music or spectacular light show. The thing just sat there with steam pouring off it as it cooled down from atmospheric entry. As far as anyone could tell, there was no damage to the ship. It lay there, intact and unmoving, for eighteen years. The world's most amazing event ever–itself proving that life on other planets not only existed but was intelligent far beyond anything humanity had yet imagined–quickly faded from people's memories. They got used to it. It became usual, normal, mundane, mediocre even. People remembered River City but forgot why. But not me. I couldn't possibly forget. Everyone else became bored.
Maybe that's what they were waiting for. This morning, the thing that had so occupied the attention of the whole world for six months, that had been forgotten for nearly eighteen years, made international headlines yet again. This morning, it opened.
I find myself standing in a throng of people, all moving intently with only one purpose in mind. We scurry in a close approximation of a line–more like a mob–toward the object of our attention. Crowds have already gathered; I am disappointed like I imagine everyone around me is also.
I crane my neck to see beyond the heads of people doing the same. We are all aching to see what new wonders or monsters have emerged from the familiar spaceship. The crowd weighs on me and surges forward; I imagine a rock concert. But we can't get any closer.
What remains of the National Guard forces and the River City police have established a perimeter line with two objectives: keep the crowd from rushing into the spacecraft and keep the occupant of the spacecraft a safe distance from the crowd. I ponder the irony of this arrangement and press forward, ducking under people's legs. I have to know what has been the real eclipsing force for all my life.
I was the last hope for my team. The Mountaineers were up by three, and it was the bottom of the ninth inning. By some stroke of strategic genius, our coach had managed to get runners on all three bases. He scored two outs to accomplish this feat, but he had faith in me.
That faith ran out with my second strike. I stood at the plate, sweat beading down my face despite the cool autumn air. The bat, or maybe my hands, felt like jelly. The crowd hushed; I eyed my enemy as he began his windup.
The ball crawled at me through the air (I later learned that the pitcher had dislocated his arm by throwing a record-breaking fastball). I gripped the bat as tightly as I could. The bat seemed to swing on its own. Epic battles were waged in the instant I had my eyes closed.
Relief came in the form of a thunderous "CRACK!" I tentatively peeked out from under my eyelids and saw a small, white object flying away. It soared over the fence; I stood in awe, wondering what the thing was.
Then I was swarmed by my teammates. We all started jumping and shouting. I don't remember what I yelled, but they all chanted my name as though I was a great war hero.
The Ebb reported two stories the next day on the front page: the Otters' miraculous comeback in the final game of the River City Little League Championship and the rare bird struck by the winning baseball that crashed into a seven-year-old mystery. The spaceship did not react in any way but caused a bigger reaction in the media.
I'm not so arrogant as to lust after fame and glory, but every time it comes my way, I get pushed to the bottom of the page. It's just a little disheartening. I've searched for a solution nearly all my life. That's why I went to RCIT. That's why I now find myself at the edge of the National Guard perimeter looking at something I've hated since I knew that I could hate.
The thing looms before me, obscuring the sun a bit now that the day is waning. Shadows fall on curious faces. The ramp that didn't exist until this morning ascends to the darkened portal where people's fears and hopes mingle to produce a monolithic mystery. I gaze in wonder just like everyone around me, my forgotten camera dangling from around my neck.
A uniformed man approaches me; I recognize him like I would something from a dream. "Son, why aren't you at your party?"
"My party left and came here. I followed."
"Does your mother know where you are?"
"Yeah." I look at my dad directly for the first time. The badge on his chest glints in the fading sunlight. "What's gonna happen now, Dad?"
"Well, Army Intel has been called and should be arriving any minute with a team and some equipment. I can't say anything else–top secret stuff–you know, right? Why don't you go home? I'll tell you what I can later." Without so much as a handshake, my father saunters off toward his station. Like so many times before, I disregard his suggestion.
Floodlights come on; the area inside the perimeter is once again in broad daylight. A TV reporter asks a question of a man in a dark suit. I move closer to hear his response.
"No, Gwen. No one has been inside yet. We've got strict orders to maintain this area and await further instructions. My understanding is that a team of specialists is en route at this moment to begin an interior investigation."
"Am I hearing correctly? This thing has been here for about eighteen years. It opened this morning–of its own accord–and no one has been inside? I find that a little hard to believe, Agent Warrick."
"Well, Ma'am. That's the truth. We established our perimeter before dawn when the vessel opened, and no one has been inside since then." He turns his head away to listen to his two-way radio. He turns back to the reporter and says, "Well, I've just received word that the specialists are here but can't get through the crowd. If you'll excuse me." He turns and runs off.
I find myself next to a reporter with a TV camera and eighteen years of second-rate headlines to make up for. "Excuse me, Gwen? It's exactly eighteen years since that thing landed."
"What?" She's surprised by the source of the voice.
"It's been eighteen years today since the ship crashed," I reply.
"Who exactly are you?" she asks as she signals her cameraman to resume filming.
"I'm the guy that's gonna make your career. You want an exclusive about that thing?"
"Yes, of course. I'd do anything."
"Well, save your money. I'll do it this once for free. Besides," I grin, "I'm gonna enjoy this!"
. Still, it's a great story and I think everyone else nailed it on the head.