Bomb Shelter

It’s just me and my dog down here.  I crack open another bottle of distilled water and wonder how long it will be before I can drink anything fresh again, before my tongue tastes food that isn’t canned.

Max doesn’t even beg for the canned goods anymore.  His old face has whitened over the years, and his joints don’t work well.  Still, old boy is going to see what happened after the bombs dropped, and unlike me, he’ll probably have a celebration.

black and gray metal machine inside a room

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This was written for the Weekend Writing Prompt #84, Celebration.  The Ol’ North State’s been hit hard by the recent snowstorm, so it feels like nuclear winter up in here.  Hopefully it’ll stop soon enough!

Europa

photo-20181126151712393

“You aren’t old enough to appreciate this.  If you’d been here when we first colonized Europa, you’d understand just how precious this liquid is.  This light.”

The kid leaned over the dinghy and swiped his hand through the water.  The wave fell back slowly, pulled back toward the iron-nickel core of Jupiter’s moon by gravity a tenth of that which Earth boasts.  “It’s dark under the water.  Was that the way the whole moon used to be?”

The child’s father paddled again, urging the craft onward.  “The moon used to be solid, covered in ice.  There were no waves.”

“But then no one could paddle.”

“So you understand, son, why losing Earth was so terrible?”

The kid lifted a brow.  “That old story again?  Why do you care so much about that place?”

The dad wiped a tear from his eyes, but the surface tension held it precariously on his finger in the low gravity.  “Like I said, you don’t understand because you’re so young…”

(165 words)

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Thanks to Yarnspinnerr for the picture!  The short story was written for the FFfAW challenge #193.  I was inspired because of the set of books I’m reading in December… visit me next Tuesday to find out what they are!