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A Poem on the Moon

by on August 3, 2015

“You know what?” Constance said. “Skip this.”  She might have used words of more emphasis, but she was an angel, and angels didn’t use that sort of language. “I’m going to find the Ark myself and move it somewhere you people can’t get at it. Bye!” She vanished from the starship Blooming Onion‘s engine room in a spray of golden light.

Captain Jolene was somewhat nonplussed by all this. “Okay. Well. everyone, carry on then. I’d better contact Fleet command about all this.”  Between the revelation that her science officer had been a demon from hell, and the appearance and prompt disappearance of an angel in her engine room, she decided that she really needed to consult with her superiors.

Mr. Stamper was not the consulting type. As chief of security, he really disliked when angels crashed aboard his ship. He didn’t like Constance, in particular. In their last encounter, she had neglected to share with him certain important facts. So the space otter decided there was only one thing to do. He swiped a shuttle from the cargo bay and tore off after her.

There was no obvious trail. Angels, apparently, did not leave wakes of ion radiation or tachyon fluxes measuring disturbances in the space-time continuum. So Mr. Stamper made another decision. His shuttle boomed right through the wormhole and headed straight for the nearest little moon. Jolene had meant to go to that moon. Constance meant to beat them to it. So, Mr. Stamper resolved to get there first.

He actually did. Constance had made it into the wormhole, but had paused to admire the scenery.  Wormholes, especially stable ones like this, were awfully shiny. She neglected the tiny shuttle whizzing past her, and by the time she emerged at the other end, Mr. Stamper had long since skidded to a bumpy landing on the moon. The landscape was standard moon type: rocky, cold, pocked with craters. In the distance, however, the space otter saw a clump of rocks rising higher than the rest. These weren’t randomly scattered rocks, either. They looked ordered. “Bingo,” Mr. Stamper said, and marched towards them.

The rocks formed a neat arch over a particularly wide crater. Inside the crater, Mr. Stamper found a tunnel leading into the depths of the moon. He thought about tossing an electron blast grenade down it just in case, but decided against it. If the Ark was down there, he didn’t want to blow the thing up.

Carefully the space otter made his way down the tunnel. An hour passed, then two. Then, quite abruptly, the tunnel snapped left and dead-ended in a door. The door had old and squiggly writing on it. In an ancient and forgotten language, it read.

Respect, and fear, this sacred space

Or you will have a melted face.

The Ark is here, and that’s a fact,

Now turn around and don’t come back,

There’s Power here, you silly twit,

And you had better not mess with it. 

So run away, right now, go on,

Or we repeat: your face is melted right clean away. 

Mr. Stamper, unfortunately, was not expert in ancient and forgotten languages. He was a space otter. His job was to find things that other people wanted, and would pay him for. He might not have been deterred by the poem even if he had read it. Since he couldn’t, he calmly set his proton blaster to emit a steady beam and began methodically cutting his way through the door. The crackling golden beam reduced the poem to pulverized dust. Mr. Stamper had never been much for poetry.


The yeah write poetry slam for this month was doggerel. The focus on fiction for this month was anthropomorphism. With these two concepts, August seems just perfect for a Stamper story, and so I resumed his latest story arc. Will his face be melted off just like those guys in Raiders? Only time will tell. *dramatic chords*. 

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2 Comments
  1. Susanne permalink

    Fun story. I cannot help but think of “2001-A Space Ottersy”.

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