A New Fear

thethemeis: Idols
theauthoris: LiamD

[HMS Diplomacy] Log – Entry 6838 – [November 8th, 2026]

 

[Peace to the Homelands],

This entry marks our [twelfth and final day] of our exploration of the recently discovered inhabited planet [Hope]. But alas, it is my unhappy duty to bear the ill tidings; we are now certain that the natives of this world have no hope to offer us.

The surviving crew members (and thankfully the majority of us have fortuitously survived our stay thus far) have very little morale left. Despite the afflictions of [the Homelands] that gave us reason to journey this far and seek succour from an unknown alien race, we are all desperate to return. It was a mistake to come here. I only hope we can procure our escape unharmed by any of the inherently violent beings in our vicinity.

Yet, I suppose [I have gotten ahead of myself]. Since the death of Han on our [sixth day] (details recorded in Log Entry – 6837) we have managed to elude further encounters with the locals. A fair amount of our crew were ready to [give up there and then], but I was was stubborn in my determination to find a peaceful contingent whom would give us the aid we so badly need. There are vast amounts of lands on [Hope] (how I now despise to use that foolishly given name) and the crew has amassed many hours reading through all of the information we could find regarding each region. Finding the information in question was one of the few [blessings] we have had since arrival. On Planet [Hope] exists a rudimentary information-exchange technology from which we were able to easily extract and translate historical recordings. It is the findings of this research that has convinced me there is no safe option but to return home.

On each volume of historical records for the various subcultures on [Hope] there is a list of beings that once dwelt therein (or continue to do so in some cases). The professions and acts of these individuals vary. Many are past leaders of great nations, some are distinguished artists and others virtuosos in their chosen profession. There is only one single common thread that links all of the regions of [Hope]: War. Every list includes at least ten beings with a terrible history of violence. Be they horrific, oppressive dictators or celebrated defenders of a land they cherish, it is clear that the most noteworthy of this world are relentless [barbarians]. 

The title of these lists is most chilling of all. It is translated by our equipment as ‘The Hall of Aspirational Figures’. The crew have been debating whether or not this is some strange alien idiom but whatever the literal meaning may be, we are agreed on one thing. The beings in these lists are idolised in their respective regions. Enormous statues constructed from unknown elements have been erected in their honour and vast populations have sworn allegiance to them in an unsettling devotion akin to worship. We now understand that the beings of this world are endowed with an intrinsic aggression. They can bring us only ruin. I can speak for the entire crew and declare that we would rather die trying to heal our planet alone than ask assistance of this unpredictably volatile alien race.

For safety’s sake I must keep this short. Repairs of the [Diplomacy] are very close to completion and soon we shall return to [her] and leave for good. With luck this message shall accompany us on our return and I shall be able to present it in person. However, if the our chances of a successful escape are as low as I fear then I am compelled to end the entry with a final [heart-felt] wish:

[Peace to the Homelands], may our bleak present precurse a brighter future.

 

[HMS Diplomacy] – Da’wel

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This document has been translated into English by Google Translate 9.0. Due to the detected extra-terrestrial origin of the document, some phrases could only be idiomatically estimated. Such phrases are enclosed within [square brackets].

Mexico

thethemeis: Curiosity Killed the Cat

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   'Here, that's great, lad,' mumbled Derek, barely audible over his grandson's babbling. His eyes remained inches away from the blue glow of his computer screen. He was Googling donkey shows.

   Derek's grandson Harry was reciting the fourth division table out loud, making sure his grandfather could hear every result. Although Derek's hearing was starting to buckle under the pressure of passing time, he never let on to the kids that it wasn't bad enough yet that he couldn't hear the television unassisted because then he couldn't pretend not to have heard them when they asked a question he didn't want to answer or brought up a subject he didn't care to discuss. He was happy for Harry to read the table out to him, as long as he didn't start reading what was on the computer screen.

   'Charlton nil, Crystal Palace three,' Harry practically shouted across the room. He accented certain syllables in a way that Derek had heard many teenagers do in recent years, putting on some accent he was never brought up with just to fit in with friends that Derek can never imagine himself choosing when he was Harry’s age. Harry was fifteen, an age at which boys are normally loth to spend time alone with their grandfathers; but since the death of Ethyl, Derek’s wife, Harry’s mum has never been the same. She spends one half of her time staring into space, and the other half crying and yelling incomprehensible curses at Harry without reason. Grief has turned her into a wreck, a shell of the mother she once was; and as such, Harry avoids her like the plague.

   ‘Chelsea two, Bromley three,’ he shouts, typing a text message into his phone.

   Ethyl’s death was three years ago now, and although Derek still grieved for her, he had dealt with it in a far different way than his daughter. At first, he had sunk so far back into his shell that he feared even leaving the house. He would lock himself in his bedroom and hardly explore the house at all. When the mail came, he would throw it straight in the bin, fearing that it might hold more bad news he wasn’t ready for. Danger lurked around every corner, in every cupboard, in the face of every stranger that wandered past in the street. He read books, he wrote short poems about the pain he was feeling, and he lost two stones in those months.

   Then he found a present that his daughter and her son had bought him the Christmas before Ethyl died. Still boxed, never even looked at for longer than a few minutes, it was a laptop computer that Derek had no idea how to use and no idea what to use for. He unwrapped it that day, and invited his grandson round to teach him what to do with it. He’d heard somewhere that you could send letters to people on the other side of the world for free, in seconds, using one of these; and he wanted to learn how to do that, and then more.

   Over the weeks that followed, Derek gradually discovered the Internet. Having become a terrified skeleton following the death of his wife, he fattened up again into a chubby explorer, emerging from his shell and surfing everywhere from the Amazon to Expedia, from Adult Friend Finder to Flickr. He found out about karate and yoga, LCD screens and time travel, cats and literature, religion and India and hacking and boilers and Canada and wars and pregnancy and everything else that exists in the bottomless pit of the blogosphere. Even stuck inside his house, he was freed by the world inside his computer screen.

   And after it dragged him out of his shell, the Internet dragged him out of his house. He arranged French lessons for himself, cookery classes, a writing club, a skydiving trip, and holidays to every European city you or I could name off the top of our heads. He learned to play guitar (although not that well), he bought a games console that he never even played, and he went to plays he never even knew had been written. He even fucked a prostitute, a lovely young lady who it turned out had been in the year above his own daughter at the very same school. And now, the same Internet that had brought him all those new experiences had Derek discovering his favourite new topics yet: donkey shows and Tijuana.

   Derek had always heard that curiosity killed the cat. But for him, curiosity killed the pussy. The terrified wretch he had become was slaughtered mercilessly by his newfound thirst for knowledge.

   ‘Grimsby four, Man United one,’ mumbled Harry.

   ‘YES!’ Ejaculated Derek, at the top of his rusted lungs. Harry jumped out of his skin, and Derek couldn’t stop coughing until his laughter broke through as the more powerful convulsion.

   ‘Is you alright, granddad?’

   Derek looked up from his laptop screen. Still chuckling and coughing and spluttering and guffawing, he met Harry’s eye across the room that hadn’t been tidied or vacuumed for the last three months, what with Derek spending so little time in it; and he said, ‘Yes, son. I just like Grimsby, that’s all.’

   But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t a love of Grimsby at all. It was the amazing price that Derek had just got for a return flight to Tijuana, Mexico.