More Unedited Spec Fiction


I grew up in a place called the Nursery.   That wasn’t its actual name, I can’t remember it now, but Lars always called it that, and so eventually we all did too.  The Nursery is a compound in Finland, I think, on the border with Sweden, in Lapland.  I found it on a map in the library in Pawling.  That’s where I am now.  Pawling, New York.  We never knew where the nursery was, exactly, when we were there.  It was for our own protection, they told us.  But when I got out, I wanted to find it.  To locate myself on this planet.  You can’t know where you are going until you know where you’ve been.  I heard that in a song lyric somewhere. 

I had some clues as to where to look.  Lars was pretty smart, but not always discreet, and he let slip occasional clues, names of places and such, over the years.  Once I learned to listen, I saved them, stored them up.  Plus, I was able to calculate from the length of the plane trip, and the direction.  We  had traveled east on the plane.  And the only reason I know that is because I calculated the time when we left, how long we traveled, and the time we arrived.  It wasn’t hard to figure out once I searched based on climate.  Not many places are that dark and cold.  It’s damn near tropical here in Pawling.

The Nursery.  How to describe it?  Well, it was a little town, smallish, comparatively.  Tiny, I guess.  There were about three hundred people, all told, the Oman, and some of their mothers.  Unlike other places I’ve seen recently, we all looked different, brown, black, yellow, white, pink.  All the Oman.  The mothers were from everywhere, but mostly they were brown.  I guess because the brown skinned ones were the most marginalized.  The most, well, culturally homogenous.  That’s not right, exactly.  They were the ones that had the most authentic cultural practices, and had maintained their nativity, in blood and behavior, since before the mutations. 

I’m not really being making sense, am I?  To be clear, the people in the nursery had all been chosen by Gale, purchased by Gale, because of their status as genetic vessels of authenticity.  The ones he chose still lived in the manner in which people were supposed to live, had evolved to live, and they had done so consistently, since before the ‘I’ mutation.  He searched the databases, the genetic libraries, for the ones with the oldest, most pure origins.  But more than that.  Once found, they were tested for their microbiology, to make sure that their systems still worked in harmony.

Their hormones, their immune system, their vagal system, and their lymphatic functions, needed to still be symbiotic with their personal internal microbial communities.   I’m sure he was the only one who cared about that part, the microbiology.  I’ve learned in the last months that microbiology doesn’t really matter to anyone else.   They keep all the data, of course, from the fecal banks, and they are studying it, but they haven’t figured out how it works yet.  Only Gale saw that one. 

Gale saw a lot of things first.

News to me; he created these devices… wait, no.  He didn’t create them; he just runs them.  Or designed them to run?  The phones, those black boxes everyone has.  Another guy made them, but Gale was the one who figured out how to make them work without the wires.  No more wires.  On anything.  I guess it’s a big deal, because he’s the richest person in the world.   He calls it the Freedom device, which is pretty funny, considering he thinks they are all slaves.  He told me so.  He told me lots of things I didn’t understand at the time, but it’s all coming clearer now. 

And they are all slaves.  Criminally enslaved to their poor choices.  It’s no wonder they mutated.  Although, to be fair, the mutations happened, or at least started happening, a long time ago.  Probably 6000 BCE in some places.  Basically when people started fighting over food.  With weapons.  The phones aren’t the cause, they are the symptom.

But there are still some of us.  I actually came from where I grew up, a Finn.  Sami, they call them now.  A fen.  I was the first.  Not the first Finn, obviously.  The first Oman.  The first one that Gale found, when he started looking.  Or rather, paid people to look.  I traced my lineage in the library, from my facial structure.  I could have gotten it right quick with one of those phone things, but, ‘no way man’, as they say. 

So I grew up in the Nursery, in Lapland.  Not a bad place for a childhood, if you ask me.  From what I’ve seen.  We had everything we needed.  The Nursery was modern, clean, bright, and happy.  There were plenty of children, plenty of food, plenty of everything.  We lived really well.  Better than most, from what I can tell.  I was in ‘The City’, as they say, and let me tell you; I would not want to have grown up there.  Boy.  Words can’t express. 

When I was young, the staff was more present in the Nursery.  As I got older, and more Oman were born, and bought, we eventually took over everything, all the teaching and crafts and skills, all the cooking and the food, until there was no staff left.  Then it was just the Oman.  Doing what Oman do.  Yoga and reading, study and class work, indoor growing and animal husbandry, unions, and babies.  Living.  Most of the Oman have no memories of the staff.  Gale, and Uncle Lars, they were the only different ones. 

I think I probably always knew about Lars.  Something behind the eyes. 

Gale though, he was just Father.  And he was a good father.  He bought us gifts, loved us.  Treated each of us as his favorite.  Knew all our names.  He read to us at night, even when there were thirty, forty, sixty of us.  He taught us the Original Conception, and the Creed.  We believed him.  We believed it all.  Now, I don’t know.

The Nursery is gone now, I’m sure.  He probably burned it to the ground when we left.  That was part of the original plan, I bet, just not so soon.  We had to move when they closed the boarders.  We wouldn’t have been able to leave later, I guess, something about the missile defense system.  We would have been blown out of the sky.  All Gale’s work, gone.  But no, he had other Nurseries.  I found that out later.   I’ve never seen him so freaked as when they closed the borders.  He had a lot to lose.  But he had a back-up plan.  Of course he did.  We came to the States for the last few years, snuck out ‘under the radar’, as they say, to the new place, the Compound, until the Domes are ready.  

I’m here in Pawling because I’m stuck.  I can’t get back to where I should be, because it’s gone now, then gone again, along with my wives, my children, and I’m not even sure where.  So much has happened to me in the last month.  I learned some things, a lot of things, that were bad.  I made some bad choices.  Stupid choices.  I have to figure out what to do next, and soon.  I don’t have much time. 

Ok my dear readers. Let’s take a poll. Not sure it’s such a good idea to put out unedited writing , but I’m willing to share some of this story because I’m just having so much fun writing it. Anyone think it’s a good idea to post these ramblings until I can get back to real garden news? Do you care what happens to Adam?

4 thoughts on “More Unedited Spec Fiction

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