SPORES
A science-flash fiction story on irony
A circular craft sank from the tree line and hovered above a rosy pond. The secluded spot teemed with life. Various entomorphs flitted around the hull of the ship, some landing while others whorled away toward the bushels lining the perimeter. A bubble or two popped from underneath; something breathed, awaiting its prey. Further down stood a willow tree lazing along the shoreline. The craft inched forward, keeping level with the surface. It bucked slightly to avoid a hardwood log surrounded by mats of algae and white flowering plants jutting above a tangle of sargasso.
Coasting along the water, through the fleeting buzzes and distant gurgles, the craft gently came to rest by the willow tree. A dorsal hatch opened. Out leaped a scalar creature with a long thin proboscis lined with teeth that snaggled at the tip. He practically danced, pirouetting to a stop with his hands folded close to his chin and a smile as broad as his snout. He even flickered the end of his tail to consummate his delight. A panoptical interface shimmered around a pair of gumball eyes jutting from the top of his head. The slits of his pupils slowly widened. Various images portrayed a near barren landscape with practical seas flooding the cities. He gazed back at the tree, tensing with excitement as he ran a simulation of the willow’s role in absorbing excess water.
Wasting no time, he scampered up the bough and through the branches, collecting seeds then dumping them in the craft. Collection plates curated the bounty, disposing the seeds too dry to use. As he leaned over the highest limb ready to drop the last of the bundle, a shot rang out. The foliage exploded a hair breath away, showering him with debris. Another shot left him scrambling back down into the ship.
An intruder with two legs stormed from the other side of the pond, shouting while shaking its fist and wielding a stone-age pump-scatter weapon. Primitive or not, the creature knew full well that one false move and he was luggage. He wasted no time pondering his guilt or the reason the natives planted holes in anything that moved. All he cared about was the hatch shutting over him and the blast of tiny pellets caroming off the fuselage. He breathed a sigh of relief. Having what he needed, he grabbed the controls. In seconds, the ship reeled back and zoomed off into the wild blue yonder.
The native froze in his tracks and dropped his gun. Scratching his head, he pulled out a flask of rye and swilled his share before retreating back into his barn. Inside, he grabbed an awl and scraped a notch into the wooden post of the stable, crossing out four additional lines etched over the course of the year. One of the horses snorted. He ignored the animal, slackening his arms and shaking his head at the number of times something like this had happened.
Taking another swill, he wiped his sleeve, grabbed an ax, and headed back to the willow tree.
Special thanks to Wraith for the feedback.
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Stone Age scatter gun makes me think of a Mossberg loaded with rock salt.
A shame he's going to chop down the tree without his alien trophy.