button and spoke into a special rigged-up chowder can. My voice projected for miles. The pickled scientists insisted that voices went unheard in outer space, but scientists were too sad to complete their experiments most of the time. Scientists knew nothing of outer space.
I held the empty can to my lips and said, "Bright lights, are you happiness?"
I was approaching the lights at an incredible speed. Eyes and mouths appeared on each of the bright lights, as if they were yawning back to life. They appeared lumpy and misshapen. They had arms and long tails. My rocket ship thrummed forth.
I tried again. "Bright lights, are you happiness?" I pressed another button to slow the ship. I wiped drool from my mouth.
"Bright lights, are you happiness?"
"We are not happiness," they said. "We are ghosts in a black field. We serve no special function. We cannot help you and we cannot let you pass."
A shiver ran through me. I sweated brine. "If you can’t let me pass, can you tell me where to find happiness?"
"Happiness isn't something a pickle has ever gone looking for," they said. "We cannot let you do that. You are a disease. You will destroy everything."
"I'm tired of Pickled Planet. I'm tired of sadness. I just want something else, anything.”
I hovered a short distance from the ghosts now.
"What makes you think something better exists? What makes you think happiness didn't go extinct?"
"It's a feeling I have," I said. "I feel something out here calling to me. I deserve to find out who or what is calling. I deserve happiness. I deserve to have it all."
"That is why you cannot have it. You cannot have it all. Now turn around and return to your planet. Quick, before you infect us. We are sad enough from observing your race at a distance."
I loosened my grip on the spider wheel. The lights dimmed, closing the mental window through which convulsions passed. Maybe most pickles gave up so easily, but these ghosts were silly to underestimate me. I had equipped my ship with garlic guns in case a situation like this arose.
My hands depressed the gun triggers, blasting two flurried streams of hungry garlic spiders at the giant ghosts.
"Out of my way, spirits!"
The spiders burrowed into their flesh. Part of me wanted to stick around to see their ghostly organs float away on the dark tracts of space, but I felt that my time was limited.
I sped past them as they clawed holes in themselves. They tore spiders from their wounds and howled at me to stop the feeding.
"Out of my way, spirits."
When I got back on my way, trails of white blood followed me for miles.
Beyond the ship, everything turned monotone. I wouldn't call it darkness. It was less than that. A blankness.
I turned on autopilot and closed my eyes.
*
Outer space was a downer. I feared that I would never cross another being, let alone a planet.
I had no way to chart the passing of time. Nothing around me felt real. Whenever my insides grumbled, I scarfed a can of cold brine chowder, but being all alone with nothing to do, I became aware of chowder's proclivity for stimulating my most depressing thoughts. I was eating the concentrated essence of my home planet straight from a can. When I framed it this way, I realized brine chowder could jeopardize my entire mission.
I went on a fast. I resolved to eat nothing until I found happiness. I felt less depressed after I stopped eating, but the boredom and solitude of outer space took their toll on me as well. Without food matter in my belly or any room to walk around in my tiny ship, I grew rotten. My skin dried up. A fever came on. My throat itched. Nausea. Aching spine. The ailments piled on until I forced myself to eat another can of chowder. Brine stimulated sadness and sadness was integral to my biology. Deprived of sadness, I was not even myself.
At some point in my fevered daze, I opened my eyes, expecting to look out at more blankness, but the blankness had faded. My rocket ship was nose-diving into a
I held the empty can to my lips and said, "Bright lights, are you happiness?"
I was approaching the lights at an incredible speed. Eyes and mouths appeared on each of the bright lights, as if they were yawning back to life. They appeared lumpy and misshapen. They had arms and long tails. My rocket ship thrummed forth.
I tried again. "Bright lights, are you happiness?" I pressed another button to slow the ship. I wiped drool from my mouth.
"Bright lights, are you happiness?"
"We are not happiness," they said. "We are ghosts in a black field. We serve no special function. We cannot help you and we cannot let you pass."
A shiver ran through me. I sweated brine. "If you can’t let me pass, can you tell me where to find happiness?"
"Happiness isn't something a pickle has ever gone looking for," they said. "We cannot let you do that. You are a disease. You will destroy everything."
"I'm tired of Pickled Planet. I'm tired of sadness. I just want something else, anything.”
I hovered a short distance from the ghosts now.
"What makes you think something better exists? What makes you think happiness didn't go extinct?"
"It's a feeling I have," I said. "I feel something out here calling to me. I deserve to find out who or what is calling. I deserve happiness. I deserve to have it all."
"That is why you cannot have it. You cannot have it all. Now turn around and return to your planet. Quick, before you infect us. We are sad enough from observing your race at a distance."
I loosened my grip on the spider wheel. The lights dimmed, closing the mental window through which convulsions passed. Maybe most pickles gave up so easily, but these ghosts were silly to underestimate me. I had equipped my ship with garlic guns in case a situation like this arose.
My hands depressed the gun triggers, blasting two flurried streams of hungry garlic spiders at the giant ghosts.
"Out of my way, spirits!"
The spiders burrowed into their flesh. Part of me wanted to stick around to see their ghostly organs float away on the dark tracts of space, but I felt that my time was limited.
I sped past them as they clawed holes in themselves. They tore spiders from their wounds and howled at me to stop the feeding.
"Out of my way, spirits."
When I got back on my way, trails of white blood followed me for miles.
Beyond the ship, everything turned monotone. I wouldn't call it darkness. It was less than that. A blankness.
I turned on autopilot and closed my eyes.
*
Outer space was a downer. I feared that I would never cross another being, let alone a planet.
I had no way to chart the passing of time. Nothing around me felt real. Whenever my insides grumbled, I scarfed a can of cold brine chowder, but being all alone with nothing to do, I became aware of chowder's proclivity for stimulating my most depressing thoughts. I was eating the concentrated essence of my home planet straight from a can. When I framed it this way, I realized brine chowder could jeopardize my entire mission.
I went on a fast. I resolved to eat nothing until I found happiness. I felt less depressed after I stopped eating, but the boredom and solitude of outer space took their toll on me as well. Without food matter in my belly or any room to walk around in my tiny ship, I grew rotten. My skin dried up. A fever came on. My throat itched. Nausea. Aching spine. The ailments piled on until I forced myself to eat another can of chowder. Brine stimulated sadness and sadness was integral to my biology. Deprived of sadness, I was not even myself.
At some point in my fevered daze, I opened my eyes, expecting to look out at more blankness, but the blankness had faded. My rocket ship was nose-diving into a
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