bubbling golden sphere.
Autopilot had failed. I was dead.
HOW THE SUN DIED AT THE DECEITFUL HANDS OF ONE PICKLE
My rocket ship bobbed on the waves of a golden sea. I was lucky my rocket ship remained afloat. Who knew what sea beasts lurked in these waters?
The air smelled sweet.
A big, flat, round, doughy thing in the sky whistled a cheerful melody.
"I am the sun," it said.
This whistling sun worried me. The sun of Pickled Planet never whistled. She shouted curses and death threats. She whispered notes of discouragement. Even stranger than this sun’s whistling: its mustache. The sun's bushy brown mustache curled upward at the corners. I wondered why the sun didn’t shave the silly thing off. Nobody could take a mustached sun seriously.
Oh drat, I was being a cynic again. I had to stop. I would never unchain myself from the Eternal Plight if I held fast to my prejudices and bad habits. I stuck a hand in the ocean and raised a liquid glob. I brought it to my lips, stuck out my pickled tongue, and took a lick. Sweetness!
I slurped down three handfuls of the ocean and rubbed my hands all over myself. The golden liquid's sweet odor masked my stench of brine. Warm fuzzies tingled in my belly.
“Excuse me,” I said. “What is this ocean made of? What is this place and will I find happiness here? Are there beasts in these waters or am I safe to swim ashore?"
The sun's black pupils swung downward in the huge white sockets that housed them. The dark pupils fixed on me. "Pleasant to have a strange traveler today," said the sun, speaking in a baritone voice that rippled the surface of the sea. "Welcome to Pancake Island, the happiest place in the whole wide universe, the final refuge of pancakes against the sadness that has swallowed everything. Nothing in the syrup sea will harm you, but no reason to go ashore either. The bacon vultures will fix your vessel. You will go off soon."
"If this is the happiest place in the universe, can't I stay and be happy?"
"You cannot stay. You are not a pancake."
"That's unfair. Who are these pancakes to horde their privileges? Why can't I have some of their happiness?"
"Pancakes are happy creatures. There is not enough happiness remaining. There is not enough to squander it on those who are not pancakes. As sun and guardian of Pancake Island, it is my duty to fetch help for stranded travelers and send them on their way. We must preserve our way of life. We must preserve happiness. Without us, the universe would be a sad place for everyone."
"The universe is a sad place for everyone," I said. "Everyone but you, and you're just a mean old silly sun."
"I am not old or mean. I'm as happy as can be. Everything makes me happy, for I am a pancake.”
“Okay,” I said, as if in agreement. I was a born deceiver. I would wait for a chance to strike. “Okay, send in your bacon vultures and I’ll fly back to my sad planet. I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused.”
"That's more like it. Keep up the polite attitude and maybe someday you'll experience a greater glimpse of happiness than you received on this temporary landing. Happiness and sadness are not eternal, you know."
"I am from Pickled Planet. My race suffers from the Eternal Plight of the Pickle. Happiness might be ephemeral, but sadness is eternal. I am certain of the latter. Even when sad things die, they keep on being sad. We have no reason for being or not being. We just go on getting worse."
"I am the sun and the gatekeeper, the only pancake aware that poor creatures like you . . .” the sun paused, looked around, sank toward the sea, and whispered in a low voice, his mustache tickling my ear, “. . . commit suicide .”
An awkward tension settled between us. I knew the sun was just finishing his statement and wanted no one else to overhear him, but his cold, commanding tone gave the impression that he was also suggesting that I commit suicide. I wondered why the sun would have it in for me. Was
Autopilot had failed. I was dead.
HOW THE SUN DIED AT THE DECEITFUL HANDS OF ONE PICKLE
My rocket ship bobbed on the waves of a golden sea. I was lucky my rocket ship remained afloat. Who knew what sea beasts lurked in these waters?
The air smelled sweet.
A big, flat, round, doughy thing in the sky whistled a cheerful melody.
"I am the sun," it said.
This whistling sun worried me. The sun of Pickled Planet never whistled. She shouted curses and death threats. She whispered notes of discouragement. Even stranger than this sun’s whistling: its mustache. The sun's bushy brown mustache curled upward at the corners. I wondered why the sun didn’t shave the silly thing off. Nobody could take a mustached sun seriously.
Oh drat, I was being a cynic again. I had to stop. I would never unchain myself from the Eternal Plight if I held fast to my prejudices and bad habits. I stuck a hand in the ocean and raised a liquid glob. I brought it to my lips, stuck out my pickled tongue, and took a lick. Sweetness!
I slurped down three handfuls of the ocean and rubbed my hands all over myself. The golden liquid's sweet odor masked my stench of brine. Warm fuzzies tingled in my belly.
“Excuse me,” I said. “What is this ocean made of? What is this place and will I find happiness here? Are there beasts in these waters or am I safe to swim ashore?"
The sun's black pupils swung downward in the huge white sockets that housed them. The dark pupils fixed on me. "Pleasant to have a strange traveler today," said the sun, speaking in a baritone voice that rippled the surface of the sea. "Welcome to Pancake Island, the happiest place in the whole wide universe, the final refuge of pancakes against the sadness that has swallowed everything. Nothing in the syrup sea will harm you, but no reason to go ashore either. The bacon vultures will fix your vessel. You will go off soon."
"If this is the happiest place in the universe, can't I stay and be happy?"
"You cannot stay. You are not a pancake."
"That's unfair. Who are these pancakes to horde their privileges? Why can't I have some of their happiness?"
"Pancakes are happy creatures. There is not enough happiness remaining. There is not enough to squander it on those who are not pancakes. As sun and guardian of Pancake Island, it is my duty to fetch help for stranded travelers and send them on their way. We must preserve our way of life. We must preserve happiness. Without us, the universe would be a sad place for everyone."
"The universe is a sad place for everyone," I said. "Everyone but you, and you're just a mean old silly sun."
"I am not old or mean. I'm as happy as can be. Everything makes me happy, for I am a pancake.”
“Okay,” I said, as if in agreement. I was a born deceiver. I would wait for a chance to strike. “Okay, send in your bacon vultures and I’ll fly back to my sad planet. I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused.”
"That's more like it. Keep up the polite attitude and maybe someday you'll experience a greater glimpse of happiness than you received on this temporary landing. Happiness and sadness are not eternal, you know."
"I am from Pickled Planet. My race suffers from the Eternal Plight of the Pickle. Happiness might be ephemeral, but sadness is eternal. I am certain of the latter. Even when sad things die, they keep on being sad. We have no reason for being or not being. We just go on getting worse."
"I am the sun and the gatekeeper, the only pancake aware that poor creatures like you . . .” the sun paused, looked around, sank toward the sea, and whispered in a low voice, his mustache tickling my ear, “. . . commit suicide .”
An awkward tension settled between us. I knew the sun was just finishing his statement and wanted no one else to overhear him, but his cold, commanding tone gave the impression that he was also suggesting that I commit suicide. I wondered why the sun would have it in for me. Was
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