Bitesize fiction. With a pinch of salt. Part 3

First Officer's log, stardate 20150706

The Salinians have given us a warm reception and we were given the chance to admire the salt caves. The caves ran deep throughout the planet's crust and held inside them houses, commercial and educational centers and even underground lakes. The Salinians have built themselves a home in these tunnels, leaving room enough for the indigenous plant and animal life, as little as it was, to continue living undisturbed. There was room enough for everyone.

We admired the view of one of their leisure centers from the promenade.

Particularly impressive were their decorative structures and the abundant use of lights. Some were arranged in clusters, others hanging from the ceiling like stalactites. There were very few dark corners in the populated caverns and the atmosphere was almost warm, despite the lower temperature that the Salinians prefer.

There were small row boats on one of the smaller lakes.

After the tour was over, the Captain, myself and the ambassador were invited to participate in the first negotiation meeting. We do not foresee any impediments. Although the Salinians are not technologically advanced and not members of the Federation yet, their behavior so far has been open and the communications smooth.

End log.

Life under the rock

Sometimes the world comes to slap you around with a large trout. It leaves you feeling cold and stingy and wondering if you really deserved it.

I find it quite annoying to talk about my life, wondering what people will say/think/gossip about it. It's a bit frustrating and makes me feel that the trout is completely undeserved. Still, one does enjoy rambling about oneself from time to time. And guess what I'm here for, eh?

It is however my understanding that, in order to actually feel good about yourself talking (about yourself, but not necessarily), you first need someone to hear you out. And technically, people randomly stumbling upon your rants are extremely rare. "Oh, this person has interesting views and lots of things in common with me. But I just live under a rock and can't let myself maybe embarrass myself by leaving a nice comment here." And they just skip on to the other interesting site they wanted to visit. I know it happens. I did that today.

So, technically, who could come and read all the string of words you've written? Well, your friends, if you actually had any. Great job at living under that rock! In this case, you can try to urge your workmates/classmates to come read the new amazing thing you just spewed on your blog. Or, then again, you could just develop multiple personalities, some of them your undying fans, others your severe critics, others simple passers-by, wondering who the hell is that nut case.

It's never easy and not really effective to chat with your dog, although she might enjoy it. Or is that just for the treats?

Anyway, I have been greening my thumbs lately, pruning the hibiscus, making plans of stealing a little stem off a rose in the garden... I like plants and I enjoy growing them, but where I live now there is very little sunlight during the day (and even less during the night), so I need something that doesn't really depend on photosynthesis... Wish me luck finding such a house plant, heh!

Well, I would say enough chitter-chatter. Salutations from under the rock!

The light

The church bells tolled solemnly, filling the air with a metallic sound. No matter the event, this sound has always been ominous to my ears and I usually hurried along, head low.

This time, I wasn't in a hurry to go anywhere. I was standing among the mass of people, huddled around the church in the street, in the parking lot. We were all listening to the bell, waiting.

A little after midnight, the little flickers of light started moving out of the church and spread among the crowd, passed on from person to person. Soon, everyone had a lit candle in their hands.

The wind was blowing in gusts, making the tiny flames dance and shiver. We tried to cover them with plastic cups, with our hands, not letting the light go out. Some succeeded, others had theirs blown out and had to ask their neighbour to help them light theirs again.

Slowly, the masses started dissipating, each on their way home, carrying their prized candles in their hands. Walking home, with one hand over the plastic cup we had improvised as shelter for the lights, I could feel the heat on my palm. That heat was very familiar.

Every year, on Easter, I would go with my family to a nearby church at midnight, to get some light. Every year, the same nervousness, joy, worry about the little candle in my hand. We would sometimes stay for the mass too, singing Easter songs and saying to one another the traditional words "Christ has resurrected" and "Truly he has."

This year, I looked at my little candle with new eyes. Harder eyes, thinking that all of this was a cute charade, but nothing more. The only thing I had left was walking home, taking care of the candle. The little symbolic light of hope that I somehow needed to keep alive.

Happy Easter everyone!