Shooting stars bombard this planets upper atmosphere 24hours a day and in staggeringly vast numbers…scientists estimate that between 37,000 and 78,000 tons weight of space material falls, hitting the earth each year and this figure does not include the man-made objects that constantly rain back from space. Back in the days before cheap electricity, the days before street lighting, before neon, back when nights personified inky darkness, the kind of dark that wraps itself around buildings and people alike; a heavy palpable darkness. Those night skies of childhood memories brought a greater intensity to the myriad pin prick stars. Night skies, where the milky way was easily visible and no stranger to people; back then there was a greater general awareness of the firmament. Back then shooting stars could be seen easily, but on this night, Dave’s shooting star was no ordinary event.
The fact that Dave saw it at all was unusual, the sky was clear but the orange glow of street lighting that evening, as every evening, prevented any sight of happenings high up on the very edge of space. What Dave saw was much lower, well below the upper atmosphere where true pea-sized shooting stars would burn with friction, leaving the trailing flash of a tail, solid material rasping against the atmospheric drag generating immense heat and light. No, what Dave saw was no random piece of space dust slamming headlong into the earth’s upper atmosphere. What Dave saw was a carefully choreographed decent, a decent planned in minute detail, and executed with intelligence, a decent following a calculated trajectory that would end with a controlled landing.
Before the redundancy, the drink and general lethargy took command, back when life still held possibilities, back when Dave and Jean were a loving young couple, they enjoyed nothing more than a Sunday motor bike ride out into the countryside with lunch at country pub, nowadays they sometimes managed an afternoon walk in the local park- their park. Jean loved to feed the ducks whilst Dave invariably wittered on about his childhood fishing expeditions, motorbikes or football, or what the lads down the pub had been doing – ‘one day I’ll get that rod out and we’ll have a days fishing, what you say to that eh - Jean?’, but those walks gradually grew less frequent and the fishing days never materialised! The motorbike was in bits in the garage waiting for Dave’s promised rebuild. Back then before disappointment and drudgery, they walked, hand in hand, they talked, they laughed and they planned for the future, a better future, a future full of hope and joy – back then, the possibilities seemed endless, back then Jean would bring bread to feed the ducks – her little friends she called them, her friends who dabbled the chunks of mothers pride - back in those days this was their park – a park where one day their kids would play – a park full of happiness, happy days, happy memories, the same park where now something malignant and wholly different, lurked.
Later, whilst Dave snored the night away, Jean tried hard to sleep, but sleep never came easily, it hadn’t for many years. Things weren’t as they should have been; life had not turned out the way it was supposed to, and the throbbing pains in her legs was incessant. As usual Dave had tried a little cuddle, hoping for more but Jean wasn’t having any of it; turning away her body language, as usual rigid and cold, telling Dave, more than words ever could, to get away and stay away. Dave’s snores soon built to the rhythmic crescendo that would drone on all through the night whilst Jean’s thoughts quickly turned to Ginge, her darling Ginge, ‘I wonder what he’s up to? Hope he’s ok’ Such thoughts always brought pangs of anxiousness; she cared for Ginge more than anything – more than Dave that was clear - Ginge and her weekly Bingo nights, a night out with the girls, that’s all that could bring a smile back into her tired, dull world. ‘I do hope he’s ok’. Finally sleep came, allowing Jean freedom to escape reality into a world of lost dreams. For a brief while at least, her head was filled with a re-run of happier times where she was still young, still pretty and still desirable. A sleepy world safe in the knowledge that every morning there was at least, her darling Ginge meowing at the window, wanting to come in for a big kiss, a cuddle and breakfast.
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The Seeding
Science FictionThey came to do what was expected: To Seed and Colonise. Billions were scattered - only a tiny percentage would find a viable, fertile home. One such seed fell to earth.
