Tevun-Krus #100

17 - Moonshine Memoirs - @sleepingdraco - QuantumPunk

Moonshine Memoirs 

by Søvn Drake / sleepingdraco

Arthur Clarke was wrong. As I see it, there are three possibilities, not two: we are alone in the universe, we are not, or both truths exist. I mean, isn't that basic quantum physics? He was right, however, about any option being terrifying.

In my youth, I drowned my anxieties around such existential questions with the moonshine my cousins and I nicked from our uncle Henry. We would lie on our backs on the grassy hillside behind the house talking about the possibility of life in the starry sky above while the still down in the basement emitted soft burps and pops.

Back then I was hellbent on becoming an astrophysicist, blasting off into outer space, and finding the truth. I guess I should have been more careful about what I wished for because the loneliness at this remote satellite station was relentless.

And I f*cking ran out of whiskey.

I know what you are thinking. Poor soul, she still has another year to go on her godforsaken solo mission. But the daughter of a poor North Carolinian farmer is far more resourceful than that. I learned a thing or two from my uncle Henry and I may be the first person who ever made moonshine in the light of strange unearthly moons far beyond the reaches of our galaxy. And everything was fabulous until I got careless.

You see, even the lowliest of southern bootleggers can tell you to throw out the first bit of shine because the boiling point of methanol is 26 degrees Fahrenheit lower than ethanol. And even 10 milliliters of methanol will make you go blind.

I lost my sight before the alcohol withdrawal set in. I didn't dare drink any more as 30 milliliters of methanol will kill you. They were rough, the shakes and chills. On the third day the aliens boarded. I felt them before I could hear them. Their tentacles slid serpentine around my legs and up my back. They examined every inch of my body without any harm. Every so often they make a slight ping or a rumble, but nothing that I can discern as communication. But at least I'm not alone any more.

They stayed with me, crowding me, touching me, probably wishing I'd spread the word of their existence. If I could man the controls I would contact my project leader back on Earth. I would be famous, a hero, but I can't see the equipment anymore. And no one seems to have noticed I stopped sending reports. I suspect my boss gave up on me being another drunk space explorer months ago.

Well, thanks for listening to me ramble on today. I appreciate it. You probably have more important things you need to move onto. I just wish you could help me with a terrifying question I have. I wish I knew if I were alive or dead.

I guess there are three possibilities.