So I'm back to my old tricks, waiting until the last minute. I've just written the last sentence of this weeks entry. The prompt for this week is "Thousand Island" and (maybe because of the video) I've been fixated on the thought that "No man is an island." Here you are...


"I think the biggest thing I miss about Earth is the seasons," said Wilbur Writer. "Mars is nice, but it's always dry and windy. There's no greenery except in our hydroponic garden. Nothing ever changes and there's nothing to tell you what time of year it is."

When his wife didn't answer, he glanced up to see what was wrong. She was sitting in the rocking chair, the one piece of furniture they had brought with them from Earth, staring off across the algae fields outside the dome. Meryl was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen. The fact that she was his, that she had agreed to move all the millions of miles to start a new life on the red planet never ceased to amaze and thrill him.

Living on Mars was like living on a deserted island somewhere in the middle of a huge ocean. The nearest neighbors were nearly a hundred kilometers away, far across the red sands, at the very end of the range of the small rover vehicle. Contact with the other plantation owners was not easy. Even so, when he had told Meryl about the opportunity, she had been as eager as he was to make a go of this new frontier. "We'll be just like the pioneers during the land rush in the 1800s," she had told him.

He shook his head and turned his attention back to the circuit board he was examining. Being a home owner on Mars was not significantly different from living in the 1800s, despite all the technological advances that had come along I the three hundred years since. A plantation owner on Mars had to be just as much of a jack-of-all-trades as any homesteader on the American prairie. He became involved in his job and never noticed when she left the room.

"I think we have a problem," said Meryl. She was standing close beside him, leaning slightly on his shoulder.

"Hmm..."

"Pay attention, Wilbur."

"Sorry dear." He put down the circuit board and turned towards her gently laying his hand on her swollen belly; caressing her and the baby that swam so energetically within. "What's the problem?"

"It's the baby, dear."

"Yes, of course," said Wilbur. He bent down to talk to his wife's stomach. In the same singsong tone of voice that adults so often use to talk to children he said, "And we can't wait until he gets here."

Meryl shook her head. "No dear, you don't understand, we need to get to the space port. I think the baby is coming now."

"That's silly. He's not going to arrive until Christmas; it's only October--early October. We've got plenty of time."

"I'm afraid he has other plans," she said. "I know you don't like to talk about 'medical stuff,' but the mucus plug just came out."

"The what did what?"

"It's a big blob of mucus that protects the baby by keeping bad bacteria from getting into the uterus."

"And it--?"

"It came out. That's not supposed to happen until I'm ready to go into labor."

"What do we do now?"

"Ask the computer. Maybe there's something we can do that will give us some extra time."

Wilbur picked up the stylus and wrote the words "stop premature labor" on the pressure-sensitive screen. After a series of questions and answers, he turned to face Meryl and said, "Drink a glass of water and go lie down." At the look on Meryl's face, he said, "No, really. The computer says that dehydration can cause premature labor. While you are lying down, I'll contact the space station and see if they can send someone to help us."

"That's going to take hours," said Meryl. Then her eyes widened and she grasped her belly with both hands as fluid mixed with blood cascaded down her legs. She moaned, whether from pain or fear, Wilbur couldn't tell, and sank to her knees on the floor.

Wilbur was afraid to move her. He ran into their bedroom, grabbed the pillows and blankets off the sleeping platform, moved her away from the puddle she had made, and tried to make her as comfortable as possible.

"I don't know a lot about medicine, but I'm pretty sure we're going to have to let the baby come now," he said gently. She closed her eyes and lay back against the pile of pillows. A single tear escaped her closed eyelids and rolled silently down her cheek.

"This is Wilbur Wright as Station 13. We need medical aid as soon as possible." Wilbur listened for the acknowledgement from Space Port Bova but all he heard was static. He tried again but with no better results. Then he looked out through the clear polymer of their habitation dome and saw the reason. A rising wall of dust told him that communication would not be possible for anywhere from a few hours to a few days until the dust storm blew itself out. The chances of getting help in time were slim.

He checked on Meryl. He didn't have the heart to tell her that help wasn't coming. He needed to keep her calm. She stared deeply into his eyes and he had to fight the urge to look away. Looking away would tell her just what he didn't want her to know. "How are you feeling?" he asked her.

"I haven't had any pains yet," she replied. "But I think I'm still leaking. I can feel the moisture under me.

He lifted the blanket, thinking that he would turn it so that the wetness was away from her. He nearly yelled out when he saw the huge red stain that had spread across the blanket. "I'll get some more blankets," he said and moved away into the next room as quickly as he could so she wouldn't see the tears streaming down his face. The only thing left now was to wait until the baby came and just hope that Meryl didn't suffer too much.

He pulled the extra set of blankets out of the storage unit along with nightclothes and some towels. Working as swiftly as possible, he cleaned her up. Then he fashioned a clumsy pad from a towel and placed it under her before putting on her nightgown. "Can I get you anything?"

"Did you reach the spaceport?" She leaned against the pillows again.

"Don't worry. Have you had any pains?"

Her eyes flutter open and she grasped his hand tightly. "I'm not sure." She patted his cheek. "So far there hasn't been anything worse than what I get with my period."

Did he dare hope? Maybe the pains wouldn't start until after the storm was over. Maybe he would be able to contact someone and get help here in time. Maybe--

"Oh no," moaned Meryl. "I think this is it; I think this is the first one."

Hour by hour, Wilbur divided his attention between Meryl and the weather outside the dome. The storm reached them at about the same time as Meryl's labor. The red dust carried by the dome blocked out their view yet Wilbur compulsively stared out into the gloom, trying to make himself believe that it was nearly over. Then Meryl would cry out with another pain and he would run to hold her hand and try to keep her calm while the contraction gripped her. Once the pain eased, he would try again to reach the spaceport and get help.

Finally, he realized that it was going to be too late. Even if the storm stopped immediately, there was no way anybody could arrive at the dome in time to save the baby. He concentrated on Meryl, trying to minimize the discomfort. "I can give you a shot that will take away most of your discomfort," he said.

"No. I'm not going to put the baby at any more risk than he already is," replied Meryl.

He couldn't bring himself to tell her that it didn't matter; that the baby wasn't going to survive anyway so it didn't matter if he gave her drugs to ease the pain. She adamantly refused.

As time passed, she started to cry; started to berate herself for not leaving as soon as she knew she was pregnant. "You told me to go back to the spaceport," she kept repeating. "Why didn't I listen to you?"

"You wanted to be with me and I wanted you here," said Wilbur each time.

He carefully uncovered her and checked again to see what progress she was making. "My god!" He gasped. "The baby's head is right here."

"What?" He saw her stomach ripple, almost as though a shockwave was propagating across the taut surface. He knew that she was going to push again.

"Wait," he cried. Without stopping to think about what he was doing, he placed his hand on the baby's head and tried to hold it in place so he could try to get the blankets beneath her. With great difficulty, Meryl lifted her backside and he inched the blanket underneath so that the baby wouldn't be delivered onto the cold floor.

"Ready?"

When she nodded, he removed his hand and the baby followed. The only comparison he could make afterward when he tried to describe it to her was that the baby popped out of her womb with the same speed and force that bits of lettuce flew out of a salad shooter. He had the feeling that if the baby had not fallen onto a blanket, it would have slid across the floor faster than he would have been able to catch it.

The tiny infant stirred and opened its eyes.

"Boy or girl?" Meryl tried to lift herself onto her elbows so she could see.

"It's a boy," he replied.

"But he isn't crying," she fretted. "Why isn't he crying?"

The baby was lying on its back, eyes wide open, looking around itself with actually seemed to be curiosity. It seemed to be breathing without distress. "He seems to be all right," he said and turned his attention back to Meryl as she delivered the placenta.

As gently as possible, he lifted the baby and placed him in his mother's arm. Reflexively he looked out through the dome and saw that, while he was otherwise occupied, the storm had ended. He leaned over and kissed Meryl before he stood up and returned to the radio. "This is Wilbur Wright at Station 13. We need some help here."

"What is it 13?"

Wilbur felt weak with relief, almost as though all of the blood in his body had rushed away from his head. "My wife has just given premature birth. The baby and his mother both seem fine but we need to get her to--"

"Did you say baby?"

"Yes, and she isn't due for nearly twelve weeks so we need some help."

"On our way 13. I'll get back to you with an ETA--" Wilbur heard voice in the background and then the woman continued, "We'll be there within six hours."

Meryl was nursing the baby when he returned to her side. As he watched, eyes misted over with grateful tears, she lifted the baby from her breast and placed him over her shoulder to burp him. Whether it was the rush of cooler air against his skin when he was lifted away from the warmth of his mother's body or just that he was still hungry, he began to cry. Wilbur thought it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

This week, the prompt was Caesar. Not sure this applies quite as well as it should, but here goes...


The party wasn't going well. Ken had been drinking too much, too fast. Only luck prevented him throwing up all over the host's brand new rug. "Fresh air," he mumbled as he went out the door. "B'right back."

Ken tried to clear his head on the way down in the elevator. More was wrong lately than just a party going badly. Life in general wasn't so great. The world was going to hell faster than he could understand it. On a smaller scale, his life wasn't going any better. Everything he tried to do went wrong. "Honestly," he said to his reflection in the mirror on the back wall of the elevator, "I'm just a screw up. Brenda left me, Charlie is this close to firing me, and my dog even bit me," he continued. "Can it get any worse than that?"

The alley, littered with cigarette butts and garbage, was only better than the sidewalk because it was out of the wind. He pulled over a crate from against the wall of the building next door, and almost fell on his butt in the process. A bottle rolled away from the box into the center of the alley. About the size of a liter of wine, the bottle looked like molten gold. He picked it up but couldn't see through the glass. He shook it gently. It made no sound. "Brandy? Wine? There must be something good to drink in there," he said. "Bottle's too fancy for cheap stuff." He pulled the cork.

Smoke poured out, filling the alleyway. Startled, he dropped the bottle. It rolled away, still pouring out smoke which coalesced into the shape of a man; a huge man.

"You must be my new master." The man looked around and sighed. "What year is it?"

"Two thousand and nine," Ken replied. He tried to get up but he couldn't move.

"Only eight years this time," said the man shaking his head. Then he bowed low. "I am a jinni and you are my master. What is thy first wish?"

Now Ken was glad he hadn't run away. "How many do I get?"

"Three wishes are standard. Everybody knows that. "

"Finally something is going my way," said Ken.

He considered. He could wish the world back to the way it was supposed to be. He could wish in a new world order and make everything work right again. Then he considered that he knew nothing about Economics or Politics. Anything he wished could just as easily screw things up as fix them. On the other hand, if he couldn't help everybody, he could help himself.

"Let's see… I want lots of money, enough money so I can live comfortably for the rest of my life."

"As you wish," said the jinni. He bowed low and clapped his hands together.

A large suitcase flew into the alley and landed on the ground at Ken's feet. The lock burst open to reveal stacks of bills.

"How stupid do you think I am?" Ken shook his head. "If I tried to spend that I'd end up in jail for robbing a bank."

"It's up to you," said the jinni. "You wished for money, I gave you money. It's no skin off my nose if you don't want it. That's one wish gone. You've got two left." He clapped his hands again and the suitcase disappeared.

"What do you mean? I don't have the money. That shouldn't count. I want a do-over."

"No such thing."

"Aw, man, you cheat."

"What do you want for wish number two?"

"Let me think," said Ken.

"Like that's going to happen."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying, is all," said the jinni.

"Well, I just wish you'd shut up and give me a chance to think."

"As you wish."

"That wasn't a wish!"

"You said, 'I wish,'" said the jinni. He laughed heartily and shook his head. "You humans are no end of fun. Let's go, genius, you have one wish left."

"Come on, that's not fair," Ken could feel his face flushing with anger. "I still think you're cheating."

The jinni didn't reply. He shrugged his shoulders and then stood with hands clasped behind his back.

Ken tried to think of a wish so straightforward, so simple, and so clear that the jinn could not possibly misunderstand accidentally or otherwise. He couldn't think of anything. Money would come from inappropriate sources, women would be married or have some horrible disease, and things would probably turn out to be stolen or broken. Maybe he should just let it go. Nah, he had to take advantage of the one good thing that had ever happened to him; but how?

"Do you mind?" The jinni interrupted his thoughts. "Neither of us is getting any younger, you know."

"Tough. I want to make this last wish a good one."

"Why don't you just give it up? You aren't coming up with anything new or interesting. You might as well wish for a bottle and crawl in."

"I told you to shut up," said Ken. "I just wish we could trade places. Then you would—"

"As you wish..."