The Cowboy

The Cowboy had heard rumors about snow. Folks said that up north, come winter, small soft crystals of ice fell from the heavens, blanketing the earth with the cold stuff. Never having seen snow himself, the Cowboy imagined that the fine white sand around him might have been something like the snow. The white sand stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see, and much further than that. Unlike the cold snow, however, this sand was baked hot by a scorching yellow sun. The white sand reflected the light from the sun, rendered the cowboy's wide brimmed hat uselss. The reflected sunlight on the groud was almost as strong as the sunlight in the sky, and there was no keeping the intense light out of his eyes.
It was equally impossible to avoid the heat. The Cowboy was traveling through a desert, but it also may have been an oven. The Cowboy's plaid shirt wasn't the best garb for the heat, the absorbant material soaked up his sweat, making it impossible for the Cowboy to cool off. However, it was either that or be burnt black by the sun.
Perhaps the Cowboy should have taken his cues from the animals, or rather, the lack thereoff. What few sand snakes or desert rodents that were able to survive in the harsh desert stayed underground during the day, prefering to go about their business in the relative cool of the night. Did the Cowboy know of the foolishness of his endless traveling? He travelled by both day and night, only stopping for rest for the hour before sunrise.
The Cowboy had lost his horse sometime before in this mad quest. He had dutifully, though not unemotionally, neatly stripped the hide, and cut sections of toughened meat off of the horse. He had roasted it over a camp fire, burning away the last of the cow chips we had brought with him from whatever had come before this. He had trusted his sure-footed stud horse, but when the time came, his empty stomach dictated his need to survive.
Now, he barely noticed his constant hunger. Food was hard to come by in the desert. Meat was scarce and edible plants were nonexistant. We drank what water he could drain out of the sparse cacti. As a result, he had lost a lot of weight and had become pockmarked with what any mariner would have recognized as scurvy marks. In fact, he had become so emaciated that his own mother would not have been able to pick him out of a line up, if the rouge Cowboy had ever even had a mother.
If the Cowboy even noticed his wasted condition, it is hard to say. He was so determined to follow through with his nameless quest that all other matters were put to the back of his mind. He took care of himself enough to survive, at least on a short term basis, and constantly pressed on.
However, at this stage in the journey, the Cowboy had lost almost all sense of direction and purpose. The Cowboy must have surely known what his quest was about when he had first taken it up, but now he only had some vague notion of what it had been. Surely it had been some noble quest, perhaps it even was a quest that would decide the fate of the world. In his own mind, the Cowboy was sure his mission was part of a battle to keep evil forces at bay, a knight of the legends of old. Whatever his true mission had been, it must have been important enough to keep the Cowboy going ever onward towards this quest. Even after the heat and hunger drove it from his mind.
Up ahead, far in the distance the Cowboy saw an oasis, in truth it was only a mirage of an oasis, but its all the same to our Cowboy. In delerium, truth and illusion are one in the same, and to one as thristy as the Cowboy, it is preferable to experiance the hope that illusion brings. He stumbles along the the harded sand, towards hope. He sees it clearly: the palm trees swaying gently in the wind, the cool, crystal clear waters protected by an underlayer of growth and playful animals enjoying the cool respite. He sees this all, not knowing that he is not seeing further than his own mind.
The Cowboy reaches the water. He kneels on the ground before it, praising the Gods, in all their glory for such a wonderful gift of nature. Slowly, he extends his arms out, steady as a rock, and cups a handful of the water. He feels a sliver of pain run down his arms as the wet infiltrates his cracked, dry hands. But he does not flinch in pain, nor does he move at all. He allows the first handful to fall from his fingers as a sacrifice to the desert sands that had brought him to this place. He reaches foward, mind and body, for the next cup and notices with some amusement at the fish playing beneath the surface. The water bends the light, causing the fish to look misshapen. He dips into the water and brings his head down towards his hands. Like a thristy dog, he laps up the water. He lets it run through past his lips and over his tounge, noting that he had never in all his years tasted something so angelic.
When the cowboy had drunk his fill, he curled up underneath the shade of a great palm tree. As he drifted off to his final sleep, he though passionately and thankfully for all the grace and good that had been provided for him. The cowboy's eyes closed and his breathe stilled and he lay, with the hot sun blazing at the sky's zenith. He appeared, in the golden sand, as a majestic, flayed king and the carrion eaters as his court.

Firefly, part 2

Agent Dossier stood at attention. His handler had just approached him with a new assignment, and the experienced field agent could tell it was going to be an important one.

"Here's you briefing document, Agent." said his handler. Dossier did not know the handlers name and the handler didn't know the agent's. "You know the drill... read it, memorize and destroy it."

Agent Dossier nodded ascension and took the paper, stamped on the top with two logos. One was the Blue Sun Corporation, the source of funding for pretty much every Alliance agency in the 'Verse, but they also had their hand in many other operations as well, both official and petty.

The other logo was the brand of his intelligence agency. It was one of the most top secret agencies in the Alliance network, and it was definitely the most de-centralized. He had no idea where his orders came from, but he carried them out knowing that he was helping his cause.

Agent Dossier had a photographic memory to he took a look at the paper and his lighter, reading the paper twice before setting it ablaze.

His handler went on, "Our informant ring tell us that the target just made an emergency landing on Victoria, and that they'll be stuck there for some time. Take this requisition order to the Tech Department and whatever you think you'll need. Then, leave at once to Victoria. Your goal is to destroy the target. Any questions?"

Dossier had none.

to be continued

Firefly

Yes, I know... fan fiction. So shoot me.
* * *

Captain Malcom Reynolds wasn't a stupid man. He knew his crew wasn't stupid either, and he knew he couldn't hide the truth much longer. He thought about what would happen if he did tell them about his past mistakes, though, such a secret could tear his crew apart.

"Hey Cap," said Kaylee, waking Mal out of his reveree. He looked around fondly at his crew of eight, sitting contently around the dinner table and knew he couldn't burden them with his secret, at least not now.

"What will the situation be on Gaurdian?" continued Kaylee, "You 'specting trouble or will it all be shiny. "

"Well Kaylee," answered Mal, "I've only worked with Pal O'Mer once before. He's a hard-hitting fellow, but he's fair."

Jayne snorted, "Fair? The bloke didn't give us full price when we deliver."

"True," answered Zoey, "But we did bring some of the goods back damaged... And why were some of the goods damaged, dear??"

Wash looked sheepishly down at his plate. "It was through no fault of my own that the Mule had a leaky combustion shell, it was dragging on the port side all by itself, which caused the goods to fall out. It's not my fault that Bester was too imcompetent to notice a simple thing like that.

Noting Simon's curious look, "He was our mechanic before Kaylee." explained Mal, "A right dunce too. Before we found Kaylee, he had us stranded for neigh on one month, had no idea what he was doing. Lucky we found ourselves a gifted mechanic."

Mal smiled and gace Kaylee a hug. Mal loved his crew, things were good, Jayne wasn't even fighting with River and Simon anymore, despite his usual roughness. Everyone else was also bonding just as tightly, although he had yet to figure our his relationship with Inara, the ship's 'Ambassador', yet.

As always seems to happen with Mal and his stalwart crew, just as things seem to look up, they usually come crashing down. In this case the crashing down was literal.

Mal was about to take a big bite into his protein ball, when the dreaded warning lights started to flash, an obnoxious siren went off and the ship shook violently.

The crew held onto the table to stabilze themselves, and Book fell off his chair letting off an "Oof"

Ah crap, Mal thought to himself, What the hell is it this time? "Kaylee!" He said outloud.

"On it Cap" Kayle shouted, while running to the engine room.

The engine room was a not a large, but it was packed to the bursting point with equipment and electronics and of course, the large engine smack in the middle. Also, pushed off to the side was a small cot that Kaylee used for quick naps.

Kaylee pushed back the engine cover and immediately saw that the engine wasn't spinning properly. It would move up halfway, then slow down, and fall.

"Cap, we got a serious problem!" Kaylee shouted.

Mal ran into the room, "What's up"

"The right Cuplink is out, and it's causing the motor drivers to move out of sync. "

"Ok, can you fix it?"

"Negative, Cap'n. The Cuplink is too specialized, I wouldn't know how to fix it even if I wanted to."

"Any spares?" asked Mal, though already knowing the answers. His ship ran on a tight budget.

Kaylee shook her head sadly, and Mal asked, "What are our options?

"Without the motor running," Kaylee explained, "We're drifting. At least it's not like last time we were 'out of gas'. We'll have oxygen and heat and we aint in the middle of the black. There's a good chance we'll get picked up, or hell, if we float close enough past a planet..."

Immediately, the ship started shaking violently, even more than before.

"Speak of the devil, Kaylee" said Mal, "That feels like..."

Wash's voice cut in over the PA system.

"Hey Cap... guess were we're headed."

to be continued...

Jeeves

Bueford stepped off the covered exit ramp of his L-class Spaceplane and was smacked in the face by the pungent air of Riceworld.

"Jeeves," said Bueford, turning to his companion and servant, whose name, of course, was not Jeeves.

"What is that terrible smell?"

"You said that you wanted to visit the planet where Uncle Ben's Instant Rice, your sixth favorite food, was made... here we are." answered the servant.

"Well, it stinks here," answered the insufferably rich Bueford, "let's leave."

"Are you sure? You've already made an appointment with Abraham Forrester, the manager of the plant. Do you want me to cancel on him?"

"Yes, of course. I can't be bothered with this stench for another minute!" answered Bueford.

Together, they went back up the ramp into the Spaceplace, and got ready for takeoff. Bueford lounged in his giant, vibrating lazy boy, sipping on a coconut margarita. The servant went to up to the kitchen area, waiting for Bueford to make a demand.

A voice buzzed over the intercom. "This is your pilot speaking. We are unable to takeoff just yet, as we need to refuel the plane."
Bueford groaned. He was rich; he didn't have to put up with this nonsense. His family had made quintillions in their business after the Great War by developing the machines that could print the new type of currency. It was impossible to forge, and it was used in all 25 million worlds of the Imperial-controlled galaxy. It was a family joke that they had made all their money by merely printing it. With his money, Bueford had purchased his own planet, and spent all his time traveling to other places.

After about an hour of waiting Bueford called, "Jeeves...Tell the pilot to hurry up, would you? I'm terribly bored sitting here." The servant went up to the control room to talk to the pilot.

"There's no chance of hurrying it up, is there?" he asked. "None at all," answered the pilot. "In fact, we're going to be here for a long time. We have a problem with engine coil. It snapped completely. We have to get a replacement shipped in because it's made out of titanium-polymuriel alloy that impossible to make here."

"So how long could that take to fix."

"Anywhere from six to eight weeks."

Damn, the servant thought to himself. Six to eight weeks on this cramped plane, where he did not so much as have his own room, would be torture. Especially with the rich imbecile calling demands every five minutes.

The servant returned to Bueford to tell him the bad news, making a brief stopover in the kitchen.

"Well," asked Bueford, "What seems to be the problem, Jeeves?"

The servant gave a strained smile, and then took out the butcher's knife he was hiding behind his back. Bueford gave out a small 'ouf' before the servant plunged the knife down into his chest.

"My name is Charles, jackass."

Charlie

Charlie was adolescent boy, and much like me and you, he had a face with two eyes, a nose and a mouth, he had two arms and two legs with the right amount of fingers and toes. However, Charlie was, it is unfortunate to say, cursed with the affliction of having poor parents.
His parents didn't mean to be poor, but without a college education, Charlie's father was resigned to factory work and his mother was a house keeper for richer folk. Charlie also had the severe misfortune of living with all four of his grandparents. He loved them dearly, but they only took up space in their tiny apartment and food from the mouths of Charlie and his parents. Charlie expected that it was only a matter of time before his father shipped his grandparents off to the glue factory.
You would expect, due to his destitute upbringings, that Charlie would have nothing to live for, but this was not the case. As it turns out, Charlie had one dream, and that was, of course, to win Mr. Willie Wonka's candy bar competition. All one had to do was open a Wonka chocolate bar, find a golden ticket, and win a lifetimes supply of chocolate and a tour of the factory.
One day, when walking home from school, Charlie found some money on the ground. It was enough money to either buy two chocolate bars for himself, or to buy regular food for his family for the rest of the month (Wonka chocolate is a notorious luxury item). Being the inconsiderate boy that he is, he bought two Wonka bars.
He wolfed down the first bar, noting with sadness that there was no golden ticket to be found. He opened the second bar and tore off the wrapper and there he found, as one could almost predict, a golden ticket!
He ran home to his parents to show them his good fortune.

"Mother, Father! I found the last golden ticket!" shouted Charlie exitedly.
Charlie's glanced his way. "So?" his father said, with a bored look on his face.

"Don't you understand father?" said Charlie, "This is a once-in-a lifetime opportunity!"
"Did you read the golden ticket?" asked his father, petulantly.
Charlie looked down at his ticket and saw, with surprize that it was more of a yellowish color then it was gold.

Charlie cleared his throat.

"Redeem this ticket for one medium-sized Wonka product at your nearest candy shop."

"You see," said Charlie's father. "This is real life. And in real life, there is no such thing as little boys being granted there one true wish, even in the face of adversity. I'm thinking that's something you should get used to, because as of tomorrow, you're going to quit school and start working in a sweat shop."

With that, Charlie's father lifted all four of the grandparents over his shoulder, and made his way towards the glue factory.

The Time Traveler

"Ah Ha" he said, with the utmost sincerity. "I have discovered how to travel through time."

Around him, his critics stared at him, aprehensive of his obvious discovery.

"How can you be sure." asked one of his attendents, a mellow chap, with a white surgical suit and a finely trimmed mustache.

"It's easy" said the man, "all you need is a mechanism to maintain the wormholes, which I have just discovered now. From there, you can easily slip through a hole in any standard Rv-Class Space Ship. Though, I expect they'll be changing the name to Space-Time ships now."

"Don't be silly" said his companion, "There's no material that could maintain the opening of a wormhole. Why don't you sit back and try to relax."

The man looked around, surprized to find that he wasn't in his laboratory at all. "Strange," he said, non-plussed. "Isn't this the University? And say, why am I lying down?"

And, indeed, the man was lying down. It appeared to be a bed of some sort, but the kind that was more commonly seen at doctor's offices then in the privacy of a bedroom. Not only that, but the man found that he was wearing some sort of tight sweater. He couldn't move his arms. That's when the panic set in.

"Say," said the man frantically "what am I doing here?."

Then, one of the doctors bent over him, with a syringe. The man stared wide-eyed and fearful for a second, and then everything went dark.

"Poor bloke" said the atendant with the mustache. "Doesn't even know he's loony. He was a physicist in his real life, you know. Last week, he said he discovered a way to travel through time, but went insane soon after. Of course, one has to wonder if the man went insane before 'discovering' time travel, or if he actually did discover how to do it, which caused him to loose his mind."

And so I join the ranks...

... of the world of biographical logging. I hope I have something interesting to say.