[480] Short story

Crit 1

Crit 2

Hello! I've never posted here before, so I hope it's not too horrible 😊

A while ago, I asked my friends to give me some random phrases that I can write a short story around. One of them was "crying and shitting and eating spaghetti." This is the result.

I used to write a lot, but have not been for years. Kind of just trying to get back into it & I remember how much I enjoyed writing groups, so I thought I'd give this a try! Thanks so much in advance!!

. . . .

I’d never thought this was how I’d spend my last waking days: crying and shitting and eating spaghetti. But that’s all that was left to eat on the ship anymore. The spaghetti I mean, not the shit. Although, that was certainly piling up and it looked like a few crewmates might be getting ideas. I won’t name names, though.

We would all go into stasis soon, but the folks back home had certainly cut it close with the rations. During the first week of our voyage, Erin Brock had the fateful first packet of dried spaghetti. I always knew bad things came to people with two first names.

Anyway, the state of the bathroom for the next two days was enough to prompt the entire crew to collectively push that meal aside every day for the next three years. Until about a month ago, when we all found out that it was all we had left.

So here we are, preparing for stasis, eating our karma spaghetti, and shitting our suits. Maybe this will stave away the subconscious food desires for the next twenty-seven years. I secure my cargo for the long trip and make my way to the pods. To my surprise, all of my reports are sitting in our assigned wing nervously. Some who had formed attachments over the initial stent are tearful, but holding it together so far.

“Hey, it’ll be over in no time, okay? You won’t even know any time passed.” My second in command was one of the tearful romantics.

“I know,” she said, attempting a smile, “Thanks, Buck.”

I smiled back, trying to refocus the mission. “Did you finish the systems check?” Confident nod. “All the cargo secure?” Another nod. “And you triple checked all these trouble makers’ work?” Just a laugh this time. “Alright,” I raise my voice over the soft buzz of my nervous crew, hoping to be louder than my own anxiety. “This is it. Twenty-seven years until you all get to meet the best-looking seventy-eight year old you’ve ever seen.”

Frankly, I’m lucky anyone laughed at that one. I give the final call and we all nestle into our cozy seven-by-four-foot tanks for a short lifetime. Belts all clicked into place like cicadas on a hot Texas night. I sit with that thought for a moment more than I need to. I can almost taste Mama’s sweet tea on the back of my tongue. It was unrivaled, of course.

That is the last taste that I’ll choose to take with me as my belt rings out the final click. I take one last deep breath over my sweet tea tongue before the pods all close with a hydraulic woosh.

As my eyes close to The Excaliber, I blink against the red flashing light. And my longest dream begins with a nightmare of the slow whirring of a distant alarm.