To Marconi, from Turtle with Love and S'hol
Flash fiction, 800 words. For IAM's Feb. 28 prompt. And for Gina, who can't stand this song. And yes, I'm really mixing genres with this title. Happy Monday!
“We built this city, we built this city on rock and s’hol/
We built this city, we built this city on rock and s’hoooool …”
Lenora’s triumphant singalong was cut short by the impatient hand of her mother. Layla Morton turned off the heat after the music, parked the hovie in an open spot in front of the school, and stared expectantly at her daughter.
“If you have time to listen to music, you have time to do your homework. Go in there and take your zeroes for the day. I’m not covering for you this time.”
Lenora didn’t bother whining. She sprung out of the hovie in a huff, grabbed her bag, and marched off with two mismatched socks.
“And it’s roll,” muttered Layla. “ROLL!”
Layla sighed. Some mornings were like this. Something about the way her daughter entered the school, armed with little but her poor fashion choices and poorer time management, reminded her of life on Earth.
Once, Layla had forgotten Earth in favor of interstellar excitement. But twelve years in the twisting hole called New Turtle Bay had taught her the error of her ways. Earth had seas, a silver moon, forests, and mountains that were –supposedly – majestically purple.
The planet Turtle had s’hol.
She started up the hovie and wended her way to work. The traffic spiral was in a snarl, giving her plenty of chances to look at electric lights and s’hol. That was it, that was the world on view from her hovie. That was the planet Turtle in a nutshell. S’hol looked like nutshell, actually. The whole planet Turtle was made from it. Not rock, not earth, not even technically dead, it was organic and it replicated upwards. Building down was safe. Building up was asking for trouble.
She turned the music back on. Thanks to the strange interferences of s’hol, Turtle was still getting the best radio signals of the ‘80s, ‘90s, and Today (which was actually more than a hundred years in the past). Thanks to the strange interferences of s’hol, the original ships carrying settlers during the early millennium had arrived only a year before those carrying descendants a hundred years removed. Layla remembered Starship. Her husband, Lue, only remembered starships. Their daughter was technically of a generation two prior to Lue, thanks to the mother who bore her. Layla considered this intemperate union to be the reason her daughter enjoyed the music she enjoyed, but also why she was unable to get the lyrics right.
Layla arrived at her worksite. On Earth, she had worked for a subway company. This translated well on Turtle, where digging was the name of the game. Her job was to plot the best route to bore. S’hol made it easy. Bore downward. Straight. She could have done the job with a plumb line and a level, if not for all the regulations and corporate structure. Those kept her employed, tired, and bored.
Others were responsible for the New – that was, the city proper, areas that were cut into the sides of the hole. The places people slept, ate, drank, played. Not her job. Her job was the hole.
She measured, plotted, divided, checked, inputted. She did her job. As 2:45 rolled around (Turtle had a day very close to Earth’s, part of its attraction), she clambered back into the hovie, rejoined the spiral, and made her way back to the school.
“Well?” She asked without preamble when the kid climbed in.
“It wasn’t a big deal. Only the math teacher even checked. I got an extra worksheet on fractions.”
Lenora was flushed and sweaty, like she’d been horseplaying with her friends. She adopted a sullen frown when she regarded to her mother, but she was in too good a mood to keep it. “Can we get ice cream?”
“In this traffic? The spiral is nuts today. I think they adjusted the gravity well again.” These were words Layla’s own mother had never need utter, but they were rote conversation between this pair. Then again, how often had an Earthly accident on Main Street diverted them from their Friday lo mein fix?
Lenora clicked her tongue and turned on the radio. The spiral in chaos was part of her life, her daily growing-up. This was Turtle, the only home she knew.
“We built this city …”
Lenora crowed, delighted. Layla, well-versed in the concept of “overplayed,” groaned. Everything from her childhood was made new again on Turtle.
“It’s ‘roll,’ not ‘s’hol,’” said Layla, aggrieved.
“Mom, I know. It’s a pun. For fun — you remember fun?”
“I don’t like this song anymore. They play it constantly.”
Layla gave her a strange look. “What are you talking about? Mom. It just hit the Top 10 a week ago.”
She turned up the volume, settled back, and sang along with her own interpretation.
Layla navigated in silence, grinding her teeth. She dug a deep hole in her memory, trying to recall how she’d once learned fractions. She’d need it after dinner.
You can't build up only down. Very interesting take on why there would be a pit. Well done!