Bubbling on the stove
Blob Soup makes a light-speed rip across the galaxy in the one-seater spaceship arriving at Banana-One in time for breakfast. He has a bowl of strawberry shortcake with apricot jam, honey and treacle; who wants a lime sundae on the side? Satisfied from a good meal he works eight hours in the fields, collapsing in the late afternoon, falling face first into the fresh-turned pungent soil. They carry him inside on a stretcher. The spaceship is parked on the launch pad out back. After resting an hour and a half, Blob Soup revives, puts back on his silver suit and steps outside to the spaceship. Not in a hurry and with nowhere particular to go, he sets the velocity-vector dial to Warp-one/Destination Space and blasts off. Leaving behind a blue trail of hot light and a faint-headed feeling forgotten in the oncoming rush of new things.
Blob Soup rides a white mare through the footsteps of dawn. Where is he? He doesn’t know. Where would he like to be? Right where he is.
So far, the way anyone tells it to him, Blob Soup is bubbling on the stove. Spicy, sure, and wholesome, a medicine-meal. That’s right. He’s got a couple people coming over for dinner, he’s laid out some large bowls, his best ones, stars and planets on midnight moonlight at the memory motel, and fine silver spoons. The doorbell rings. Right on time. He peels…
