The Lost World
“Mission Log, Commander Rolo, Day 157. We finally discovered this lost world of legends, the ancient home of my ancient ancestors. With Ensign Quiggles faithfully at my side, we’ve ventured boldly across the stars on our bold adventure. Every mysterious clue we found made the mystery even more mysterious. But after many wrong turns and dead ends, we finally found this forgotten world. Could this be proof that the myths are true? We are about to find out. And now, at last, I will set foot for the first time on this strange alien planet: Earth.”
Satisfied with this little speech to himself, Rolo released the record-button on the wrist of his spacesuit. The spacesuit was imaginary, and so was the record-button. But he felt this tremendous occasion deserved a little extra drama for the history books. And it was a historic occasion, for the rocket was, in fact, real. And so was Earth.
Rolo’s attire on this day of discovery was his red hoodie, gray khakis, and worn sneakers — which was what he wore every day, for months, and it smelled like it. Despite the spaceship’s perfectly functional washing machine, his clothes were embellished with decorative yellow mustard stains and assorted splotches of unknown origin.
With a smile smeared across his face, Rolo released the pressure seal on the hatch. The stale air inside whooshed out, like a burp from the metal belly of the small, round rocketcraft. He twisted the hatch open and poked his head outside to see this alien world with his own eyes.
The colors of the earthian landscape were surreal. The sky was a peculiar light blue, and the ocean was an oddly dark blue. The plants were weird shades of green, and the sun had a bizarre yellow hue. This was, indeed, a very strange world.
Well, to him, it seemed strange, but that is a matter of perspective. We know very well those are perfectly normal colors for a planet — the best colors, really.
Rolo was a juvenile male hooman, a pet earthling from the planet Blorx, who had never been to Earth before. He had lived his whole life on Blorx, along with millions of other pet earthlings, and every generation before them for as long as anyone could remember. He didn’t even know about Earth until 158 days ago — and even then, he was told Earth was a mere myth, a tale of pure imagination. Probably.
In fairness, here on Earth, we did not think Blorx was real, either. So, perhaps we can forgive his simplistic hooman brain.
Rolo’s awe turned to antsy eagerness. He climbed out the hatch, placing each foot carefully on the rungs, while carrying a Blorxian flag pole in one hand. Step by step, rung by rung, he descended the ladder with monumental gravitas.
His palms sweat with anticipation.
His heart beat with exhilaration.
His gut clenched with constipation.
He contorted his mouth to imitate the sound of air flowing from his make-believe oxygen tank — tchuhhhh, tchoohhh, tchuhhhh, tchoohhh.
On the bottom rung, he paused for dramatic effect.
The low morning sun skimmed across the ocean swells. The greenish surf charged up the sandy beach with a foamy flourish, licked the lowermost fin of the rocketcraft, and scurried back to safety. The briny tang of the terrestrial sea tingled in his nose. The chilly breeze tousled his hair and rustled the flag.
Slowly, Rolo extended his right foot back and lowered himself until his toe touched down. The earthian sand crunched beneath his sole as he rolled his weight onto his heel. He lowered his left foot and shifted his weight until he was securely balanced. He released his grip from the ladder, turned to the horizon, and struck a heroic stance with his fist on his hip and a far-off stare. In a ceremonious voice, he spoke these momentous words:
“That’s one small step for a boy … one giant leap for—”
At that exact moment, Ensign Quiggles sprang out of the hatch, bounced off Rolo’s head, and tumbled onto the beach. He shook off the sand and ran erratically in hyper circles, kicking wet sand into Rolo’s face.
“Quiggles! You messed up my line!” whined Rolo, spitting sand out of his mouth.
Quiggles was a cute little quagling, green and hairless, thigh-high, with three legs, two arms, and one big yellow eye. He laughed mockingly and dashed into the surf, splashing Rolo with the salty seawater.
Rolo looked like a typical boy (although you hoomans look mostly the same to us). He had the standard number of eyes, limbs, fingers, and toes for a hooman. His hair was black, messy, and unwashed, falling over his brown eyes. His odor was like that of an adolescent who had no one to nag him to bathe every day — which was exactly the case.
Rolo jabbed the flagpole into the sand. The flag flapped flamboyantly in a perfectly timed gust of wind, then flopped limply as the wind exhausted itself. He didn’t really know why astronauts planted flags, but it looked fun, and thus he accidentally claimed Earth for Blorx.
The red and silver rocketcraft sparkled in the sun, leaning precariously on its three fins sinking into the sand. Steam puffed from the exhaust vents in the morning chill.
Rolo raised make-believe binoculars to his eyes to survey the terrestrial terrain. He scanned the beach north and south, up the cliff, and out to the ocean horizon. But it was desolate, not a single person in sight.
“Where are all the earthlings?”
Quiggles shrugged and picked sand out of his ear.
Rolo had talked to Air Traffic Control over the radio while orbiting, so they certainly must have known he was here.
And then he saw a vehicle driving down the road from the cliff to the beach.
“Look, Quiggles, they’re here!”
As the vehicle approached, it appeared increasingly alien to Rolo. It did not shine like metal, nor did it roll on wheels or hover. Instead, it was a boxy shell with doors and windows, crawling on numerous tiny legs. Red and blue lights flashed on top, and it blared two beeps.
An amplified voice called out, “You’re in a no-parkin’ zone.”
The multi-leg police vehicle crawled across the beach toward Rolo, Quiggles, and their round rocketcraft.
Rolo was so eager to meet real earthlings — actual hooman natives of Earth. Would they look the same as the earthlings back on Blorx? Or would they look perhaps more stocky and rugged, since they had to live in the wild on their own, without any blorxlings to take care of them?
Anticipation bubbled in his belly. (Or perhaps it was the fast food he had scarfed down from the space drive-thru.)
However, to his disappointment and mild terror, the two creatures who stepped out of the vehicle were not hooman at all.
These majestic beings were handsomely coated in refined fur from head to paw. They walked gracefully on four legs, with long, slender, wavering tails. Their eyes were shiny and brightly colored, with elongated vertical pupils. Their large, angled ears stood upright, and whiskers extended outward from their faces. Standing as tall as a horse, their sheer stature inspired awe. And their finely balanced facial features projected an appropriate air of lofty superiority.
They were, of course, our kind — catlings, catus superius, or “cats” for short — not to be confused with felis catus, the primeval lap cats of your time.
The two feline officers, dressed in dark blue uniforms with Tabbyton Police badges, donned their bobby helmets as they approached. Sergeant Tiger had short, orange tabby-striped fur, with dull hazel eyes that sharply conveyed his profound indifference. Constable Checkers had fluffy, long, black and white fur — mostly black on his face with white tufts protruding from his ears, and white across his muzzle, which looked comically like a mustache. His sloped, amber eyes appeared both sleepy and annoyed.
“Ya can’t park your rocketcraft there,” said Constable Checkers. “Missed the landing pad?” He gestured to the docks above the cliff.
Rolo stumbled back a step, intimidated by these furry aliens.
“Speak, kid,” said Sergeant Tiger. “Dog got your tongue?”
They both had thick Ireland-ish accents.
Overwhelmed, all Rolo could articulate was: “Huh?”
“Were ya tryin’ to land on the docks?” the constable clarified with great disinterest.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry, our neutronic yaw inverter was on the fritz, or something like that. I dunno. Quiggles did most of the driving.”
The officers looked at Quiggles scampering in figure-eights around them with his tongue dangling out. Constable Checkers cocked his head and furrowed his whiskers.
“What is that thing? A frog-dog? A salamander-monkey?”
To Rolo, these words were gibberish. “Uh, he’s a quagling.”
Sergeant Tiger, the quiet type, squinted his eyes sleepily.
Constable Checkers sat back on his haunches and pulled his ticket-tabnet from his coat pocket.
“Alright then, let’s see your license ’n registration.”
“Huh?” said Rolo again.
The constable flicked his tail in agitation. “ID? Papers? Passport?”
Rolo stared at him blankly.
“Okay, how about an easy one. Where’re ya comin’ from?”
“Oh, Blorx!”
“Don’t pull my tail! Where’re ya really from?”
“Honest, I’m telling the truth! We’re from Blorx.”
“Ya think you’re funny, do ya? Everybody knows Blorx is just a myth. So which colony are ya from?”
Rolo scrunched his brow in disbelief of the constable’s disbelief. Better to change topics, he thought. So he asked, “Where are all the earthlings?”
“Earthlings?”
“People like me?”
“Oh, hoomans. There’re plenty o’ your type around. You’ll see ’em soon enough.”
“I thought they’d be so happy to meet me, and make a big feast!” Rolo grinned.
“They expectin’ you?”
“Well, no. But I mean once they find out I flew all the way back from Blorx.”
The constable rolled his eyes. “Enough o’ your jokes, kid. Now tell me your name.”
“Rolo.”
The constable typed into his ticket-tabnet with one claw. “Last name?”
“Uh, just Rolo.”
“Rolo Rolo, eh?” he mocked, licking his paw and wiping his cheek.
“I don’t have a last name.”
“What do ya mean? Who’s your family?”
“Well, they’re back home. Not here.”
“I see. Unaccompanied minor. Why aren’t your parents travelin’ with ya?”
“My parents?” This was a strange question. As pets, most earthlings didn’t live with their parents, not on Blorx. “I don’t know who my parents are.”
“Ah, an orphan. How old’re ya?”
“Thirteen. I mean in Blorx years.”
“An’ how exactly is a Blorx year, as ya say, different from an Earth year?”
Rolo shrugged.
Constable Checkers mumble-meowed to himself while typing. “Hooman, male, thirteen, black hair, brown eyes, no ID.”
“Can you take me to them?” asked Rolo.
“Your parents?”
“No, the earthlings. Maybe they’ll have a big parade for me, and lift me on their shoulders and chant my name. ‘Rolo, Rolo, Rolo!’” He pumped his fists in the air.
The constable squinted at Rolo, waiting for his antics to cease.
The interrogation continued. “Where’re ya headin’?”
“Here. Earth.”
“Well, obviously. But where will ya be stayin’?”
“Oh. I dunno. I thought I’d stay with the other earthlings. Where can we find them?”
Constable Checkers started coughing and pounding his chest with his paw. He strained his neck forward and rolled his belly, heaving repeatedly with a guttural gurgling, till he spat up a large, gooey hairball. “Pardon me,” he mumbled insincerely as he buried the hairy glop in the sand with his rear leg. He cleared his throat and wiped his mouth and whiskers with his tongue.
Rolo stepped back in disgust.
The constable pointed at Quiggles. “Ya got papers for your lil’ mutant pet there? Lemme guess, no papers, right?”
Rolo shrugged.
The constable sighed and tucked his ticket-tabnet back into his coat pocket.
The sergeant opened the back doors of the police crawler. “Get into the catty wagon, both o’ ya. We’ll call in a tow truck for your rocketcraft.”
Quiggles strutted to their round rocket and pressed a small button on the base. The rocket wilted and shrank, like it was slowly deflating, till it was smaller than a cat toy.
The officers stared, stunned, stupefied — their pupils dilated into wide circles of curiosity.
“That has gotta be an illegal vehicle modification,” muttered the constable. “Now get in the wagon.”
You can see this encounter was not going well for Rolo, but he was oblivious, blinded by his own optimism.
“How soon will we see the earthlings?” he asked.
“That’s not exactly where you’re goin’. Ya parked in a no-parkin’ zone, with an unlicensed rocketcraft. Ya got no ID, an’ ya brought an unlicensed pet. We’re taking ya into the police station.”
“Wait, what?!” Rolo’s mouth fell open as reality swatted him in the face. His bubble of excitement burst. He looked to Quiggles. Then back to the constable.
Then he bolted away.
The officers turned to each other with expressions of exhaustion. Then Sergeant Tiger sprinted after Rolo. With a few effortless bounds, he pinned Rolo face-down in the sand. He bit the back of Rolo’s hoodie and lifted him by the scruff of his neck. Rolo dangled from the sergeant’s jaws, flailing in despair. Quiggles leaped up and grabbed Rolo’s leg, futilely trying to free him.
“We got ourselves a feisty one,” said the constable.
The sergeant deposited Rolo and Quiggles gingerly inside the catty wagon and locked the doors. He confiscated their now-tiny rocket, lifting it delicately with the tips of his claws and sealing it in a plastic bag. The officers climbed back into the cab, and the catty wagon scampered away on its speedy little feet.
Far out on the horizon, a storm rolled in, blotting out the sun and dulling the skies to gray.
Rolo was stunned. After all these months of searching for Earth, where were all the earthlings? Why were there no hoomans here to welcome him with open arms and hear the tale of his epic journey? Instead, he was greeted by only these giant, furry creatures, who were completely unimpressed, just irked.
He sighed.
“Quiggles, Earth sucks.”
