“Giddyup, Daddy!” Harold galloped from the living room into the kitchen with his young daughter straddling his neck. He gripped her knees firmly, reared back and made a whinnying sound. Carrie squealed, and his wife, Jennifer, laughed.
Sometimes Harold couldn’t believe how blessed he was. Married to his childhood sweetheart. Beautiful daughter. Great job. Life couldn’t be better.
“What do we call this room, Carrie?”
“Kitchen!”
Harold galloped on. “Now?”
“Bedroom!”
“Right again! You’re Daddy’s smart little girl.”
“Mommy’s too,” Jennifer beamed. “Keep moving, Honey.”
#
Harold’s knees bent slightly under the weight of his daughter. He looked at Jennifer. “Geez, Honey, I think we need to put Carrie on a diet.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes, Harold. Don’t be silly. Off you go!” She slapped Harold’s butt playfully. He took a breath and galloped out of the kitchen.
“What do we call this room, Carrie?”
“Family room, Daddy.”
“That’s right,” Harold said, panting under the weight of his daughter.
Jennifer laughed. “Keep moving.”
#
“Giddyup, Daddy!”
Harold slumped to his knees. He tried to stand, but fell back down. Jennifer frowned. “C’mon, Sweetie.” Then her voice suddenly seemed threatening: “Get to work.”
Harold felt a sharp pain in his spine and lurched to his feet. “My God, Jennifer,” he panted “trim your fingernails lately?” He trudged forward then stopped and collapsed.
#
Harold felt a pinch in his neck. “He’s had it,” a voice said. “Let’s get him out of here.”
“Hey, you.” Harold gasped from a kick in the ribs, began coughing spasmodically and slowly sat up. A soft blue fog dissolved in his mind. He took in his surroundings and found himself on the ground in a barren, rocky landscape. Two men wearing tall black boots were standing over him. “Barnes, Harold Barnes,” one of them said, “do you know where you are?”
“Work Station Starin, Redbone Mines,” Harold said slowly. “Foreman Rogers and Superintendent Johnson — why’d you bring me out of it?”
“You’ve worn down, Barnes.” Rogers said. “We’re going to send you home.”
“How long have I been here?”
“One hundred seventy-five days,” Johnson said.
“I signed on for a year.”
“Yeah, well, some people can’t cut it,” Rogers said.
Harold rose unsteadily to his feet. “I’m not quitting. I need the credits. My wife and daughter depend on them. Shoot me up again.”
“You’re finished, Barnes. Head to transport,” Rogers said.
“No, wait,” Johnson said. “The next shipment of workers is delayed at the Hygiea transfer station, and there’s still no end in sight to the robo-miners’ strike. If he wants to try to go again, let him.”
“Your call, boss. Barnes, you sure about this?”
Harold lifted his chin. “Do it.”
Rogers rotated cylinders in his hypospray and held it to Harold’s neck. Harold’s heart began to race.
Johnson turned toward a skeletal man who had a dazed look. “Load him up,” Johnson said. The man put down his pick axe and strained large stones into a pack on Harold’s back.
Harold’s eyes glazed as the soft blue fog enveloped his mind again.
“Get moving, Barnes.” Rogers pushed an electroprod into Harold’s spine.
“Really, Honey, you’ve got to trim your fingernails,” Harold mumbled. “Giddyup, Daddy,” he heard Carrie squeal.
—
David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now are retired and reside in Peoria, Illinois. His work has appeared in various journals including Theme of Absence, Gravel, Literally Stories, Bewildering Stories, 365 Tomorrows, Dime Show Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Fiction on the Web, and The Eunoia Review. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.
