80's ficathon: Columbia

Title: Columbia
Author: nadyakaryshev/astutia
Summary: 10...9...8...7...
Rating: PG
Prompt: Technology
Spoilers: Season five, I guess. Not much.

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. Please. I claim no rights to CSI or to CBS's newscast on the launch of the Columbia shuttle or Hecht, who is the author of my optics text that I could see from my couch when I was looking for a name for Sara's teacher.



A/N: It's a day late (that's early for me; all I could think about yesterday was closed orbits and Hamiltonian systems and Lagrangian mechanics.) It's not 800 words. It might be 300. Maybe. But I had this idea, and I wanted to write it, and I can't make it longer without dragging it out. I hope you enjoy it, regardless. I enjoyed writing it!

The text in italics is transcribed from the CBS broadcast of the Columbia shuttle launch STS-1 on 12 April 1981 at 4 am, PST. I'm picturing it as a rerun on the morning news on the west coast.


“America's first space shuttle... the shuttle has cleared the tower.”

Sara stared at the television, eyes rapt with attention while three cherrios and some milk dribbled into her lap. She knew she was going to be late if she didn't leave for school soon, but she also knew Mrs. Hecht would be forgiving.

“...Columbia now 39 nautical miles altitude...”

Thuds on the stairs and loud voices in the bathroom.

The tap goes on, the tap goes off. on. off. on. off.

I'm right, you're wrong, Sara doesn't know because her ears are covered.

“Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto.”

Maybe 'ventually everyone might just stop unnecessary nagging, please.

“...velocity now reading 6200 feet per second...”

thud thud thud thud thuddddtd.

Gravity makes things accelerate as they fall down stairs.

“...Columbia now 51 nautical miles altitude...”

Sara took her bowl into the sink and grabbed her lunch, shoving it violently into her knapsack, eyes still tracing out the shuttle's arc on the screen.

She makes no noise returning to the television.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Slam (the cupboard door).

Yell. Shout. I'm right, you're wrong, Venus, Mars, Mercury, Pluto.

“...Columbia now 55 nautical miles altitude...”

Shouts.

Useless.

Undesirable, lazy, unwanted.

Sara learned what a synonym was.

The sharp sound of flesh against flesh.

“...Columbia now 58 nautical miles altitude...”

Slam.

The front door shakes in its hinges, reverberating throughout the house, muffling a glass shattering in the kitchen sink.

“...as the spacecraft reaches into orbit and prepares to make its first circular orbit of the Earth...”

Little taps of hard shoes running down the sidewalk and a face gazing up at the sky.




A/N 2: I got about ten lines into this story, and all I could think about were sexual metaphors. I might have to write that one as well. Perhaps about the Atlantis launch...