Free Pictures of Houses with Water Damage: Stories by Michael Hemmingson

course.”
    “More?”
    He grabbed the tequila bottle.
    “Oh,” Kate said, “I’m getting drunk.”
    “Isn’t that the point?”
    They drank another shot.
    “I notice people drink a lot here,” he said.
    “It helps,” she said.
    “It's a lonely place.”
    “No kidding.”
    “Why?”
    “What?”
    “Why did you choose this place for your research?” he asked.
    She looked uncomfortable. “I’m the one asking the questions,” she said. Ripped thought he touched something touchy. “I’m the interrogative one,” she said, and she thought that was funny because she let out a small laugh and a small burp “Excuse me,” she said.
    “What about sex?” he said.
    “What?”
    “Do people have sex here?”
    “Oh, Rip, I thought you’d never ask!” she cried and jumped into his arms, curling up like a small child, kissing him all over his face.
    “Wow,” he said.
    She stopped. “Is this okay?”
    “Sure,” he said.
    “Do you want this?”
    “Sure,” he said.
    “I’ve been wanting this since the day you got here,” she said.
    Then they fucked.
     
     
    They fucked a lot, hours and hours every day because, like drinking and growing a beard, there wasn’t much else to do. When the others on the station found out, which they did pretty fast, they were jealous at first, and then they didn’t care.
     
     
    Outside, the night was clear as Siberian grain alcohol and a trillion stars twinkled in the dark sky like a trillion stars twinkling in the night sky. The southern lights—the aurora australis —danced across the heavens like a French ballet company on tour in New Zealand. Inside, our hero had a birthday but he did not tell anyone this because he did not want anyone to know, to make a fuss, and he did not care.
     
     
    “What do you mean you did that about what you did and all that!” said twenty-eight year old Ripped van Wrinkle as he sat upright in Kate's small bed in her small quarters, waking her up; she was just as started as he about the sudden outburst.
    “Hey, what's wrong?” she said.
    “What?”
    He was disoriented.
    “Are you okay? Rip-o?”
    Took him a moment to get his bearings. “Yeah,” he said. “Weird dream I guess.”
    “Guess so.”
    “I’m okay. Let's go back to sleep.”
    They snuggled.
    “What was that you said?” she asked. “What did that mean?”
    “What?”
    “What you said.”
    “What did I say?”
    “You said.”
    “It was dream talk,” he said.
    “The language is in code, only the subconscious can comprehend,” she said, to herself really.
    “What?” he said.
    “Never mind,” she said; “give me a kiss, honey.” They snuggled, which lead to making love, and then they went back to sleep.
     
     
    A month later.
    Outside, near the station, a helicopter malfunctioned and crash-landed in the snow. The pilot smashed his head against the windshield, very hard. His helmet was inferior and he cracked open his skull and broke his neck and died on the scene.
    There were three passengers: Henri, Axel, and Paul: French-Canadian documentary filmmakers in their mid-30s. They were scouting scenery for their current project, looking for the perfect setting in the Southern night.
    The weather was harsh and the situation frightening. The three men wandered in the ice and the winds. They thought for sure they were going to die.
    Then they came across the geodome …
     
     
    “You’re lucky,” said Dr. Mann; “damn lucky.”
    “We know, we know,” said Henri.
    The doctor was examining the three men in sickbay, making sure they didn’t have frostbite on any parts of their bodies, any signs of ill health.
    “You could have died out there, fast,” she said.
    “We know, we know,” said Axel.
    “The hell you doing way out here anyway?” she asked.
    “Documentary,” said Paul.
    “On what? Extreme survival?”
    “Penguins,” said Henri.
    “Penguins? How original.”
    “Penguins are very commercial, very hot, very in right now,” said