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Prince in the Amber Bottle

by R. L. LASTER 2 days ago in fantasy

A Babbling Black Book

a VOCAL.MEDIA exclusive by R. L. Laster

Underwater Kingdom of Atlantis

Atlantis was a mid-Atlantic continent that suddenly sunk into the ocean. The idea that Atlantis was an actual historical place (and not just a legend invented by Plato) didn’t surface until the late 19th century.

Prince Abdul caught skimming from the royal vault

An ancient stratum of social classes divided the aquatic, submerged, water-breathing civilization. It was a dual-layered hierarchy. You were either born into the working class or among the royal class. Abreast many sympathizers to the poor, Prince Abdul became the unsavory hero who sought to take from the royal vaults and deliver life-saving finances to needy populations. When his secret, working-class lover 'Priscilla' was discovered, she was tortured to reveal the thief’s identity. Upon Abdul’s capture, King Diamanté of Atlantis orders his shaman to spell-bind the Prince. The curse banishes Abdul to exist as a book in an amber bottle. The artifacts were sent to the driest place on land; a desert. To a water-bound nation of people, the desert was thought of as modern day ‘hell’.

This is where the legend of the babbling black book in the amber bottle begins. Enjoy.

500,000 years after the banishment

In most cases, spring and fall are the best times to visit the desert. It just goes, without saying, that it's too hot in the summer. In the Mojave Desert, temperatures can be very cold in the winter and consistently in excess of 100 °F in the summer and early fall. There are some hazards unique to scouring the desert. These include insects (like scorpions), snakes, thorny plants and cacti, contaminated water, sunburn, eye irritation and climatic stress. They begin while wearing lightweight layers of light-colored, breathable fabrics. Long sleeves and loose fitting pants protect their skin from the UV rays, bugs and thorny shrubs.

Searching for meteorites is of paramount importance for astrobiology and planetary science. For 30 years, the cold desert of Antarctica has been one of the richest sources of pristine meteorites. The black stones are easy to pick out from the white snow, and there are no rivers or other natural processes to carry the meteorites away. More recently, the hot deserts of Africa and Australia also have produced new meteorite discoveries. The dry conditions in deserts tend to preserve stones, and the lack of rain means they are less likely to become eroded or be covered over by sediment. The Oman project is the only long-term search program currently being conducted in hot deserts. Within the last ten years, Oman has yielded almost one-fifth of the world’s meteorites, a hoard of more than 5000 samples weighing four tons. The Oman finds include one-third of all known lunar meteorites, and a handful of specimens from Mars.

“What’s this?”

“It looks like bottle of some sort. It’s not what we’re here for, but it has something in it. We should dig it up.”

A team of American cosmic-biologists began digging to release the amber-colored bottle.

“It’s a book. There’s a God-darn book in a bottle.”

Another team-member makes an unusual discovery.

“Guys…? There’s noise coming from it. I kid you not! There’s noise coming from the inside of this bottle.”

“Holly crap! No way! What the devil is that?”

Several of the team gather the dirty jar and listen closely. It’s not just noise. It’s mumbling and babbling. The lead team-member sets the jar down and radios the mysterious, black little book it contains.

It`s two weeks (and several TOP SECRET possessions) later. The United States takes custody of the babbling artifact—where the curator is sworn to secrecy as its care-taker.

“Ok. I’ve seen a lot of things and stranger things I cannot even begin to discus. I’ve heard you’ve been mumbling and stuttering noises. If you are alive, we have that in common. If you’re trying to speak, I’m the one who will listen. It’s just you and me in here. I’m Assistant to the Curator. I’m going to talk to you as if you’re not a book that’s trapped in an amber bottle.”

The mysterious, entrapped book begins mumbling in an obscure language. One word is understood.


“Abdul? Is that your name? Well; it’s nice to meet you, Abdul. You’re going to be here for a while. Actually, you’re going to be here for many months. The government is unsure if breaking the glass would be appropriate. They fear what might come of you. I’m not afraid of whatever you are. We might as well get to know each other.”

Babbling book finds a tongue

Over the next several months; the entrapped black book listens to the beauty. She speaks about nothing important, yet has a knack for pretending the amber-colored understands everything. It’s not long before the mumblings and murmurs of the jars contents began speaking in the native language the curator is speaking in.

“I’m from Atlantis.” it speaks slowly.

“Atlantis is not a real place. If it were, it definitely could not have been a civilization of mimicking books.” she responds, sarcastically.

Where most people would freak out, the curator is talented for remaining calm in the presence of oddities. It is her worthiness to this position.

“I am Prince Abdul of Atlantis. I was cast into the pages of a dry artifact that requires a dry place.”

“You have my attention, Prince Abdul. I‘m to understand your cities had wizardry among them. This is a punishment you suffer?”

It isn’t long before the mysterious, little black book (entrapped in the amber jar) began speaking fluently. The encapsulated explained the entire situation to the curator and she grows empathetic to his historical efforts.

“You’re speaking well enough. Why is it you never talk to the officials when they visit?”

“I do not trust the nature of them. I know you. I only trust you, curator.”

“I appreciate that. You’re not malevolent at all. I trust you too.”

The funny thing about communication is how it creates a bond between the two speaking. Even in the most unsettling of circumstances, affections and emotions run natural course.

As the two become close confidants, affections between them spawn into a type of delicacy. It’s a dependency the curator is pleased to have incurred.

“May I ask you something, Prince? What would happen if the amber glass that contains you were to break?”

“I don’t know. I only know that love conquers all things. I appreciate your company. I love your conversation.” the jar sounds off.

“I’m almost embarrassed by this but… When I’m at home, I often find myself missing your conversation. If there were a way I could kiss you, I believe I would.” the curator admits, blushing.

The curator kisses the bottle

“There’s nothing keeping you from kissing me. Affection is affection. It manifests through many forms. If a child loves her doll, she kisses her doll.” the book reasons from in the amber jar.

“That’s true. But such a child grows to understand that her doll cannot kiss her back.”

“The child doesn’t require it. Am I not worthy of a child-like affection?” he asks.

“Of course you are. It’s not every day a woman gets to kiss a real Prince.”

The curator bends over an enclosure that contains the amber bottle (containing the mysterious, black little book) and kisses beneath the rim of the jar. As she does, the building begins trembling and the jar begins displaying lights. The curator takes several steps backwards as the lid pops.

Prince Abdul Resurrects

From under a plume of smoke, a silhouette of a figure appears. The curator is as calm as she’s known to be in unworldly situations—even amidst the silhouette of a long-lost dynasty. Before her stands the figure of a Greek God. Prince Abdul is a regal, mature man with a sturdy figure and dark beard. His chest plates reign of righteousness and royalty. His eyes are confident and they hazel of his eyes gaze through lenses of purpose. He’s just as he was when first encapsulated. The only difference (unbeknownst to her) is that he has legs.

“Legs… Perfect. I’ve spent so much time in magic; I’ve mastered the art of 'meditative manifestation' for myself.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Prince Abdul,” she says, gasping in awe. “You’re a beautiful soul. You’re also VERY nude.”

“I must apologize, curator.” he says in the familiar voice she’d become so attached to.

As she scurries to collect a robe from the wardrobe, the prince takes a moment to appreciate his bronze-colored hands. As she returns, they stand and observe one another. Their observations are not rooted in perversions, but in appreciation. There’s a ‘connectedness’ between them that has established itself to be (far) beyond flesh and bones.

“So… You’re the one I’ve been pouring out to for the last 9 months.”

“…And you, curator. You’re the one whose kiss I’ve wished to return.”

“Well? What’s stopping you, Sir’?” she sighs sarcastically.

They share a single kiss.

“As divine as this moment is, please forgive me. I’m confident a cache would still be where I’ve hidden it.”

“…Cache? Would it be where Atlantis stood?”

“Not exactly, beloved. I brought it to the surface. I harbored it on a remote land that was accessible by Atlantic currents. Come with me curator. I wish to recover it and give it to people who need it most. This has been my desire for over 500,000 years. This is how I will retire a hobby which was once deemed unruly.”

“It must be far… Now?” she asks.

“It is a sizeable collection. You and I could allow a portion for ourselves. The remaining majority of it will go to many people. …Working people of your own choosing. This is pleasing to KARMA. It will be there. I know it will.” he insists.

“Well, I have been in need of a vacation. Ok! Yes… We’ll make two weeks of it. I’d be elated too. Besides; if it’s there, I’ll retire.” she says through smiling.

Abdul’s last effort

The prince gathers his strength. The curator gathers all of her personal belongings. She locks the facility and funds their journey to barren lands. Abdul uses the night stars as a compass. The two of them journey by plane, by boat, by canoe and by each other’s side. It takes 4.5 days to reach a remote region of land that is (still) accessible by ocean. A 2-hour descent into a cave is where they settle.

“My lady; curator, this is it. I recognize the exact formation of those stars. …And that mountain. …And that land mass. This is the place. I hid a chest here because my era had no desire to surface. Anything could be hidden by a royal who traversed wetlands.”

He grabs her hand and leads her to where there sits a mound of shrubbery.

“There!” he exclaims, pointing in the direction of a dirt mound.

“But my dear, it is only a mound of dirt and shrubs. We’ve come so far… You meant well.”

“My love, it’s been a long time. That is no mound of dirt. It’s only dirt atop of the chest.”

After a few hours of digging, a beautiful chest is unearthed. The amount of gold inside is staggering, but the chest (itself: being of Atlantian origins) is worth just as much as the precious metals it contains.

“This is splendid!” she excites. “This is JUST SPLENDID!”

“What began —long ago— as an unjust punishment, has become a deserved deliverance. That spell only served to preserve me through time. How can I complain? Here I stand with my beloved and an opportunity 500,000 has brought me.”

Prince Abdul grabs one of the jewels from the chest. He bows down on one knee.

“Curator, will you be my wedded wife? ...My Queen for the remainder of time?”

“My name is Priscilla…”

“Priscilla?” he says, tearfully.

It’s a familiar name.

“…And yes, I’d be honored to be your queen.”

Read next: Understanding the Collective Intelligence of Pro-opinion

At the age of 27, I discovered my love of reading, writing, research. and the feminine-divine. If knowledge precedes empowerment, R. L. LASTER's VOCAL.MEDIA articles present a path to your highest potential. Enjoy.

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