Shapeless

I want to curl up so hard my limbs stick together
Like dough, like clay
Squeeze me together until the seams disappear
Lose my shape in your palms
Knead me smooth
Turn me over, and over and over
I’m raw potential now
Waiting for a chance to be something new

Let me rise and stretch
Push out with no borders
Give me time to grow
Enough to be formed into something
Beautiful

Cut me apart, round me out
Now the work’s begun in earnest
Squish and squeeze me
Turn and roll me
Make me into something new

Parts of old and parts of earth
Warmed by hands and hunger
Kept in molds to guide my body
Further skyward, never falling

When all’s been made as stone and wood:
Solid, but for the wanton need.
Give me this new self so I can
Be savoured
Be coveted
Be consumed

Make me again, and again,
Infinitely many,
Shape me however you please

My skin is as putty
My soul’s never slowed
Until your desire my form will

Appease

The Giants and the Pea

Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

Floating. Always floating; bobbing along the interstellar currents, cold winds from nearby stars buffeting them, breezing over their skin like a hot wash of fire, a blast furnace’s bellowing voice in the infinite dark. It was deep and rumbling, playing the same three low notes over, and over and-

The low beeping dug through Hara’s cryostasis like a needle, a strange mechanical noise in that murky fluid void-dream. It made them think about gutting the console again, but they knew they’d have to fix it afterwards. They managed a raspy mutter, palming the comms panel clumsily as they sat up against the pod, trying to breathe fire through aching lungs.

Ferrence’s familiar voice buzzed through Hara’s skull. Too loud. They tooled down the volume and asked for a repeat, eyes struggling to refocus against the harsh screen light.

<Update on Destra-Hologasi system for you: 43 stellar bodies, multiple gas giants. Trinary star system.>

That last bit interested Hara. “And what’s the min/max distance for that trinary?”

<Calculating…>

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Herxes Station

They were all here for the same reason. Not just music; that was implied by the posters, the homemade shirts, the thin station hallway packed full of stitched-together styles and clashing hairdos. Most of these people were miners, haulers, maintenance workers – the ones that did the work so others could live. Even with the small boosts to pay last quarter, these were thankless tasks, and the crowd was clearly a sea of comrades in arms, all frustrated beyond a doubt and looking for an out.

Old Growth

Take a look around
Can you see through the trees?
They’re so big and overgrown;
The wind is howling, but there’s no breeze

They tell us to stop lighting fires
To clear away the weeds
To clear out all this old growth brush

But they’re the ones who tend the roots
To keep them healthy
Keep us crushed

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