When you’ve been studying the ocean for so long, it’s hard to remember what it’s like above it.
Photo by Kasey McCoy on Unsplash This is yet another prompt from the lovely Space Wrecks bot on Twitter. Its an automated bot that generates a short blurb inspired by … Continue reading One Last Journey
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
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
Make me again, and again,
Shape me however you please
My skin is as putty
My soul’s never slowed
Until your desire my form will
Photo by John Fowler on Unsplash The first paragraph of this story was generated by Space Wrecks. Its an automated bot that generates snippets inspired by Stewart Cowley’s Terran Trade … Continue reading The Pithian Gamble
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?”
A conversation with a stranger in the middle of the night.
The rain was heavy with purpose, landing with resounding thuds all around them; Taks thought it might be trying to cleanse the ground of battle, to remove old sins from the soil and soak the earth with hope instead. Maybe it was sick of the old world’s scars and wanted to wipe the slate clean.
With what had happened here, that was a losing battle in itself.
“Taks, damnit!” Marta bellowed as the tarp Taks had been holding slipped and flapped in the wind. “Hold it steady! Hog’s teeth, I don’t want to spend all night at it!”
Their mind was wandering again. Taks half-yelled an apology that was eaten by the storm and groped in the dim light for the tarp’s edge. Their fingers connected with the Orb’s eerie metallic surface, centuries of detail exposed to the brutal elements; it still felt hot even after so much time. They helped Marta stake down the rest of the tarp in embarrassed silence, covering the gaping hole in the Orb’s top; of the field’s choices, this one had the most intact structure, which wasn’t saying much.
Photo by Ravvyn Evermore (Used with permission) Earth isn’t gone. But sometimes, we wish it was. When all this started, we’d just achieved long-range spaceflight with the Cleave drives – … Continue reading The Void Cavalcade
When the ship begins to sink
And hope is tossed asea
Don’t, clinging to your anchor, think:
“Surely this will save me!”
There is an ocean’s worth of difference
In knowing your boat is sinking
And knowing how to stop it
Without even thinking
If you find yourself adrift,
No paddle to your name,
Examine why you’re left becalmed
And do not jump to blame.
If it’s your design to end up here,
Congrats, you’ve done it, led by fear;
Now you’ve an ocean to sit and dwell
On why you chose to never tell
A soul about your personal hell.
If it’s fickle mind, poor chemical synthesis,
You might find the ocean a dense abyss:
More of a mire than a wide expanse
Less of a trial and closer to dance
With a partner who gives no second chance.
“Don’t panic”, they say, all teacups and sunshine,
Medicine bags full of useless tat.
But you’ve sailed these waters line by line;
There is no one fix to solving that.
All told, it is awful, and without cure;
Though there’s nothing wrong with you
You’re not impure
Your brain’s just a mess. Diagnosis: chemical
Full to the brim with habits inimical
But I believe in you, that’s the truth.
You can win against yourself.
Just remember, you’re okay,
And leave your habits on the shelf.
Apparently the first two verses were missing, oops!
The creature sat idle in its chair by the fireplace, fingers aglow with the last vestiges of its cigar. How long had it been smoking that, I wondered, as I rose to stoke the fire – not for the first time that evening, I realized. The woodpile had been steadily consumed, greedy flames lighting the dim parlour with their grim energy; when had the sun gone down?