Selachimorpha da Spazio
Captain Broahm hadn't been asleep nearly long enough when he was dumped unceremoniously from his bunk onto the floor. Cursing, he'd barely gotten his bearings before the ship righted itself, tossing him backwards into the bulkhead, sending a blinding flash of lightning through his already aching head.
His left eye clouded, and he wiped at the blood that was pooling there from a fresh gash on his forehead.
"Bugger," he grumbled, pulling himself upright with help from the cargo nets lining the sleeping quarters.
Staggering out of the still swaying cabin into the hallway, he climbed the ladder onto the bridge and found the first officer white knuckled at the wheel. Half the instrument lights were out or flickering and several of the windows were missing, broken glass scattered across the console and onto the floor.
"Grady, what the hell was that? You hit something?"
The startled first officer turned and stammered "Plane, I think, hit us. It's out there in the water." He pointed out the ba
Grandma Rose's Story: OneOral TraditionGrandma Rose's Story: One5 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
She told this story one day while she did beadwork and a few of her grandchildren played nearby. She remembered her own grandmother, the one who raised her as a little girl. She talked about a time many years ago, the last time she saw her grandmother.
"My grandmother lived on a place where she had a barn and grain holders and chickens and horses. She used to let me help her take care of the chickens. The horses roamed out to pasture, coming in sometimes for hay she always had ready for them. She and I lived there together. My older cousin, a young man then, stayed with us from time to time.
"My grandmother had adopted my mother a long time ago, see, and then when my mother died, just thirty-four years old, my grandmother took me to live with her. My sisters and brother went to my other grandmother but my grandmother wanted me with her. I was just a little girl then, not even old en
Who knewWho knewWho knew5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The man you visited in a dream,
The one you re-traced a half-remembered
Path for, in the off-chance of
Surprising one another again:
Polychromatic flannel and subtle sighing
Through the teeth, gently
Warm eyes softly exotic
Slavic vodka on a late summer night,
Sweep by, wearing blinders of
Deep conversation, still
Smiling with an accent
His arm around a waist
I want to sit in my room, arms wrapped around
Knees against chest in the solace of the sun,
I want to watch the endless journeys of
Sidewalk strangers from the fire escape
But it's ten to four and
There's no time to cry anymore;
Only time to join the chattering
Choir girls practicing for
Autumn LeavesThe concrete bench was cold under the grey sky and the leaves that had almost all fallen from the trees crunched underfoot. Against the sky the trees were nearly bare and their branches were still in the evening calm. The surface of the lake was flat. A woman walked along the path holding an old man by the elbow. He walked slowly and with a slight limp, and leaned on her arm and on his cane and scuffed his shoes in the dust every step.Autumn Leaves5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"My knees are bothering me," the old man said.
"Do you want to sit down?"
"It is the shrapnel again, certainly."
"There is a bench right over there."
"And this cold. They always pain me when it gets cold out."
"Maybe we should sit down. Have you seen a doctor lately?"
"I don't like the hospital."
"The doctor could help, you know. You could walk again."
"It always feels so" he stopped with a pained grimace.
"We should sit down."
"I am fine with my cane. I don't need the doctor. I can stand on my own. Back in the war, you know"
"Sit," said the
Fold Overi.Fold Over4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
across the vaults estimated by every milky tone
the curious whirl in old friends gather a surface
wholly between each divide of behavioral light
cones bend to placate our amass combustion
until her legs uncrossed absolving my repetitive
nature to forget what conditions a truth has also
to submerge and share in upholding closely
the uniqueness of love we each must extinguish
estimated by every
cones bend to
our amass combustion
my repetitive nature to forget what
conditions a truth
has also to
against the uniqueness
we each must
extinguish our self
AntesWe are We, the Hunters of greatest knowledge and spell-blood. We use spell-words to hunt and to Change our bodies to rocks or trees. It has long been forbidden to Change to other Hunters or Hunted, or to kill others of We; yet it happened, and without it We would not be living.Antes4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
This is that tale.
This is a tale from before the Fire, before the Dark, when the world was still green and the sky was still blue.
We had a Pack in the north, running free under the moon. The hunt was good. The Pack was strong and the prey was weak. The prey was a Hunter, a small running-Hunter; and so he turned, hissing spell-words, but he was claw- and tooth-strong, not spell-strong.
The Pack closed in. The youngest drew first blood, hissing. Wait, the running-Hunter hissed in simple-speak, but the Pack would not wait after a wounding, and they sprang upon him; yet his flesh was familiar. The youngest shrieked as the blood on her claw turned black. It was not running-Hunter blood, but spell-bloo
The Thin HoursI.The Thin Hours4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Those of us here in this skeleton time,
this time of the year when the nights are thin
and dark, and dark with anxiety, peeling
as layers of an oyster shell, brittle and effaced
and somehow iridescent.
When the bell tolls out the time the sound is thin
and reaches into fractured air and softly
seeks the spaces between the atoms and
misses the vital Os and CO2s in a lasting,
failed pinball. The bell sound dies in
some space between midnight and thereafter,
and each tock tock of slipping cogs is
a repeat and not a moving on.
The air is filled with each dull sound,
each tock a repeat and a repeat again. And the
slip between this old year and the new is the
slip of ice on ice, a thing that will melt and
lose its meaning before the sun can rise.
These dead hours can spin out with
no regard for time, and
no regard for the drub of a beating heart
and no regard
none at all.
The moth at the window is a silent ghost, but
the wind has
This Is The SoilThe dirt was cold, and the skin around my fingernails clung to it hopefully. I churned in his ashes slowly, giving him back to the birches he planted forty years ago. I started using the curls of their bark for paper after he died; lines of poetry struggle every day in the drafts from the window, shivering and moving away bit-by-bit from the glass panes that I can see the river through. It always rushes in the winter; the cold is never cold enough to freeze, but always cold enough to chill. I left half the ashes in the urn.This Is The Soil5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
-Poem- A Thief's TaleRide the chilling wind,-Poem- A Thief's Tale5 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
across the burning sand;
along the trail of life --
with it in your hands.
Items made through bloodshed,
seven for the priests;
with their magic powers,
to bring upon the peace.
Rage for fallen comrades,
scarred by darkened times;
revenge, his only wish,
to make up for the crime.
Defeat brought in battle,
but denied his death;
instead, trapped inside,
to await his final breath.
Millennia of silence,
until a new time came;
to possess a boy's body
and rule a Shadow Game.
The ForecasterMy brother's solemn predictions often landed him in trouble, even though he was frequently correct. One morning he placed his trembling hands on my shoulders. I was busy, fishing. But I knew at once from the pressure of his fingers, from the grave way he spoke my name that something was amiss. "Tae," he whispered, "Atlantis is sinking."The Forecaster4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I remember my first reaction was to laugh. Shau shook me, frustrated. "I do not jest!" he hissed. "I am certain, Tae."
Brushing away his palms, I cast my gaze to the river. There had not been a single quirk of the line. I adored Shau, yet, I despised his antic, paranoid ways: he would never be a hunter. "You have frightened away our meal! Please attend your duties, Shau. Stop fretting. The continent is fine."
Shau did not relent; he twisted my wrist until I was forced to heed.
The Trouble With HomonymsI suffered quite badly from Medical Student Syndrome in my first year of studying, to the point where I no longer trust myself to diagnose even the common cold when it comes to my own body. Not that it was ever the simple ones I thought I had - it never works that way. The rare ones, the ones that are hard to diagnose, the ones that have such few outward symptoms that they slip past professionals time and time again, those were the ones I obsessed over.The Trouble With Homonyms4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
That was twenty years ago and I still don't trust myself to self-diagnose athough I'm sure I'd never make those mistakes again. I've devoted my career to those rare disorders that had me so hooked before and I've treated enough patients that I'm completely one-hundred percent confident in my ability to find the most seemingly insignificant symptoms of the rarest disorders and not be fooled ever again.
There is, however, one of those conditions from my student days that I've not yet had the good fortune of encountering in a patient. It's
Tale's PassingAlex put her hands in her pants pockets, leaned against the wall, and watched people do a somber shuffle into the room. Some sat at the benches near the room's front where lay the casket surrounded by pictures of her father, and others stood in uneasy social clusters, wanting, perhaps, to make regular conversations but sensing the casual attitude inappropriate. The clock above her chimed the hour's half mark and there were already seventy people crowded into the little room. As Alex looked around, she realized she knew only Dale, Brian, and Brian's wife Elaine; it was they who worked most closely with her father. That so many other people would attend surprised her; she hadn't been as aware of her father's affluence as she thought.Tale's Passing5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Dim lighting, feel-happy piano music in the speakers, dull colored carpeting - I mean, really, what is that? Mahogany? And a whole miniature world of strangers and sad people gathered to light candles in a room already too hot and stuffy. Picture perfect pr
an argument about g. harrisonwhat did you think would happen?an argument about g. harrison4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
we taught the computers to fall for god when things go wrong
and nothing but February in exile without a moon
and you trying to describe the experience of blacking out
the numbers on a bill from cities you're not ready to go back to
we could end ourselves here in a fit of coughing
uninstalled by molecule into an anagram of northern lights
that would preclude trying to describe the experience of space travel
if only they'd forgotten the photographs at home
and what if the beatles had met in a chat room?
what did you think would happen
if reading history was all about reverse engineering the problem
and not the short stories of music that still existed on briefs
from outside the country and remarked at narcotics anonymous that everything
is the lack of light
and all the dead you've left are following
and following and following.
Oh california, i swear to god
i will fucking leave you
for exit 165.in the outstretched wingspan offor exit 165.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
tuesday night you'll find them:
the foothills slumbering jagged under
sixteen inches of loose sand and
the city hushed and glowing, lines
of porchlights strung together in suburban rows like
beads on a chain
your house was cavernous hollow like a lung
the colors were dim and
jaundiced, a quiet rush of tepid water
bent the silence while thirty years of
smoking hung ownerless
in the air like the cling of a dead moths to a wall
you tell me of a dream that's vague like
clouds in the sky like
clouds in the sink with
your body limp and damp like
hot tea bags and
your face like spilled milk
all of my angles bisected by your limbs you say
you're frightened to nightmare
of rotary telephones and roadkill and
of a morning where there isn't any water left
to fish or bathe or drown in
of birds that
hang all over the mazarine sky like
tiny perforations in the
infinity of the skyline.
Double BlindDouble Blind3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Dr. Darius from the Psychology lab walked along the line of students to Dr. Thorne's adjacent Bio lab, reaching the door just as it opened to emit a thin wiry girl with a pale face and electric blue irises. She paused only a second before stepping around him, offering a shy 'Excuse me sir', under her breath.
"Next." Thorne's voice was unmistakable from within the lab.
"Just a second," Darius held back the next student in line, evoking an irritated but acquiescent huff from the towering young man, "won't be a minute," Darius added as he entered the lab and closed the door.
"Release signed?" Thorne spoke without looking up. "Payment in order?"
"What on earth are you playing at?" Darius startled Thorne with the question, causing him to look up from the notepad on which he was busy typing notes.
"Playing? I'm not playing, I'm researching."
Darius closed the distance between them, admiring the majesty of the contraption that filled the desk beside the gray haired engineer. "I hear they're n
Actinium DreamsY'all have any idea how downright frustrating it is to be the granddaughter of one of the most powerful and celebrated superheroes ever Ulysses Randall Martin, the iconic Mr. Uranium and yet have no special talent of your own?Actinium Dreams4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I mean, it's not like I don't have my own elemental superpower: like almost all of Grandpa's progeny, I do. But how much good is the ability to produce hard-hitting Alpha and destructive Beta rays if you can barely control it and never quite turn it off? At least I'm not as bad off as my son Frankie; I love him to death, but when left alone the poor boy is totally unstable and downright dangerous: the worst possible mix of autism, Alpha rays and ADHD.
And I do at least have my own nemesis, of sorts: the cadre of good ol' boys who call themselves DOTA, whose main ability seems to be workin' together to nullify and trap super-powered elementals. But t'be honest, they don't seem to have anything against me personally; I think they just have a ge
Sons and FathersSons and Fathers4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Stuart lost his footing scrambling over the shattered garden wall and fell, hard. As he struggled to his feet, his head still ringing from the tumble his pursuer caught him up and knocked him back down harder still.
"You frickin bastard," Stuart spat blood and dust, rolling away from a second blow as the infantryman swung the butt-end of his rifle down, narrowly missing him. Managing to get some traction in the rubble, he sat up as best he could and shuffled backwards, the seat of his pants dragging in the dirt, hands and feet scrabbling for purchase until his shoulders met the outer wall of the car shed, and there he stopped.
The soldier stayed still, its seven plus feet of arms and legs bent at obtuse angles as it crouched low to the ground, watching, waiting.
There was a throaty gargling noise, with a tinny mechanical voice following in broken English a few moments out of sync.
"Show other soldier units." The tall figure leaned forward, shuffling its feet and free hand to keep balan
2. Lem's MelodyThe Mission's security gate wouldn't open all the way. Some crackhead spent an hour slamming himself into it when Sister Constance wouldn't let him in after dawn, so now the rail was bent. Lem had to turn the rolling bag sideways to fit it through the door.2. Lem's Melody4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The battered TV shrieked at Lem from its cage on the wall. Some stupid show about college kids scaring themselves looking for ghosts in abandoned mental hospitals. The day room - Lem never got tired of the irony - was mostly empty, except for Melvin in the corner mumbling to himself, Sister Constance glaring from her desk behind smudged, bullet-proof glass, and a girl.
It was the girl that caught his attention. Couldn't be more than fifteen-sixteen, and she turned her head to the floor as Lem studied her. Her hair was purple on one side, orange on the other, with roots showing muddy blonde. Pale as milk, except for the bruises, and there were a lot of those. One knee bobbed up and down, causing one of her worn-out Converse sneakers
So Long, I Must Be GoingWashington - The American space agency Nasa has lost contact with the 9-year-old Prometheus I space probe to Alpha Centauri, officials have announced. Prometheus was the first to pass through the Oort cloud and send to Earth close-up images of comets and proto-comets found there, on its way to our nearest neighboring star system. Catastrophic hardware failure is suspected, perhaps as the result of collision with space debris.So Long, I Must Be Going4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
As it turns out, the galaxy is teeming with intelligence, and I found it. Or it found me. Wait, let me back up and start over. I'm new at all this story telling stuff. Never had to do it before.
I'm a deep-space probe from Earth. I'm not going to bother explaining where that is, because if you're from there you already know and if you're not, you probably don't care. It's tiny, an insignificant spark orbiting a medium-sized yellow star that's all you need to kn
Memories, Light the Corners of our MindsMemories, Light the Corners of our Minds2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Lucas Three sat in the coffee shop long after she left, long after the people that had watched the scene play out had moved on. He sat for hours after she'd calmly, mercilessly ended their three year relationship with a calculated precision of language that even he couldn't have delivered more succinctly.
"This has been fun, really, it's been fantastic, but you knew this was never going to last." She didn't touch her latte, which was never a good sign.
"You're never going to get old, and I'm going to age out and die. At some point you're going to leave me for someone younger, and by then I'll be too old to find anyone to love me and I'll simply die alone." Her hands flew about the space in front of her as she spoke. He often wondered if she were forced to keep her hands in her pockets, would she be able to speak at all? He smiled at that thought, and the smiling caused him pain.
"Already my friends find you 'quaint', and your friends look upon me as some kind of lesser thing. Janson Fo
a narrativea crow,a narrative5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
perched on my shoulder,
on my shoulder,
and soon his crowing,
his gorgeous crowing
he turned his head from my ear
so he could point his beak towards a man
catching his gold-haired daughter in his arms,
and turned back to my ear,
that man, that man over there, over there, over there,
his is as filled with dissapointment
as the sea with water,
look how he drowns;
looking at the gold-haired girl,
a bundle of giggles,
a bundle of giggles,
in her father's arms,
I brushed the crow
off my shoulder,
off my shoulder,
and watched him go,
and crow, so beautiful,
and crow, so beautiful,
in someone else's ear,
I miss him so.
MayflyIt's a nudge from the Naiad orbiter that brings me fully to my senses, and, instinctively, I find myself checking my systems. Power from her solar panels quickly floods my own circuits, and I flex instruments and senses that feel like they've been dormant for all too long. Which they have, of course.Mayfly6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Wakey, wakey," the Naiad's saying, as I burn through the reports and telemetry my body's feeding me.
Some of my instruments have iced-up, I realise. But that's a minor concern. Everything else is sound.
"Are we there yet?" I reply.
"We are indeed."
"Mayfly, this is control. " The signal's peppered with static, and I quickly adjust for the Doppler Shift.
"Control," I reply. "My IRR lens has iced, but all other systems are go. Telemetry is online." And then I wait. If I had fingers, I'd be drumming them.
I count the seconds as they pass, calculating the signal lag as I do.
"Roger, Mayfly. Your telemetry is good. "
Right on cue.
"Mission is go. "
Retrograde Scents from inside the suit intertwined their intentions with the sights of tangled and tessellated hair illumed by firefly LED's, spiking my circulation with memories and murmurs of dopamine.Retrograde4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I took her by the gaze; she steered her sight away from mine. I led her through a glance that involved no scuffling of hands.
She was one of two wayward strangers passing in the cosmos; two separate glances met as objects in motion tending to motion. People aren't the same however.
Drifter was the term we were known as, people cast off of vessels and ships, mostly by accident, condemned to trudge about the universe until starvation kicked in or their oxygen-starved filters were finally incapable of operating. My unplanned departure from the mysteriously flaming