Run from the demons that want to hunt you down.
For they make this place feel like a ghost town.
Sad to say but it is so true.
What they have done will terrify you.
Send a shiver right to your toes.
Make you hope you won’t suffer death throes.
But the reality is they are forever near.
Consume too much life and they’ll be right here.
Ready to take what you have become.
Twist your reflection until you are scum.
Prey on the doubts that they forced in your head.
Keep up the pace until you’ve been bled.
Move Like Smoke
Hey everyone! That time of the week again, story day! This week I’ve got a fictional story set in a world filled with anthropomorphised animals. I don’t explicitly say where and when the story is based but seeing as it involves ninja, and Samurai are mentioned, you might be able to guess. That’s all I’m going to say on the story front apart from its 8,700 long and hope you enjoy!
Keeping to the dark shadows made more intense by the stormy night sky, Ru continues to climb the mountain. His goal is the peak, or close to it, where there is a shrine and by all accounts his former Master.
Those details are the only ones he knows for certain. What he does not know is how many bandits will greet him when he arrives. Much like he does not know how they captured Master Ento or their reasons for doing so, seeing as it certainly cannot be for wealth. Training is the only possibility but somehow that too seems unlikely.
At one time Ru would have wondered if this was some sort of test set out by his Master, but after so many winters as a ninja, too many to recall in truth, he seriously doubts it. Especially as a good while ago Master Ento made it clear that the only trials Ru would face from now on would be ones presented to him by life itself. His old mentor has not been wrong about that, not at all.
Because of that the Red Kangaroo is hurrying as best he can; climbing with semi-reckless abandon up the steep craggy rocks, rather than using the long winding path that leads, roughly, from the base of the mountain to the shrine near its jagged tip.
At this time of the year, the peak is capped in thick white snow, which during the daylight hours reflects what sunlight is afforded out like a mirror, meaning that it can be seen for miles around.
When he was younger, Ru would gaze out at the snow capped mountain and marvel at its size, its beauty, it’s everything really. Alas, when he first ventured to the mountain, as a child, he found that the peak had lost a great deal of its earlier allure. It was because he was no longer a wide eyed child new to its shape but rather a seasoned veteran well versed in the appearance of the towering edifice which he saw each and every day of his life.
Without warning a large bolt of forked lightning cracks the air, leaving a fizzle in its wake. The Kangaroo feels the fur all over his body drawn toward the static discharge. He bristles and shakes in hopes of warding off the pull it has upon his fur. The outcome is semi successful.
Yet mercifully, the bolt did not strike danger close. If it had Ru would either have been roasted alive or been forced into jumping clear of the section of rocks he has, thus far, been scaling. Whether he’d have successfully reattached to the rocks following such a daredevil move would’ve been anyone’s guess.
He himself is not so arrogant as to declare for certain that if such an occurrence would have transpired that it would have resulted in a positive outcome. Rather, he feels his fate would have been odds similar to that of a flip of a coin. Not something you would wish for at several thousand metres up. And definitely more than enough to make even the most hardened climbers head spin.
Feeling this line of thinking will lead him nowhere of use he puts the thoughts, dubbing them irrelevant, aside and continues his ascent.
Thunder can be heard rumbling in the wake of the flashes which illuminate the dark sky, made darker still by the thick clouds which are threatening to unleash another bout of…
At that precise moment the heavens open and rain begins to hammer down on the world below, and as you can imagine the rain reaches the mountain first of all. It means that Ru, being on the other of said mountain, quickly finds himself bathed in water. So much so that he feels he would be drier if he were to stand under a waterfall; which is something he has done many a time.
While continuing to be battered by rain, but not so much wind which is mercifully meagre at this time, he sighs, shakes his head, checks again that his sword is in place across his back and then tightens his grip on the rocks in hopes of avoiding any potential mishaps.
With the rain beating down as it is, unless it stops in the next few seconds which the Kangaroo thinks is unlikely, it won’t be long until this surface is super slippery. So, now more than ever Ru will need to concentrate. Thankfully, no bandits, if they are positioned around the mountain, will be capable of seeing him during this section of his climb. Regrettably, that won’t be the case later on, when he is higher up the near seven thousand metre mark. For even he is not capable of consistently keeping himself adhered to the rocks when the angle is past vertical, and in some places it goes way past that.
In his eyes to achieve such a feat you have to be a monkey or an ape of some kind. He is neither. He is a Kangaroo; strong legs, strong tail, upright, but lacking in arm strength by comparison. And had he not wished to become a ninja he would not be so capable at ‘simple’ climbing like he is currently doing either. Yet, alas there are limits for what can be overcome regardless of training put in, for the failures of evolution are unbeatable past a certain point.
Yet that same failing, if it can be called as such, was one of a small handful of occurrences that saw Master Ento accept a limitation. Not a soul known for such things usually and as a result when he did mutter words to such an affect Ru found himself profusely shocked. It even led him to standing, mouth agape in eyed disbelief. That was until his master decided to initiate a combat practice, without warning, which forced him to react lest he wish to lose before the practice had technically begun.
Master Ento, Ru remembers, always did like spontaneous lessons. These ‘lessons’ were the sort that would interrupt an already methodically planned period of teachings, simply because it would “build character and better prepare for the real dangers faced in life.” Those were his exact words. The Kangaroo can recall them as if they were last spoken not even a minute ago.
In reality it has been many years since his Master has said such a thing, to him at least.
Remembering all of this and much more, the Red Kangaroo cannot help but pause and smile.
Memories of his mentor and the ways in which he liked to ‘teach’ bubble to the forefront of his mind. Though none of them ring louder, with him back on this mountain, than the last of the trials he faced. It was the one that turned his dreams into a reality, handing him the future he had always wanted, for it was the day he became a fully fledged ninja.
Forged In Fools
Ride for the capture.
The tide of the rapture.
Call to the wind.
Until we must turn in.
Are these sights all true?
Or do we create them for you?
Soon my head does spin.
Leave us not in sin.
This decree on burnt parchment is not signed.
Whoever did draft it must have not been aligned.
For the words are unworthy and the lines go askew.
He who did write this is not one of you.
Pride before a fall.
Here does come the gall.
Face of painted red.
Puts these souls to bed.
But should we listen well?
Or end this hate filled swell?
What little does remain.
May come back round again.
This decree on burnt parchment is not signed.
Whoever did draft it must have not been aligned.
For the words are unworthy and the lines go askew.
He who did write this is not one of you.
With a spectre in the closet,
And a mouse in your chest.
Rumbles and ruptures will be your final test.
So never walk amongst the pleasures of flesh.
For if you dare dwell here,
Then down will come the blade upon your pretty heads.
This decree on burnt parchment is not signed, in blood.
Whoever did draft it must have not been aligned, before in came the flood.
For the words are unworthy and the lines go askew, they do.
He who did write this is not one amongst any of you.
Opposites And Parallels
You want scriptures.
I crave pictures.
The two of us are not compatible.
Cause if you say white,
I say grey.
Neither of us gets to eat, OK?
So don’t look glum when I offer to you,
This must end before we each do.
Its the truth even if we don’t want to admit,
Some day we will both be over it.
Parrellels and opposites.
On these stones we do sit.
Neither wants to say a word.
If we did would we be heard?
Chances are it is a no.
Even though the gaps so low.
Cause both of us are silent and loud.
As we drifted together like twin clouds.
On skies so blue that blinded eyes.
Far below somebody cries.
Whether through fear or great joy.
We can not judge that, boy.
For we are even more twisted.
In those ways we are also gifted.
Yet all our words just float away.
Lost even as they come our way.
Its like living in a cage of glass.
Neither of us gets a pass.
Just a space in which to scream.
Your look says you have also suffered the dream.
Like we did when we were young.
And spoke of tales that had been spun.
But those days are long gone.
Like a ballon that touches a prong.
So we should simply drift apart.
Reignite our own dosed sparks.
Though not to connect once done.
I fear that it would just go wrong.
Cause you want scriptures.
I crave pictures.
The two of us were never compatible.
Cause if you say white,
I say grey.
Neither of us will be OK.
Babylon’s No More
Babylon.
Fires so wrong.
Green turned to ash.
All for some cash.
Broke the promise of the dream.
All to increase your income stream.
Now the streets are shattered.
Lives lie in shreds and tatters.
Is this what you did intend?
No thought did you use to comprehend,
That what you breed is pure disaster.
Every word you speak is manufactured.
Smile so wide your face might split.
If only that was the truth of it.
Made up claims about some souls.
Each new one to further goals.
Stupidity been brought to bear.
You are the vilest of those that might come here.
Think it cruel while I think it true.
I do so hope the monsters come for you.
Babylon.
Its all gone.
Peace and life.
Sold to strife.
And I could say, I told you so.
Doing that would not, help you though.
Not that I’m here to, fix this hell.
So much is gone this place is but a shell.
Your paradise is lost.
You ignored the cost.
Toll does rise higher.
Ascending like a spire.
Still doomed to be fallen.
Innocent voices calling.
From their shallow graves.
They only lived as slaves.
Babylon.
Fires so strong.
Nothing but ash.
Ugly like a gash.
Best Laid
Gnaw at the parasites.
What you say won’t make it right.
Trade ’til the morning light.
Each new spark is none too bright.
Forced out of this life.
Periodic in how you wield your strife.
Measured out all of the night.
Bring silence here to avoid the fight.
But stumbling is all the same.
One false move will dole out the blame.
Gratified by the haunted tones.
In this place you are all alone.
Feed off the victims.
You need no restricting.
Cause this memories living.
And what you know may not always be.
In this case you breed and see.
Weave a junction out of mud.
All who dwell here are not good.
Shovel in the grub.
Ignore heads like wood.
Here is where we are stood.
These tales are tall and continue to rise.
What stands here was never alive.
Just an edifice donated to you.
The numbers now are only a few.
Gnaw at the parasites.
What you say won’t make it right.
Trade til the morning light.
Each new spark is none too bright.
Forced out of this life.
Periodic in how you wield your strife.
Measured out all of the night.
Bring silence here to avoid the fight.
Structure is but a word.
It sings much like a bird.
Doesn’t mean its not a turd.
Bathed in the absence of less is more.
Along the way to settle a score.
But such days mean naught.
Its like our days are primed and fraught.
From The Moon
Hi! Another Sci-Fi story this week. Unlike others where I don’t specify how far in the future they are, this one you can work out. I don’t explicitly say the year but the decade is sort of provided. And all I’m going to say about this one, which you can probably guess from the title, is that it involves our Moon. I’ll also add that it has something to do with us returning to our Moon too. But that’s it. That’s all you’re getting. So enjoy!
Mission Director Lori Savich, like the rest of those who serve in Mission Control for the Foundation I space mission, is stood gazing in wonder at the display wall which is relaying the camera feeds onboard.
If she could manage to tear her eyes away from the display, Lori would find everyone else has much the same look on their faces as she does. Chiefly that is because today is something that they have all been waiting for their entire lives, a return to the Moon.
It’s been more than sixty years since man last set foot on the surface of the Earth’s only natural satellite. Many thought it would never happen and for a while it looked as though they were right. But none of that matters now because Foundation I, the lunar capsule that was hurled into space from the surface of Earth atop a rocket has just this minute achieved touchdown. It was an uneventful affair, which everyone on both the capsule and in Mission Control were relieved to be able to admit. After all, space is not anything like going down a road or even to the peak of a mountain like Everest. That’s because there remains a breathable atmosphere in both instances. The same cannot be said for space. It is a void and in a void you cannot breathe.
In fact, one false move could’ve rupture the capsule killing everyone inside. But it hasn’t. The capsule is down, static; resting at close enough to the designated landing zone that it’ll make no difference to what will come next. For this is not some simple return to the Moon to retread old ground. No. Instead, this is a return to the Moon to begin the process of establishing a base of operations there. One that will grow and expand over time from the single dome which this three person crew will be erecting, to a platform from which humanity will be capable of using to venture out deeper into the system of which it is a part.
A smile creeps across the blonde Mission Directors’ face as thinks about the future and what it might hold. Her green eyes blink slowly but continue to refuse to turn away from the display as the astronauts chatter and exchange words with Mission Control.
As ever Lori is dressed professionally and appropriately in a trouser suit. It’s her choice of attire and one she finds far more suitable when there is the prospect you might end up crawling into this space or that. Yes, even as Mission Director for a space programme you still have to muck in here and there. Usually, more out of choice than necessity to be quite honest, but as a result of her willingness to get involved Lori has more than earned the admiration of her colleagues.
The tip of her ponytail erupts into a light to and fro sway when she tips her head to better catch whether the sound levels being beamed back to them with the little over a second delay, something that has to be factored in when doing anything over such a distance, are sufficient. Thankfully, they are because one of her team instinctively increases the dial without it being necessary for her to issue such an order. They’re a good team of people she has around her. This never would’ve been possible without each and every one of them.
“Control, Foundation I is ready for disembark.” Commander Ian Wu says while stood inches from the exit hatch beyond which lies the surface of the Moon and the starry canvas of space as a whole.
No one can see the Commander’s face for he has a solar face shield lowered across his visor to protect against what would otherwise be the blinding brilliance of the Sun.
“Foundation I you are clear for disembark.” Is the order which is fired back without Lori’s approval. Principally because she does not need to give her approval as in truth her role is mainly for if things go awry. She hopes they won’t but remains on her toes ready and waiting just in case. If she did not then it could cost lives. Not something the twenty eight year old wants to have on her conscience for she knows these men and women on Foundation I. They’ve worked alongside each other for years preparing for this moment and have grown close as a result.
Should they have? She doesn’t know. Perhaps not, but they have and the Australian born Lori thinks it was inevitable for who do they spend more time with than the people they work alongside? No one. And who understands what they are trying to achieve better than them? Also, no one.
“Copy, Control.” Commander Wu acknowledges before clearing his throat to launch into, “Today is a historic day for mankind. Not because we have come to the Moon, but because this will serve as the first step along the road toward humanity becoming an interplanetary species.”
With that Commander Ian Wu slams his palm into the release lever of the hatch and then hauls it down until there is a hiss. The sound is the atmosphere being vented.
Lori’s eyes drift toward Clarence for a nano second and then back to the display when the bespectacled man shows no signs of concern. Still, the Mission Director gulps and feels a tingle across her back. She resists the urge to roll her shoulders, which she believes will get rid of the sensation, though does not know why she believes such.
It takes almost a full minute for the hatch to finish its open cycle. They never could get it to perform consistently with a greater retraction speed during testing and so this is what they had to settle on. Sure, it isn’t ideal but when it comes to space it’s better to be safe than sorry. Though, they had almost ditched an automatic piston operated door entirely in favour of something more commonly found on subs and ships.
With the hatch open, the atmosphere vented and a view, for the trio of astronauts, ahead, Commander Wu steps forward. Everyone can hear his breathing. The joys of a mic having to be millimetres from his mouth and him not being muted, unlike his colleagues Rachelle Emerson and Dean Ortega. Lori suspects they are stunned and in awe of what lies before them principally because she knows she would be. Yet, it does not escape her that this trio are trained in ways she has never been for she doesn’t hold what she would term, the daredevil spirit. No. Lori is a scientist not an explorer and while she does want to go to space she has no plans to do so until a good chunk of Foundation’s flights are complete.
Left foot setting down on the lunar surface, the fine dust shifts under the weight pressed upon it by Commander Wu. A smile splits across his face, wide. He’d already been smiling but now it’s much wider.
He drinks in the sights and lack of sound around him. Yet, he does not pause. Rather he takes several additional steps so his colleagues Rachelle and Dean too can set foot out here. After all, this isn’t some solo publicity stunt sort of a deal. No, it’s a fully fledged Moon mission. Like those back in the day. Thinking about what was achieved in the middle of the last century feels all the more astonishing to Ian as he surveys his surroundings.
Everyone back in Mission Control is cheering. They’d been waiting with bated breath. Hoping, praying, nothing would go sideways.
The last thing Foundation I needed was a disaster. It had taken too much to scrape the funding together to achieve what they have and any sort of problem could’ve sunk them for good, regardless of multi-billionaire backers or not.
“Control, we are surface side and I hope you’re getting this because it’s beautiful.” Commander Wu advises doing a show pan not only for his own benefit but for the benefit of those in Mission Control watching the feed.
Quite unlike the mid twentieth century Moon missions, these are not being televised. No one cares. Well, that’s not quite true. It’s more the care for space is directed towards those who have dabbled and made it popular, like an item of fashion, rather than it remaining a scientific endeavour to further mankind.
Put simply, none of the network stations gave a damn or wanted to pay for the rights to broadcast this footage, live or not. And with the budget needed for the programme itself there wasn’t enough left, none in fact, to setup live streaming capabilities.
“Congratulations Foundation I, you are the first people on the Moon in over half a century.”
“Copy, Control.” There is a pause. It’s longer than the delay between the Earth and Moon. Following it Commander Wu asks, “Is the PR bull over now?”
Needing to stifle a chuckle, Lori raises her headset to her ear, with the mic roughly positioned above her lips, and advises, “Ian the PR bull is over. Proceed with the mission as planned.”
“Understood Director; and never make me do that again by the way.” Is the reply from Ian who breathes a sigh of relief now that he no longer has to put on some clickbait presentation show piece just in case at some point they decide to use the footage and comms as a means of advertising. After all, Commander Wu is an astronaut, a military man from the air force, not an actor.
“Wooo, I’m glad to no longer have to listen to you do that; I’m a professional and have to have a deep and booming voice, act any longer ‘cause wow you sounded like a douche.” Dean Ortega blurts as soon as he disengages the mute on his suits mic.
Rachelle does the same and first thing you hear from her is laughter. Something she’d been doing throughout Ian’s little act and too short to qualify as a true speech piece.
“Yeah, it doesn’t suit you at all Ian. Just as well this isn’t being broadcast to anyone except Control because I know we wouldn’t have managed to keep it together.”
“Zip it you two, we have a job to do.” Ian forces the voice again which he had been using to sound impressive. They all burst out laughing. Many in Control chuckle too, including Lori.
“Gotta say this place is…” Rachelle begins only to trail off too in awe to relocate the words she’d intended to speak.
“Unlike anything we’ve ever seen before.” Is the conclusion uttered by Dean who finishes his colleagues’ statement. Though, he too is flabbergasted by the view and can scarcely believe that the three of them are really here.
Nothing more is said for a few minutes.
Lori thinks it important to let the astronauts come to grasp with where they are. After all, it isn’t everyday that you leave the planet of your birth and venture somewhere new. One day it might be, and should be, but first Foundation needs to get that dome erected.
Three weeks have been scheduled to achieve said goal, which is why the Foundation I capsule is nothing like those used back in the 1960’s and 70’s.
In fact in contrast to those, Foundation I is seven times the size, boasts ‘rooms’, compartments and, albeit limited, space. That’s not to say it’s going to be a comfy stay for it remains a space capsule and like all of them, regardless of size, it’s cramped, verging on too small for those who will need to call it home for the duration of their stay. And again, unlike those from the mid twentieth century, nothing will be left behind except for what they erect, the dome.
The aim, and hope, is that Foundation will eventually be capable of becoming reusable. This exact one maybe not, but by the time they get to mission six or seven when the Moon base will consist of fifteen connected domes it should be, hopefully.
“Anyone else think this thing is like Lego?” Queries Dean as he gets to work lugging lengths of prefabricated and folded diamond shapes to where the dome will be assembled.
There is no reply.
“OK, just me then.” The most junior of the trio admits feigning hurt due to the lack of response a couple seconds prior to a long burst of static blasting through the speakers in his helmet.
“Ow, what the f…” He managed prior to his voice being drowned out by the interference.
“Control to Foundation I, do you read? We seem to be getting interference.” Says Harley from her console off to Lori’s left.
“Ye… we’r… get… it… too… Contr-” The signal is broken but not so severely that they cannot make out what Ian is saying.
“Any… …ea wh… is …ing on?” Clearly the interference is getting worse but that does not stop those in Control from busily chattering desperately attempting to discern what might be the cause. There are all sorts of suggestions from issues with mics to issues with other pieces of equipment on the capsule to issues on Earth.
Alas, Mission Control’s analysis is cut short when the camera feeds show the ground beginning to shake.
As if on cue, Rachelle roars, “Gro… …haking. H… can gr… be sh…king?”
And she is right the surface of the Moon is shaking. It’s showing seismic activity but that is impossible. The Moon is not capable of suffering seismic events.
Every face turns toward Lori. She feels the eyes burrowing into her, sees them too. But honestly hasn’t got a clue what to do and so blurts the first thing which shoots into her head.
“Get back to Foundation I. Repeat, return to the capsule. Initiate emergency liftoff.”
Whether Foundation I’s team can hear her or not, Lori hasn’t a clue. Just like she does not know as to why she has shouted the order. Maybe it’s because she is panicking or maybe it’s because she hopes by shouting her order the chances of it getting through are increased. She cannot say but is pleased to see the trio hopping, the best way she can describe it, back toward the capsule.
As you might expect, Ian is leading the pack with Rachelle and Dean alongside one another two steps behind, creating a vaguely triangle formation that is growing ever closer to the cap…
The ground under Foundation I explodes into a fountain of white dust, launching the capsule up into the air, breaking it apart in the process. There is no explosion for in space you can get no fires.
The three astronauts come to stop a few hops later and watch in shock as something from underground fills the space where the fountain, and before it the capsule, had been.
Everyone in Mission Control recoils, the astronauts don’t have the benefit of being able to in such low gravity. Rather, they stare at what look vaguely like hornets with limbs composed of white triangles linked together with thin dark woven strands.
“What the fuck?” A number of people in Mission Control mutter barely under their breaths.
If Lori were not as stunned as she is she too would have uttered much the same while stood feeling deeply afraid.
Suddenly Rachelle does an about on the spot revealing that the ‘aliens,’ Lori can think of no better term for them, have surrounded her and her colleagues.
Evidently the sole female astronaut says something, but it is almost entirely lost in the interference. Only the sound of her voice breaking through, not the content.
Snapping out of her daze Lori feels compelled to order, “Run. RUN!”
She doesn’t know where the astronauts are meant to run too, especially since their capsule is floating chunks of debris moving further and further away, but that is what she feels it would be prudent to do. Alas, if they heard her demand they do not manage to react to it prior to the swarm of ‘aliens’ descending upon the terrified astronauts with slashing frenzied limbs.
Screams are all that manage to penetrate the interference, the static, and somehow one of the cameras continues to function. It’s the one on Dean’s suit. The others have been shredded. And so Mission Control has to watch, through a cracked lens, as millions of these things pour out of the surface of the Moon.
Terror is all that those stood in Mission Control feel. Some have their hands over their gaping mouths, others do not. Many gulp; a few shake their heads absentmindedly. No one says a word. No one knows what to say.
Regrettably the ‘aliens’ do not remain gathered like a swarm low above the Moon’s surface. Rather, they quickly climb higher, disappearing from view.
“D-director…” Someone blurts stuttering and afraid a while later.
Without thinking Lori replies, “Yeah…”
Her head turns in the direction of the call some period afterwards, once nearly all of the hornet-like things are out of view. It’s clear who wanted her attention, Kevin, for he is the only one looking her way instead of at the feed on the display wall.
“What is it?” The Director mutters louder than is necessary.
“T-they look to be heading this way.” Comes the admittance from Kevin who is white as a sheet and panting.
Everyone in the room turns to look at Kevin. They can’t believe their ears. Lori isn’t sure she believes what she’s heard either, which is why she blurts, “Are you sure?”
Her voice sounds distant, hollow; similar to if she were in a sound proofed room but also not. She cannot explain it and so waits for the reply. It isn’t verbal, rather it comes in the form of a nod. Everyone turns toward her. It is obvious they expect her to say something, make a demand, issue an order, but her mind offers nothing. She can feel it working but alas it offers her no aid. It’s as if it is spinning without purpose; dazed, empty and confused. She doesn’t blame it for she certainly feels those exact three things which make no reasonable sense.
“Call the President.” There is a pause. “And prepare an evidence kit for his viewing.” Lori can think of no other order to give. And those took a great deal more effort than they should’ve to speak. Though, sound like the right move. Still, her order doesn’t feel right somehow.
Nevertheless the room explodes into a frenzy of activity. The Director herself notices none of it. In fact the next time she pays attention to her surroundings is when someone announces alarmed, “The mass is nineteen miles wide.”
The blonde Australian born woman is about to ask for more details when they are offered to her willingly.
“They’ll enter orbit in nine seconds.”
“How?” Is all the Director of Foundation I can manage.
There is no reply to her query and she is left floundering for a period that feels like hours. The period only comes to an end when she utters, “How long until they’ll arrive?”
It might not be the best way in which she could query what she means but how many ways can her single word query be taken? In her mind in one way, as it is intended; how long until the aliens reach the surface of Earth, ground.
“Tw-twenty nine s-seconds.” Is the fearful reply that comes following a quick triple check that the issuer did not believe could be accurate or true. They still don’t but having felt they could not delay any longer than they had they issued it anyway.
Feeling the floor, metaphorically, collapse beneath her feet; Lori spins round barking, “Call. Where are we on that call?”
“Waiting to be authorised Director.” Is the reply that is fired back.
“Shit!” The blonde woman snaps. She feels angry and frustrated by governmental protocol, procedure and red tape at a time where delay could be the difference between life and death.
Then, without warning, a siren begins to roar and squeal deafening everyone in Mission Control. The siren is a warning meant only for when rockets are set to launch. A get the hell out of the way and into a safe location sort of declaration really.
It shouldn’t be sounding at a time like this unless…
The world around Lori explodes, throwing her and everyone around her off their feet. The Director is sure this is the end, not just of her and her colleagues but of Earth. She braces herself and waits for death.
Sociopath
People are dying but you do not care.
They are just numbers with eyes that now stare.
Some call it harrowing while others say cruel.
Its all a disaster over which there’s no rule.
With bodies in the gutters and stains on the street.
Those that you see might soon be dead meat.
Sorry to say but the truth is what’s left.
I could lie to your face but it wouldn’t be best.
Now face the reality…
Sociopath,
Where do you rate on the graph?
Hands of blood,
Stained like varnished wood
Sociopath,
Where do you rate on this graph?
Hands of red blood,
Stained just like varnished wood.
Screams fill the air and chokes off the breeze.
None of what is said here comes with ease.
For these were once lives that have been cut short.
Like some kind of sick type of blood sport.
And none of the whispers contain apologies.
All that is spoken about is that some won’t freeze.
Not that such ramblings bring any joy.
That emotion has been sent the way of coy.
Now face the reality…
Sociopath,
Where do you rate on the graph?
Hands of blood,
Stained like varnished wood.
Sociopath,
Where do you rate on this graph?
Hands of red blood,
Stained just like varnished wood..
Gasps from the homes of the few that remain.
Many had wished this some kind of game.
But truth is much crueller than fiction can be.
Happy ending tales don’t exist really.
For what rests here are the graves of the lost.
This death toll will never have been worth the cost.
But time flows only one way and we cannot go back.
What few of us are still breathing did not deserve that.
Incision
Incision,
Is not vision.
What we have cannot be.
This universe of spin theory.
And once you stop you may fall down.
That will lead to permanent frown.
Though do not fret and start to fear.
All that stands can grow my dear.
Words carved into porous stone.
On wings of ash they were flown.
Brought down from the deity sky.
Ancestors even waved the angels bye.
So question this and fall from grace.
Then wallow in the void of space.
A darkened pit within a cave.
At no point will you feel brave.
It sucks the light right out your chest.
Then spits you through to be compressed.
Not to call it an end to life.
In truth it is general suicide.
Non-Vision
Standing as a spectator watching it all unfold.
What I see is not carved in stone like commandmants of old.
Choices are prevalent if we look past the skin.
Refusing to pause will be what does us in.
Winding through the endless halls of cages we did cement.
Each one of these capsules has its bars bent.
For man insists on breaking out of its confines.
Except when they are self-imposed and then we call them kind.
But why is that a solution?
And where is the contribution?
Cause our time is running short.
Too little action might leave us drowning the word abort.
Spin the wheel one final time.
Sailing on the open ocean with wind in our hair.
Look around at the water with nothing but a stare.
Fear grips at your chest as you realise no time is left.
All of our advances have been in pursuit of ignoring this internal theft.
But why is that a solution?
And where is the contribution?
Cause our time is running short.
Too little action might leave us drowning the word abort.
Spin the wheel one final time.
Mirror on the mighty stone carved wall,
What remains will kill us in the fall.
Abandon faith in what can’t be fixed.
This revolution might be mixed.
A passion project bathed in blood.
Not something that is understood.
Moments from a bygone era.
Each day does not get clearer.
So why fight against the flood?
Instead we should rid atop driftwood.
Seek a path that won’t bring disaster.
Otherwise we’ll just sink so much faster.
Its been said before but must be announced again.
Our system is what must do the changing.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 