The Simplicity FractureSe'o began living after the apex-floater skull stopped tugging at the skeins.The Simplicity Fracture by DodgingTheBeat
It had spent three spins skulking among a warren-cracking spine of ammonia ice seeking a nest, one of millions hissing and cracking and melting along the nitrate reefs pole-side of the Great Cleft. Waiting, as work-claws chafed into cracked exoskeleton sheathing. Torn by the calamity.
Ozone flooded his glands during the waiting. Designs traced themselves through its brief reflection-cycles, half-formed and abstract; mad. The signal of the warren enveloped any within in a simpatico unmatched from pole to pole. Tools, meat, homage-seed--designs became commodities, transferred through biting pheromone-glands.
A triad a 'span above its head abandoned centrifugal force and compressed against each other as a great trawler-float shattered the calm of the reefs to all sides. Threw splinters into its plans and shards into its thorax. One penetrated. Green-purple g
AudiocideIt isn't how I remembered it.Audiocide by DodgingTheBeat
The waiting. The hard return--the strike of something alive, twitching under a stratosphere at the bare edges of flickering displays and drifting starcharts. Days of First Contact drills in the ethereal holographic range of Sim-Deck Two. Three mission briefings, a twinge as my scouting unit is tapped for deployment. The hiss and rasp of rebreathers in the eternal dawn of Jump Airlock One.
I know it isn't right.
The drop. The plunge, ripping at the Helldiver's midsection. The tearing, it burns. Throws the shrieking of the stratosphere and the whining of stabilization jets and the ringing of alarms into a distant second place on the priority scale. Methane and phosphorous lick at my boots. The slipstream drags the limb appendages upright--
It's just what I remember.
Cloud cover evaporated in minutes, hot-white and searing blue. Landfall is scheduled in nine minutes minus. A sea of green-grey s
couldn't even have the honour of radio operatori was never meant for anythingcouldn't even have the honour of radio operator by MatieuCanadaWilliams
but rifle company
and my hands
While not otherwise occupied, I splurge prose onto a page and worry afterwards about things like coherence or meaning. In short, I'm a writer and journalist hoping to make it as a professional novelist, screenwriter, graphic novel writer, or investigative reporter. If that means starving, so be it.|
I've been published four times at The Story Shack (online flash-fiction website).
THINGS I ATTEMPT: Writing, music, occasional filming, devil's advocacy
GENRES I ATTEMPT: Sci-fi (trans-humanism, cyberpunk, military), low fantasy, contemporary fiction (punk especially), historical fiction, or anything rattling around in my skull or in my notebook.
THINGS I IDENTIFY WITH: Humanism, anti-capitalism, direct democracy, socialism, human rights/social justice. Add a pinch of punk, freelove, and free-thought.
THINGS I'M NOT A FAN OF: Capitalism, fascism, human rights abuses, hypocrisy, extreme ideologies, polemics, mass media (especially tabloids), empiricism, low pay for the arts, Stephen Harper, American politics, nukes, Starbucks coffee.