A desert world strewn with petrified
corpses. Starry missiles plummet fiercely and fragment what remains of these remains.
Limbs detach and leap and twist and land and tumble and
settle back down on the perished surface. And this happens again. And
again. And again and again. Until the body bits are powder and the
powder is dust and the dust is a memory and the memory is forgotten.
Jaded by supremacy but fearing
obsolescence, soldiers across a galaxy
attend an interplanetary launcher. Nonchalantly loading ammunition.
Yawning. Closing a hatch. Pulling a crank. Another projectile soars
and, once again, a victory is won for a planet called Ridiculous that
floats mad and alone in the absurdest reaches of outer space.
And that is the end of my science fiction story.
2 comments:
It was good but I felt it needed more running. People running. Running. Eight syllable words jazzed from the sciences to describe garage parts. Engines, cranks, shafts, rotors, all need new names. "And a Panini sticker book", says Neil, so I clip him around the ear.
Jesus Andy, you're right. And to think, I was going to include the word 'flask'. I mean, what place does a word like 'flask' have in science fiction? What would it be, a 'libation dispenser unit' maybe? And it was going to have a kind of tartan design too and not be silver or anything.
What was I thinking?
The sticker book would be great. A bit grim in fairness but great.
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