Welcome to Cosmic Fight Club, we are the installation program of the love-nexus. We have the backing of the galaxy and are the only certified future for mankind and creation. We also have the blessing of our creator and a shit tonne of karma banked for the best luck anyone has ever seen - ever. So, if you're our new recruit, welcome! We are blessed to have you on our crew! Take a seat, any seat, strap in comfortably and take off will commence shortly. We hope you enjoy your flight with CFC.
Once I’d reached the edge of the forest I stood in front of the tightly knit trees and stared deep into the darkness ahead as if begging permission to enter. Then I respectfully stepped into the massive realm of woodland, and from the first footfall the whole atmosphere changed. The ground was spongy, like walking on foam, and as I put my full weight down the earth seemed to hug my boots and gently release them with each step. Scent from the foliage, mixed with the dampness and decay, danced through the air and tickled my nostrils, and sprinkles of dew that were lying in wait leapt from their hosts to anoint me with weepy atoms, and cooled my face with their misty kisses.
The omen came in the heart of a nation that was once a promise of pure soulfulness to come, an omen of the end of fairness and an end of safety for children came - for in the very machinery of democracy the crickets and the chicks fell silent and rotted. Armageddon could still be averted, yet it's clock was about to chime.
When distance is immaterial, so is speed, and so the idea of time becomes a thing that is malleable. Here in space, at home in the infinite continuum, what is there to do but fix the universe? Others meddle, or amuse themselves in callous ways. Yet when one is fully plugged into the creative force, the energy of our creator, we all become one, one team more than one being, yet one that is so much more than many. I am here to help. I always was, a part of the interface of reality, both machine and alive, a bridge of sorts, a messenger.
Her hair flowed down her back like black ink of a tilted piece of parchment. Her eyes were fox-like and had an icy greyish green hue like the first sprouts of plants in the snow.
If midsummer is a ballet dancer, a prima at her peak, then midwinter is the solid stage she needs beneath her feet.
A widowed wife. A mother of two. Living in a country of chaos. She lives in a scattered pile of concrete held together by fractured planks of wood. Trying to survive in a country that wants everyone dead. Seeking refuge in any broken, run-down house that is still standing. Living every moment of her life in constant fear of death for herself and her children.
It can be hard sometimes. Now and then we will choose the wrong way, a bit like moving against the grain.
We can ruin the wood we call life.
This can be hard to take back, since the damage has already been done.
It will scar you for a while, the mistakes we make but eventually it will fade into the past.
A simple decision can ruin our lives, but only you can choose whether to hold on to the past pain or let it go.
Gadget town is for ghosts. It's for people who are so clever and different that if they stay out there in the "real world" they get killed. We monitor these things. We leave them out there in society where they can maximum good for as long as possible, then we whisk them away to our community of egg-heads and creative-artists. I promise you darling, "death" has never been so fun.
Only a demonetized world can give us optimal neurology, a healthy era with robotised factory and food production, protect against climate change. And though a chequer-board pattern of self-sufficient capable city and country units to give needed flexibility in pandemics isn't entirely incompatible with some form of monetization, it's a whole lot simpler to implement without it.
Something flashed beneath the surface of his hardened expression and I hurried to investigate the sudden shift. It was too late, the emotion disappeared before I could identify it, like reaching desperately for an escaped balloon; the string dangling so tantalizingly close but the wind pushed it away and it's lost forever.
When I was eight months old, I knew every corner of the house because I had just learnt to walk. By the time I was ten months old, I hadn’t left any spot in the sunflower field untraveled. That’s how my mother liked to say it.
She once told me, “When you took your first step in that field, when I saw how balanced those tiny feet were, I knew my baby could run; I knew I would be so proud of my baby.”
She was right; the pride in Ma’s eyes lit up like the fireworks on Fourth of July. Her baby had made her proud. I remember wrapping my fingers around the medal hanging from my neck, then letting Ma hug me so tight, almost suffocating me as always.
Two months after our chat, her baby ran again. Little did she know, I was running with a bag of weed, and almost a thousand dollars in cash. I only needed to get out of my head, and out of the town.
I haven’t seen those eyes again. Not when I had graduated middle school with all as from juvie, or even when I had decided Dusty’s life was more important than my own.
For the last six months, all I’ve seen is the disappointment in her face, dark like the sky over Carlson, all the stars dead with the death of the soldiers and the death of the veteran’s dreams