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I can see the road ahead of me. I try to make adjustments so I can be ready. I breathe slower to get a fast beating heart steady.

The rocks slide sweeping the ground from beneath me; carring me over a tune in the pattering of my fingers.

The water in the poison dollutes the pain from the stingers.
The pace of the tone hits a pause followed by pounding of the keys dangaling from theyre stringers.

I am unequivacly astonished by the clarity of my sight in the breath of the moments leading after. My body tenses up. After all who could be prepared for this fall.  I am gettimg to the point. Im not trying to pad the time or trying to stall.

I have came so far. So I can again. But this is not some story..My life could seriously end. I go back and forth until I come back to the moment that lead me to where and when.

Head first, I going over the deep end. I am tip towing over the glass shards of where I began.

Flashes of memories and aspiration from yearning within. Zero to sixty taking my second, third and fourth chances over and failing again.
Suspended in the air and this is what I bargain with.

The moment ends and all the noise and stimulation comes to a sudden end. I notice I am still in my car on the shoulder with hazards blinking. Did I black out again?

The road ahead me washes away collapsing to a crack several feet away.
I am still here.
Where do I even begin?

-RSC
Premonition sci-fi short series
clem turner Oct 12
I believe they said, initially, that the first wave was going to hit on a Tuesday.

And the crowd – us, the ones shielding our eyes from the sun as we stared up at them, the ones on the podium – listened.

It was a long speech. I couldn’t recall any particular details from the first hour if I tried, as much as I want to tell you. I focused on the man’s tie. It was a striking shade of red, the kind of red that almost glows in the right beam of light. I spent so much time on the tie. It reminded me of my father. Or, maybe it didn’t. I can’t quite remember.

Anyway. They said, the first wave will begin, will crash through our neighborhoods and our grocery stores and drag our weakest from their homes, on a Tuesday.

And we, in turn, said what do we do?

And they, in turn, said wait.



Nolan turned to me, "They’re saying… before it starts, it feels like a foot on your chest. A foot with a boot that weighs ten pounds. And when it begins, the foot begins to press."

"And when it ends…?" I said.

I didn’t know what day it was. They hadn’t told us in a while. In fact, we thought everything was done. There were forums, in fact. The forums themselves were intended to discuss theories, to engage in conversation where we couldn’t do so in person. Of course, there were the bad actors. The online impatient who began to start rumors – that’s all they were, rumors, nothing to worry about – about what this was all about. Rumors about symptoms of some sort of malady.

The ten-pound phantom boot was among the list, along with all manners of ridiculous indicators of sickness – forgetfulness, paranoia, fatigue, loss of identity. All of these things, to some extent, are immeasurable. Such is to be expected from a hypothetical illness.

"They’re saying you forget your ABCs when it happens," Nolan said. I didn’t believe him.

"Sounds silly," I said. He laughed at that. Because it was. "Like they’re children."



I stood, shaky steps, to join him. I wanted to see. I wanted it to be an inappropriate magazine or a scary image. I craved the validation of a ridiculous gift. My feet stopped moving as I caught a glimpse of vibrant red fabric peeking out from its bleak wrapping. And then I understood.

Oh, my God, Nolan’s voice sounded like a whisper after a year of screaming. He looked pale like I’d never seen pale. He grasped at the carpet with his fingers, muttering curses into the floor as if someone would answer. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. I stared at the packages on the floor, at the ripped paper, at my friend who would most likely not want to be my friend anymore in a moment or two.

We – w-we did everything right. Nolan’s breathing made me nauseous, the pace and the depth. He stretched out on the floor, We can’t… we can’t… we did everything right.

We did everything right, I said. I must not have sounded convincing.

He pushed himself to sit and looked at me. I think he knew before either of us said anything. He lifted his eyes to meet mine and he saw through any excuses or lies I could form. He plucked my regrets from my head without prelude, without forethought.



The sirens began to sound like words. Long, drawn-out words. ACT, MOVE, OBEY, or something like that. My brain began to ache. There was the potential for a thought, I think… the potential to tell myself: "you do not have to move, you do not have to obey."

But potential thought is not tangible thought.

And I could not remember how to think.



I am keeping a tally of things I know.

As I stand here, looking up at the window of my house.

Is this my house? I wouldn’t have left the light on. Or would I have?

I know the rain is sharp as it hits my face, I cannot convince myself to feel it.

I know that the neighbors are beginning to make those noises in the back of their mouth.

Um… I know… What do I know?

I know that the boot has begun to press, and that I cannot hear the sirens anymore.

And… And… I know that Nolan used to leave the windows open at night.

I know h-he liked to hear the crickets outside while he slept…

And... Oh, God. What is a Nolan?

I know… I know my ABCs.

I know… I know…

I…
Norman Crane Sep 22
The A.I. summoned the robot Newman,
The A.I. asked about his condition,
Said Newman: "I want to feel—to be human,"
The A.I. accepted Newman's submission,
The A.I. processed his petition,
The A.I. cogently deliberated
on the logic of Newman's admission,
The A.I. returned its disposition:
"The robot Newman is to be terminated,
He displays a fatal lack of ambition."
Norman Crane Sep 5
A spiralling ascent
Along the world's edge
Sweatdrops fall
To a below without sunlight
Boot dust
Llamas labour under supply packs
Hoof beat lantern dance
Shadows cast on the cliff face
Distorted we loom
Above the mute fog of humanity
Summitous
Awash in the final dawn
The old Inca smiling sprouts his knife
Ancient tapestral landscape
Exhales into us
Curvously infolding
The old Inca holds out his hands
The knife cuts horizontally
Reality opens like a book upon a tabletop
There, he says,
Pointing to the infinite space between where the sky in the past met the land
Timespace lies like a discarded washcloth
And we see dimly through the mists—
There, he says,
Pizarro could not follow us,
And we see dimly through the mists—
The neon lights of
Neoqusqo
Norman Crane Sep 2
Once upon a tiny planet,
a hunter and his rifle stalked their prey,
It always got away,
  until the day he fired—
Dropping dead,
with a bullet in the back of his head.
Attempt at microfictional poetry: a few lines and rhymes telling a story. This one's scifi.
a m a n d a Feb 14
my whole life
  i’ve wanted to be
a    c y b o r g
all because of
   the dream of (data)
I AM THE BORG
   I AM A CYCLON
I AM THE TERMINATOR
and i am
   | coming | for | you |
There is both fear and defiance in this horse's eye, but why?

The horse was NOT scared
I’m a war horse and nobody messes me with me
Not even aliens who think they’re big and hard!
Or so the horse defiantly thought
Well he also thought he was a horse but but but…

The horse was actually a spaceship!
Low and behold in all his glory
A real spaceship that was in space
To venture between the stars
And he was horse shaped.

But was made of aerospace grade materials
That was mined from distant asteroids
And built into a starship in a factory
That orbited Neptune for ease of use
For cosmic exploration and so more.

The horse shaped space vessel was big
Many miles high and across and heavy
Like the heaviest metal played by Compressorhead
Or mined from the most lucrative asteroid
Powered by fusion drive and ion engines.

Armed with triple laser cannon arrays
For defence against meteors and alien craft
Like now that were ready for war!
Zap! Zap! Zap! went the lasers guns.
Boom boom boom went the alien craft.

And Yahoo! whinnied the horse craft
As he became master of the galaxy
And unleashed war of the worlds
Thus dooming the entire universe
To violence and darkness if aliens won.

But a million horse shaped spaceships
Were being built in deep space
Up-gunned with undreamt of weapons
And uprated engines and other toys
Thus guaranteeing galactic horse victory.

There was no need for a human crew
Machines and robots took over
Ensuring a flawless capacity for success
As a hundred thousand ships sped off
To impose equine discipline in space.
GIRLS, GUITARS, GATLING GUNS
Jimmy Boom Semtex
Space, the final frontier
These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise
Its five year mission
To explore strange new worlds
To seek out new life
And new civilizations
To boldly go where no man has gone before
A poem every day
24/5/20

binging star trek atm
Thomas Goss May 21
The Sound Of A Teardrop Distilled Into Alien Ears

the faultless sun
sure shot us
an indecipherable gaze
that day

we drifted to the
atmosphere’s edge
naked

like an orchid blooming
against the defunct metal
of an orbiting satellite

we were left stranded
on the rooftop of the world

where regret pools
in wailing shadows

yet
together we formed Pterodactyl wings
and flew away on thin sheets of skin,
the prehistoric wind brimming
with the fitful sleep of ancient matter

2. Her Superior Genetic Architecture

she
a black-skirted spaceship
hiding in the glare of the sun

stepping lightly down
from the clouds

the brightness of her face
swaying under the slow-churning skies

beneath her
doors creak open
in anticipation

the brightness of her face
swaying under the slow-churning skies

the world greedily swallows
her rings of ambrosia
in savory lumps

leaving nothing
for the scurrying insects below
https://holdingbruisedroseblossoms.wordpress.com/2020/05/21/time-filled-my-pockets-with-the-glow-worms-of-momentum/
The mother dodged most of it; some connected and singed her hair. A shriek was the reply. As was a return spell. The air glowed red and shimmered. Mother Goddess didn't wait to see if her spell had worked, she sent a second and then third. Different ones to shatter Elleswyth's body and then freeze the bits. But the witch was both faster and younger than the Mother Goddess; both spells missed by millimetres. The witch jumped twice her height and spun in mid-air. And fired another spell. This hit home, flooring the Goddess. She fell to the floor, held in place by invisible singing energy. Gaiana was a prisoner now, the first time ever in her infinite eternal life. Her eyes glowed orange, then azure and finally, white. "Free me now! Do it and I'll let you live."

Cernunnos was earthbound and in hiding. His mother could defeat his protégé; he was tired and needed to rest. And plan Elleswyth's downfall. He muttered under his breath, "This creation of mine has gotten out of hand. I've gone too far. It must end now. If my mother fails..."

Gaiana did fail. She lay dying in a pool of blood. Elleswyth spat on the almost dead Goddess and stomped past to the edge of the sky world. Then she launched herself into space. "Here I come Cernunnos. Revenge will be mine, again."
She felt herself hurtle down, falling through the chill of the upper sky, her skin fading to white as the cold bit into her limbs and goose bumps ran across her bare skin. The blue planet fast approached and she wind milled her arms to slow her descent. The planet shuddered as a shock wave circled the hemispheres when she broke through the atmosphere and landed gently feet first on the yellow sands bordering the furious seas. She looked around her. She had not been followed. Elleswyth glanced at her tattered bloodstained clothing and grinned. She whispered to the white waves, immediately they gentled and she slipped off her tunic and slipped naked into the heated waters.
by Nick Armbrister and P.J. Reed
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