Skip to main content

[FICTION] Rygaard | Landing

     Leon awoke in a fog, pierced only by the bleating alarms from the escape pod. The last he could recall was the escape pod [PAINTED] alert going off, and then the bursts began. In a daze, he managed to ignite the door charge, blowing the sealed hatch off, in addition to his eardrums. He slowly began to drag and lift himself out of the crashed pod when an intense pain shocked through him-- a piece of metal from the console was lodged in his abdomen, and had hit the frame of the blown hatch while he exited.

    He tumbled out of the pod, and into the small crater of his entry; at first belly-down, to which he mustered what little strength he had left to flip himself. The pain was nothing he had felt in years. Not since he crashed his first suit when he began his test pilot career, but how long ago was that even? He thought about these things as he stared at the snow falling down on him from the very heavens he just fell from.

    He began to fade in and out of awareness, half-dreaming of the boreal landscape he found himself in, and half of his prior life. He dreamt of his old unit, of his mother, and his girlfriend. He wondered in his dream whether or not he still had a girlfriend. But then he began to dream of something very different. A cold metallic hand lifting him, attached to a large black frame with red eyes, and it spoke, but not to him; "Pod and passenger have been found-- do we terminate?" a deep voice asked to another present, nowhere in sight. "No", a staticky, crackling voice stated flatly, "Add him to the others-- we are behind quota". "Understood" the deep voice replied sharply, and then Leon dreamt of nothing more for some time.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

[GUEST WRITER] Healer/Weapon by Nico

  General content warning: This is a piece about the crossroads of our current socio-political landscape, through the lens of the author’s upbringing and life experience.  Mentions of emotional and physical abuse, rape, religious trauma, gun violence, school shootings, racism & hate crimes, and others. Topics and themes touched on are handled respectfully, but told unflinchingly.                                         W H e a l e r       p              o                      n It’s 2005. I am being raised to be a weapon.  I’m ten, or so. They split the boys and the girls off...

[Guest Writer] Gemini by Brian Rydquist

Editor's Note: This is a content warning for those sensitive to certain topics; self-harm, child loss, graphic descriptions of violence.            Sylvia bent over the lifeless bodies of the newborn infants she had just spent six hellish hours delivering. Screams of anguish poured from her diaphragm, blood soaked her nightgown from the waist down. Her husband William knelt beside her, stroking her shoulder in a futile attempt at comfort. The midwife, an elderly Inuit woman, knelt on her otherside. “Please miss,  you must lay down. Your body has suffered incredible stress, the birth was not a good one.” “My babies, my babies, this can’t be!” Sylvia shrieked, deaf to the woman’s words. “Shh, shh,” William was muttering as he rubbed her shoulders. “Maybe it won’t be, I have already sent for the spirit leader of my tribe. He should arrive any moment.” “Don’t be a fool! How dare you give my wife this false hope! You can clearly see the babie...

[GUEST WRITER] Sandstone Legs, By Charlena Kea

sandstone legs high tunnel fog in October my mind feels far away chicken kisses in the AM I still think of you everyday just another farm girl's wishes now can you keep my winter crops warm? I'm thinking of cold blood and cracked skulls sunberry stains on my right forearm your cattle line the streets there still waiting for my passage by school explosion on the drive home half legs around the bomb stove fire just a cluster of red dots to all of them I hope one day they'll see pawns and prey and bugs alike maybe it's all we'll ever be I'm just the same as you, though soft heart but iron bones incense smoke lures me closer I'm scraped pure on sandy stones deafening when I see them hanging these hollow iron shells they let your kin bleed out there damned the rest to living hell I'll wade through murky river depths please wash my red hands clean I'm desperate, I beg you every night erase these things we've seen my likeness sells postcards on the road...