Tarnished from Epsilon’s third sun,
a circle formed of broken limbs and split
flesh congregating around a ravaged silver escape pod. Matted hair,
ruptured sores and puss-filled boils. Relentless rays of heat
and radiation – evaporating water into serpentine
steam over the asteroid-like surface. The escape pod as an idol –
a relic of ancient, emerald-hued pastures.
Cult-like survivors dancing, affixing scraps
of alloy and vermillion ore to malnourished limbs and
morphed anatomy. A commune retracing forgotten speech,
words and memories lost with each rotation. Grunts sufficing
as once words – barbaric chanting as the crimson moon
brings icy darkness.
Dancing to the moon’s equinox, a leathered bald
crone calling out a half-remembered melody of an
grand old duke. Blood beading from her gums
and iron fused onto her cheekbones. The others humming
and swaying, the darkness piercing thin ultraviolet
skin. Back to the pod. The cave. Degrading
back into the beast, gazing at comets and
blinding stars.
A thousand years since the Expedition. A thousand
more years before Contact. Dwindling life support
injecting sparse nutrients up into black hearts,
and Mission memories
gradually
fading.
About the Author
Matthew David Laing writes from the Ottawa Valley in Canada and has had short fiction and poetry previously published in Bewildering Stories, Aphelion and Corvus Review, to name a few. Matthew is a proud father of three little hellions and is a horror and sci-fi enthusiast. He is currently debating with his wife as to when he can read HP Lovecraft to his children.
