Author: translunartravelerslounge

The spacecraft crashed when I was taking my six-year-old son to what had to be the most chaotic soccer organization north of Sacramento.

My love is pixelated letters and symbols made by keypads in a locked chatroom on an irc network so encrypted, even botnet overlords would not be granted admittance. My love is algae-rich pools in the courtyards of forgotten buildings waiting for demolition.

The priests had read the signs and the signs were clear: the Phoenix was returning to Heliopolis.

“What do you mean, you don’t believe in the oracle?”

The first man to summon me is Whitney, my boatswain on the Dharini. This is how I learn that Virat didn’t cremate me. My body still lies on the white sand of our cove, rotting in the turquoise waters of the Laccadive Sea.

My grandma used to say “every terrible thing will fade when that blessed day comes, my dear.” Now that it’s finally happening my only comfort is that she isn’t around to be disappointed.

The calls come from the caves underground and even you could follow it, slithering slowly as the heat scalds your scales. In there, your progenitor hangs, mouth forever forced open, venom falling in a constant drip. Below him, a god lies groaning, naked except for threads—intestines—snaking across his body, crisscrossing around the stone slab.

I can feel it in my fingers, barely gripping onto the crumbling ledge of the cliffside. A rumbling of horse hooves approaches. I know that there’s only one way that today will end.