Michael V. McQueen
I'm a poet, I'm a writer, I'm a lover, I'm pretty weird.
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. She kept to herself most days. Desert queen, sandy diva. The hot air on the breeze scalded her skin, especially her face, which was the only part of her body with any skin exposed. Everything else was wrapped up in leather. Ripstop canvas cargo pants with leather riding chaps, an off-white leather jacket, lightly colored enough to wear in the searing heat. Off-white leather riding gloves on both her hands. Her helmet was white.
Laurence had never experienced memory loss before. Experiencing it for the first time was a feeling similar to the one you get after being submerged completely under ice water in a river with a fast current; powerful, disorientating, and chilling. He awoke from a nap he didn’t remember sitting down for on a hard bench, feeling like the world's worst hangover had spotted him and decided behind his eyes was the perfect place to bury a pickaxe. His hands hurt, his face hurt, his back hurt, and there was a strange tightness in his chest. He hadn’t even opened his eyes yet.