Somber men in charcoal suits carried the empty casket. Uma watched, stricken, as they lowered it into the gaping hole beneath the sycamore tree. That crowd that gathered was silent, many still struggling to come to grips with the reality that had brought them all together in this moment.
Masika sat in her apartment, cowed by the gloom and dirty-gray walls. The clock in the kitchen was ticking so loudly it scraped at her nerves. Her fingers itched to rip it right down. Her toes curled into the fabric of her couch. She pondered the problem, biting the nail of her thumb, all the way down to the nub. She could stomp it into silence, maybe. Smash it to smithereens. Imagining it made her laugh. The sound came out awkwardly, somewhere between a choke and a sob.
“If this boat hits one more swell, I swear I’ll hurl that slop they called breakfast back up on the deck.”
Rastaman gone astray, the devout artist had adopted flesh for his canvas. Everything about him was dark, the curl of his brows, and even his countenance when he eased back and stood, studying his handiwork.
Terry could hear the clickety-clack of the prosthetic leggings on Number 876’s spacesuit as they ambled down the ship’s corridor. The octopi didn’t really care about names. Terry called Number 876 Klara because it made her feel better to call her partner something other than a number. The nickname scrawled on Klara’s helmet in radical ink had been their own choice, though.
I remember sitting on my uncle’s verandah as a kid, watching Star Trek through the living room’s glass-paned window. I remember the voice of Captain Jean Luc Picard speaking of exploring strange, new worlds and seeking out new civilizations, of boldly going where no one has gone before.