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Tech Junkiez

A Death Dream In Space

By Randall WindlePublished about a year ago 4 min read

‘Don't ya love her madly?

Don't ya need her badly?

Don't ya love her ways?’

A touch cold to the fingertips. Hissing pipes and blinking lights. It was a common pattern to push sweaty hair out of your face when hanging out in the control room. Dense metal pressed into your sides and scalp from all angles.

In his brief ninety-year glimpse of life, the chemist was long past tired. Impatient cavities hounded his gumline, complimenting the chipped-up teeth they held.

A last broken straw to a personal low.

He let it all go. Bright eyes fluttered and died, then fluttered again. Breath dragged to a raggedly slow pace. His pupils squirmed in aching sockets, throbbing for hours. Red-lined glasses slipped all the way down. The once genius gave the last flick of energy. Pouring all concentration and sheer will to an action of finger movement. Science devolved back to nature and all the most “sophisticated” technology was kneeling at the mercy of old-fashioned biology.

Biology in this case being that his fingers were too short in reaching a red button. The red button. From outside his cosmic escape home waves of azure blue drowned the stars.

The chemist’s music player sat broken on the steel floor. A dead relic soon to fossilize.

‘That damn song.’ He thought.

Drifting off to The Doors was far too miserable, but maybe he deserved it. Burnt out flames of sound sapping the air in the room. The red button continued to blink mutely, craving to be pressed.

‘So sing a lonely song

Of a deep blue dream

Seven horses seem to be on the mark’

Six feet away from the chemist, a body was slumped against the opposite wall. Simmering a cold sweat as his eyes opened, red around the iris’. Wounded but not dead it seemed. His hair a last mix of blue and brown. If they weren’t dying in space, away from safe stations or on a planet, the chemist would consider asking the other man why the fuck he chose such a dumb look. The other man (Grimmz according to a fading torso tattoo) breathed more rapidly. Fresh sweat pooled up from his fevered core. A torn t-shirt being used as a rag. Grimmz dug in his inner forearm. A hybrid extension by the looks of the tech. The Chemist was old granted, but he still recognised the technology, wincing at the sight.

How has he ended up here?

Just another tech junkie. From necessary prosthetic to mutilation for fashion.

“We must look like ants.” The Chemist muttered, gesturing out the window to the galaxy they floated through. Grimmz continued the game of wire-meddling. Red, yellow, and green. The space-blimp’s interior whirred. Noises that signalled damage and disrepair. Everything crashing in a rain of electric tears. Words flashed on screens.


It ran along the monitors, screen to screen like old ticker tapes. A tough cut to stitch. Grimmz kept on gurning. Just ever on, digging around in his inner forearm. Blood and copper bolts tumbled and dripped out by the precious second. Enough was and could only be enough. The chemist stood with screaming hips. Pacing out his steps. Getting right up to the control panel. Sparking and fizzing with a light haze of vapour. Grimmz mumbled something. Now sweat poured from both their brows. A glistened white sheen.

“How’d you get here.” The Chemist prodded angrily. Grimmz did not answer properly, just gurned and whined like a pig in need of a bludgeoning. The Chemist snapped out of sympathy, now was the time for action. His eyes found the monitor’s rhythm again as it spat out more and more messages. Variations of different code and system errors. Until the last one.


With a absent mind the chemist fiddled with some of the many esoteric dials and buttons. One day he’d known it all. That was before the lines in his face had set in. Before the great bloody mess of a blimp that was thundering through space. For him and the mutilated stranger it was a metal coffin in the making.

He wished he was dreaming.

From the music player the voice of centuries dead Jim Morrison creaked to a stop.

‘Don't ya love her madly?

Well, don't ya love her madly?

Yeah, don't ya love her madly?’

Sci Fi

About the Creator

Randall Windle

UK Based Author, Bristol 🌉

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