united space postal star-serve

Photo by Georgia Koch

Photo (c) Bastet / GSK 2014

Neither comet tail dust nor neutron shower nor super-nova nor the black hole of night stays these space couriers from the slipstream completion of their appointed cosmic rounds.

Gotta keep my big mouth shut. Don’t give a superior busted nose and black eye. Bad attitude permanently holographed on my record. Off telepathy. Back  to fraking star-serve run.

Get the devoluting ones, yokels of the galaxies. Refuse to switch to telepathic communications as if some sort of witchcraft. Won’t go “virtual,” so Boat and I have to go slipstreaming and worm-holing to that h**l-hole

We go “viral” as if I wouldn’t decontaminate after a close encounter! Even built an Area 51 – a hotel, lounge or mail drop? Ya right, you launch those soda bottle rocket ICBMs at us. Boat has to take evasive maneuvers. Then you expect us to stop by for a Sagan which these yahoos probably never heard of.

No way, once we’re dumped the GPS mail (go pursue subject) on Devils Tower, I’m outta here. Back to station mlm menagerie, and the tale weaver’s bar. I’m gonna drink Asimovs til I fall off my stool.

If Boat and I are lucky, it’ll be at least another century in their time til I have to make another mail run to the a**-end of the cosmos!

Devils Tower National Monument, Wyoming; pix taken by Boat on last trip

Written for Tale Weaver’s prompt: Embracing the Future.

in the temples of the discreet

In the temples of the discrete, anonymous, hidden in the brume of time, ticks the clock of life.

No matter how aloof, the time-keepers, the life-keepers, bear the emblem of  the throb of humanity.

Some misshapen by the burden of a life-time, use chantage on the keepers, on others, on themselves.

But, it buys no tick on the clock, no extra second, no reprieve.

Written for Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Wordle 39.

A mix of script and freefall – some words lay where they fell from my subconscious creative mind. While this isn’t a message from there, I have been getting some of those lately.

© phylor

 

survival of the fishiest

 

 We are fish-keepers for a small pond; part of the “big house” landscape. Taking care of the fish, the wild birds, and the dog (before he passed) were part of our routine.

One of my sadder duties is to make sure all the fish are alive. The colder the water becomes, the more turbid the fish. They don’t hibernate, but they slow down, have no appetite, and very little interaction with each other. It’s harder to tell when the water is cold who has passed.

One recent unseasonably warm December day it seemed that “Big Blackie” was destined for the fish graveyard. He lay motionless, his head against the rock sides of the pool. Other fish were in motion, awakened by the beaming sun and a more pleasant water temperature.

Then the most marvelous thing happened. One fish swam over touching Blackie’s head. Then another swam along Blackie’s body. Some sort of fish telepathy caused two to swim by, the motion of the water and their fins rolling Blackie from side to side.

More fish appeared, arranging themselves on either side of Blackie. They pushed him away from the rocks where he lay motionless. The fish swam slowly, pushing and pulling Blackie towards the other side of the pond. By the middle of the pond, he showed a slight response. A weak movement back and forth of the tail, and a short flow of the fins. His companions continued to escort him. By the time the rescue crew arrived at my side of the pond, Blackie had pretty well recovered.

I’ve never seen the fish do this in the 8 years I’ve been watching them. I’ve had to bury several of them in the back garden among the snowball bushes. Thankfully, I didn’t have to bury Blackie that day. His mates in the pond came to his rescue. The survival of the fishiest, no doubt.

© phylor