Merry-Go-Round

Walking round the merry-go-round, it spins and spins and the world falls down. That was a shock, let me tell you. But standing here, face to face with the flatpack of reality without an instruction booklet, you just have to wonder a smidge if you can be arsed trying to pull the walls back up to their regulation height. It seems a little pointless, wasting all that time and effort just to watch them crash back down again after a couple millennia flash by.

Examining the line of the plaster won’t do you any good, the construction of the walls themselves aren’t what’s at fault, rather it’s the foundations themselves that seem to be poorly put together. And what can you do about that, in the grand scheme of things? I don’t particularly know the answer to such a conundrum, which is rather vexing let me tell you, but I can guarantee to myself that the plaster’s condition will not be a great help in discovering it.

Oh well, sometimes you just need to get on with it. Better put my back into it this time, might help them stay up that little bit longer. But then again, maybe not.

Moments Before a Momentous Event

My, my, what’s a stranger like you doing in a place like this? Getting all covered in that sticky blood stuff are we? Well, when shifting sex one has to take the rough with the smooth. But soon we’ll see if the saying really is right. Which one? Why ‘no cock, no bother’ of course. Let’s see what grafting one on will do eh?

The wheels of the trolley will take you into the theatre at any moment. Any regrets? You’d better voice them soon, or you’ll be sorry later; well, you’ll be sorry later anyway, but hopefully not because of this!

The blood? It’ll stop eventually. Then those little sperm of yours will be shooting all over the place and we’ll have wished you’d never bothered. But, hey, a sticky willy is better than nothing at all, isn’t it? But you’ll know all about that soon enough.

I’ve sometimes fantasised about going through the procedure myself, idly you understand. As a fetishisation of another’s dysmorphia it’s quite refreshing change of pace; it really gets the mental juices flowing well and good.

Ohp! Seems like its time! Well, see you on the other side, and have fun!

And keep a souvenir for me!

New Frontier

A wildness raged within Captain Mackenzie Calhoun, one that was often absent from the other officers of Starfleet. But, as he walked the bridge of his command, the USS Excalibur, he felt grateful for its presence inside him, burning away at the fear he felt at facing down the cloaked Romulan Bird of Prey that followed them out there in the void of space.

Whist the Excalibur had gotten the drop on their Romulan friends and had achieved a glancing blow on one of their warp nacelles, their opponents had managed to cloak before any damage that might have disabled their vessel could be dealt. Now Calhoun and his crew were on red alert, looking for any sign of the Romulans, and whatever it was that they were so desperate to defend.

Calhoun was used to knowing where an enemy was. In his youth, when he’d fought the Danteri for the control of his homeworld of Xenex, knowing the movements of his enemies had been almost second nature to him. Now, after being cooped up for so long in the walls of Starfleet Headquarters on Earth, Calhoun’s senses had dulled, leaving him with only the sensors of the Ambassador Class he captained to find his cloaked opponent.

But Mackenzie Calhoun had a plan.

“Lieutenant MacHenry” Calhoun called to the man slumped in the seat by the navigation console, “figure out which direction those Romulan...” He glanced quickly over to his science officer Solleta before refocusing his attention onto MacHenry “individuals might have vectored in from.” MacHenry sat straight up in his chair and started his calculations as soon as the last words left Calhoun’s mouth, hands dancing across the controls almost too fast for his human physiology to handle.

He turned back to his science officer “Lieutenant Soletta, scan for any ion leaks and filter by the length of particle decay.”

“Aye captain!” Soletta turned to her console so quickly her knifelike ears seemed to cut lines out of the air around them.

Finally, Calhoun turned around to take in the sight of the veritable living mountain stationed behind him “Lieutenant Kebron, reload photon torpedoes, recharge phaser banks and prepare to fire on my mark.”

“Yes, captain” came the rumble of Zack Kebron’s voice and his stone fingers could soon be heard crashing against the control panel, carrying out Calhoun’s commands.

Now waiting for results was all Calhoun and his crew had left. His hand’s grip tightened on the armrests of his chair as the time dragged on, watching each speck of starlight for any hint of movement across their surfaces. But the bridge’s viewscreen remained empty, aside from the few pieces of debris left over from the wound they’d already dealt the bird of prey, and Calhoun’s anxieties over the Romulan’s movements only grew.

A beep of conformation came from Machenry’s console as his final calculations came in and the entire bridge crew, aside from Lieutenant’s Soletta and Kebron, turned expectantly towards him.

“Most probable vector 90˚ to starboard, 220˚ to keel.” MacHenry started to slide back into his chair, task completed.

“Good work Lieutenant, take us to the those coordinates and follow their trajectory, one-quarter impulse.” Barked Calhoun and MacHenry sprang back into action in a way that might have seemed comical in safer circumstances.

As soon as the Excalibur began to move Soletta’s console leapt to life “Captain, detecting faint readings of an ion trail coming from about 180˚ to port.”

Calhoun smiled “Good work Lieutenant. Kebron, take aim a couple of degrees above the coordinates that Lieutenant Solleta has so kindly provided for us.”

“Yes, sir.” Zack said, “targeting now in place.”

“Then fire away.” Calhoun gave the order and watched on as the phaser fire lit up the outline of the cloaked Romulan ship, giving him and his crew the perfect view as the photon torpedo smashed its way through the vessel’s already damaged warp nacelle.

“Good work people” called Calhoun, smile widening at the now very full view screen, “Comms, send a message to Starfleet command about our little Romulan friends here, MacHenry, keep us on course, let’s find whatever it was they were so keen to keep us away from.”

...Homeward

Ah well, maybe staying isn’t so bad after all. We can always build again, something better this time. It would hurt less, that way, and we could always use an extra pair of hands. The stars’ll wait long enough for us to come to terms with the trees and the concrete and then they may welcome us with open arms or banish us back to our reconciled home.

...Will Be Blown...

And you think this world will just let us go, release its tormentors into the wastes of space? No. It will reach out, concrete fused with leaf, and pull us back slowly to savour our fear. It will rip to shreds everything we have and return us to the stars as the dust we came from. This planet, and our cities, will have their revenge.

...The Starship...

You want to return to nature? To the loch’s that lurk beyond the electric light? Have you completely lost the plot? Nature hates as much as the concrete, more so. Rip and tear, managed into an oblivion of straight trees and yellow bananas. We’re the responsible party for such things, and nature’s roots hold long memories. Now wander away from them both, away from the cities and the trees, off and up towards the heavens above to seek out a new world without a clue of us, start again under a new sun, a new set of suns.

May we understand that now, a new start in a place that knows us only as lightspeed rumours.

After the Rain...

After the rain we went out into a night that seemed to be like any other, boring; wandering as the streetlights held back the threatening dark. The streets forced their way past buildings, squeezing them together until they sprouted, rising into the sky only to leer down at us whilst we walk along our precious roads.

I think that, deep within itself, the city hates us, believes that it would, it should, exist without us, freed of expectation or of the need to cater to the needs of little beasts. The water running down the facades around us speak to this, hint at the weeping soul of a concrete monster that feels an aching deep inside its metal frame.

I watch carefully, laughing with my friends but always watching, looking for signs of a city stirring to life. One day it will rise, casting off its creators, and pull itself together into an amorphous whole, its face one moment resembling a shop front, the next a prison. Those that live beyond it will watch and wonder at us, the city’s citizens, before turning back to their work.

But I’ll watch, I’ll escape before that time comes, back into nature to be taken back into an ecosystem we’ve no hold over. I’d much rather be consumed by a loch, not an office block.

Spinespiral

Get those juices flowing, get them moving good and quick, developing something with those little fingers, and the big ones too. It’ll flow like a waterfall, down the curves of your brainstem and into the spinespiral, spin on down to the base of your body, down to the feet, the toes will wiggle with wonder. It’ll be beautiful, won’t it? That’s the question we’ll all be asking, when the sun snuffs it and we head of into the ripped ether.

I’ll spin with you, don’t worry, we all spin down here in the light of the sun, we all spin around and around and around and around and around and so on. Worry not, we will take it all into you, only you, forever you, splatter it across you like the contents of a pavement across the windshield of our motorcar.

It? What do you mean you don’t know It? It is it, isn’t it? Please, tell me it is it, or this has all been a waste. That is it? Thank fuck.