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About Varied / Hobbyist Senior Member CakelordUnited States Groups :iconcrliterature: CRLiterature
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Deviant for 10 Years
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Meanwhile in Australia

I am telling you to buy things. (We don't discuss why, except by note. Thanks.) 

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10 deviants said Analog www.analogsf.com/2014_10/index…
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4 deviants said Nature Futures 2 us.macmillan.com/naturefutures…
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2 deviants said Cicada www.cicadamag.com/thisissue/se…

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Loud clacking as my train rounds the curve. The view of the city shakes. Reading the ad for "Poor Little Rich Girls" raises a lump in my throat. My train roars as highrises take over the windows. The woman on my right slides her arm into my lap. I lift her wrist with my index finger and thumb. I see pores in her whitened skin, cracking at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes look through me, dilated pupils reflecting the fluorescent flicker overhead. She smells old.

The recording announces Chicago and Franklin. I hold the doors with my arm, squint inside the car. Nothing of value left behind. My shoe thuds against the wooden platform. Creaking all the way down the stairs.

Three blocks down, there's a store with my favorite wine. I step around a reclined man. He is looking straight past me into the sun, which is overcooking this city. It was overcast, before. I have my umbrella under one arm. I wish something would wash away the stench. I throw a quarter at the coffee cup lying on the pavement.

Inside the store it is cool and dark. I flip the sign to Open. No one reaches out to stop me. The cashier is slumped against the register, baby blues watching me lift a Shiraz off the top rack. Since the register display works, I allow the barcode to be scanned. Two thousand dollars. I shrug and walk out, cradling the bottle. I'll be careful later.

My feet match the rumbling train, which coalesces into the persistent clacking from before once I reach the platform. The doors grate open. A soft flump forces me to step high. The stray part remains behind on the platform, waving at the sky. Its owner has his chin tucked into his chest, and I'm sure if I looked into his eyes I would find them closed.

I dance between cars blocking the intersections. The drivers inside stare into the bumpers ahead. The traffic is barely contained by the buildings and river. The tires are hidden in pigeons worrying anything that drips down. Their feathers cover distended bellies. I don't need to bother myself, then. There is a sweetness in the air.

I check myself into the riverfront Hyatt, a black figure echoing my movements in the shimmering floor. I have no luggage, only the wine and my umbrella. The bellhop is draped around his cart, face layered in shadows. The overhead lights are too much for midday. I tug my sunglasses on. The maid by the elevator looks flush, although her sclera are tinted a rose I find unhealthy.

The doors open to the penthouse. The curtains are shut. Removing my sunglasses leaches all the color from here. I wonder if the sidewalks were ever this pale.

I lift a wineglass from the rack and flip it onto the countertop. The reflections clash. I rummage through the drawers. I claim a steak knife and a slicer. I test the edge and hope it will be durable enough.

The jacuzzi is filled with ice and six inches of ice water. Only the chest and head of this penthouse's former occupant, both flabby and covered in sparse grey curls, are visible. His eyes swallow the windowless room. I pinch his shoulder. Not excessively firm.

I return to the kitchen to uncork my wine. It breathes, alone. The label says it pairs best with rich, dark meats.
Eyes Like Gift Horses
I read whatever new translation of Camus' The Stranger and wanted to try some aspects of that style.

Made a few edits. Would not mind feedback on whether I overdid it, but given current response times I do not think it's reasonable to ask.
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as the title fails to suggest, I will be dead to da for a while. hopefully back with pics. shit though I did the math and I can count the number of times I've spent seven consecutive days in my own bed  since March on one hand. somehow I've kept up on tv though, thank you Internet.

Aula found she was pregnant when the ship's scanner announced it over the com. "43 individuals on board," it said the second she'd finished her physical, and then she had to go to Chern and tell him the first non-terrestrial human would be born before they'd met up with the other ships.

In honor of the abandoned planet, they decided to follow an ancient indigenous tradition and name the child after the first thing Aula saw when she gave birth. No one pointed out it wasn't a real practice; the single drop of blood between all 42 colonists somehow wouldn't pull its weight.

The morning sickness started as they passed the Orion Nebula, an impossibility hurtling past the stars. "I can't believe we haven't found a single habitable zone," Shien whispered over coffee, and it was hard not to reach over and smack her for saying it so loudly. The baby hadn't started kicking yet, but Aula imagined his rice-grain heart pulsing, the webs between his fingers receding as he reached out to grasp her flesh.

When the third trimester begun, Suri counted six months since the last they'd heard from one of the other ships. Aula, who was on maternity leave now, frowned and reached for a console. Suri slapped her hand back. "You know what stressors do to the baby's epigenetics."

Aula scowled and bit back the thought of tears. Damn hormones. "Then stop telling me about it. Go bother John."

"I don't like John."

"There's nothing wrong with him as a navigator." Aula found her fingers against her distended belly before she'd consciously registered the baby's kick. The shower was next week. It was supposed to be a surprise, but there wasn't the space to hide things like that, not really.

"Who's the father?"

"Some man."

Suri took the hint. No one else bothered her about it, but Aula wasn't deaf and the whispers echoed in their cramped living quarters. Something was wrong with the sensors. The trajectory was locked unless they found a mass to slingshot off, and whatever lay ahead was jamming their sensors. The cautiously optimistic thought it must be the other ships' safety perimeter. Aula started hearing the more delusional, though, who said her baby would save them. There was a fever in the air, but when Dr. Szymanski asked if she wanted a private birth, she shrugged.

Her water broke two weeks after the radar, their most basic of devices, stopped returning more than a green haze. Aula walked herself to the bay they'd set up, draped herself in scrubs, and triggered her emergency beacon. The room filled right as her contractions began, and then there wasn't time for anything else.

She squeezed someone's hand. She pushed. Breathed in loud huffs nothing like the night she'd had him made in a test tube. Pushed more. Harder. Fantasized about slapping the nurse, who was doing her best to be kind.

And then a fresh shrillness burst the air. Time to name him.

She found the strength to lift her head. Someone proferred the baby, but it was pointless. Aula let her hands dangle off the bed.

"What's his name?"

"Event Horizon," she whispered.

You're welcome

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:iconinternetexplorer968:
Internetexplorer968 Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Hobbyist Artist
Hey nero, do you think this is flamebait? forum.deviantart.com/community…
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(1 Reply)
:iconmemnalar:
Memnalar Featured By Owner Edited 6 days ago
Every time I come over here you have a FUCK YOU I'M SABBATICAL journal up. That can't be coincidence. (srsly: don't die)

i.imgur.com/vQIxQiq.gif
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(1 Reply)
:iconnawkaman:
nawkaman Featured By Owner Oct 24, 2014
You disabled comments on the post that sparked this, so I'll say it here:

ARCHER IS WIN!
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(1 Reply)
:iconshadowedacolyte:
ShadowedAcolyte Featured By Owner Oct 16, 2014
 :starecase: by BabyRuca

(you might want to add this to your repertoire)
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(1 Reply)
:icondark-cynder117:
Dark-Cynder117 Featured By Owner Oct 14, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
"Summer is Coming." Nice.
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(1 Reply)
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