“Ruptured Oxygen Tank”

Warning.
1%.

Balloons.
Flames burning.
Wonderful hot air balloons soaring into a dark sky.
The shadowy outline of a church.
His sister.
On her wedding day.
Wildly colored flowers.
Ornamental robes of a priest rippling in the wind.
Some featureless void.
A bleached meadow of low hills.
Blankets and sheets crumpled.
His bed.
An intense desire to rest.
A picture on the wall.
The Earth.
A chirping.
Flashes of red.
Warning.
Low oxygen.
1%.
The cold basalt of the Moon.

Lunar Anachronism – by Joshua Scully

SICK LIT MAGAZINE

“A team made the discovery about the same time the accident occurred,” Bengoetxea explained. “I was notified, but I didn’t report because of the confusion.”

“I see,” Moore replied.

“Seeing is believing,” Bengoetxea said, with an uncharacteristic grin visible through his visor. The ilmenite mine manager wasn’t usually much given to clichés, and no one in the party had a reason to be smiling.

Of course, Moore didn’t know Bengoetxea especially well. Both attended the various ecumenical religious services offered at the base. Moore had learned that no amount of religion could make the lunar station feel any closer to God.

As the miners and technicians had been sent back to their barracks following the accident, the lava cave was impossibly dark.  Bengoetxea carried a case of specialized equipment and a portable lantern.

A steel square set into ancient basalt flows marked the beginning of a long shaft down into…

View original post 1,063 more words