He can blow out the sails, he can swallow the moon...
The opening of a new story...tell me what you think:
The room pulsed around him, its fetid breath almost palpable even through the helmet. The bodies of Captain Wu Qinghua and Lance Corporal Sam Arris were woven into the wall, a superimposed lovers’ embrace developed in resin and red light. Their shapes were fuzzy, the inside of Matt’s helmet sticky with condensation like his hair was sticky with sweat. His inner ear couldn’t find north or down, his eyes stung and he could taste something salty, but whether blood, sweat or tears, he couldn’t tell.
He’d asked Sony- Lieutenant Raskova if she believed in ghosts. He could almost hear her now…
Matt rolled on his back. He could hear someone. A woman, a thin and insistent voice. Private Matthew LeWald sat up, druggedly rose to his feet, jerked by the invisible red cord of the woman’s voice.
“Raskova?” He called. Or…
Chittering, just beyond consciousness, like something he’d heard in meditation once. Matt took a deep, shuddering breath, a shamble forward, close to the warm wall now. Captain Wu’s dark hair, matted into tendrils, seemed to creep indeterminately into the resin, meshing and melding with it, like a negative-develop Yuki-onna, the dark and shadow covering all except her wide, washed-out eyes, her pale and evacuated face, one sallow hand clutched around the dark shape of Arris’ shoulder…
Matt turned his wrist, felt for the glove-latch just above his pulse. It disengaged, and his hand came loose from the limp elastic, which sloughed off like a used condom.
He swore that he could hear Captain Wu’s voice barking an order in sour Cantonese. He reached out, the hiss in his helm matching a calm heartbeat, his damp hand trembling a little. Their bodies remained still. Firmly, with focus and intent, Matt pressed his palm to the dark stuff which slowly engulfed them.
A vast and oceanic cosmology opened beneath him like the Red Sea, and like the Red Sea engulfed.
The room pulsed around him, its fetid breath almost palpable even through the helmet. The bodies of Captain Wu Qinghua and Lance Corporal Sam Arris were woven into the wall, a superimposed lovers’ embrace developed in resin and red light. Their shapes were fuzzy, the inside of Matt’s helmet sticky with condensation like his hair was sticky with sweat. His inner ear couldn’t find north or down, his eyes stung and he could taste something salty, but whether blood, sweat or tears, he couldn’t tell.
He’d asked Sony- Lieutenant Raskova if she believed in ghosts. He could almost hear her now…
Matt rolled on his back. He could hear someone. A woman, a thin and insistent voice. Private Matthew LeWald sat up, druggedly rose to his feet, jerked by the invisible red cord of the woman’s voice.
“Raskova?” He called. Or…
Chittering, just beyond consciousness, like something he’d heard in meditation once. Matt took a deep, shuddering breath, a shamble forward, close to the warm wall now. Captain Wu’s dark hair, matted into tendrils, seemed to creep indeterminately into the resin, meshing and melding with it, like a negative-develop Yuki-onna, the dark and shadow covering all except her wide, washed-out eyes, her pale and evacuated face, one sallow hand clutched around the dark shape of Arris’ shoulder…
Matt turned his wrist, felt for the glove-latch just above his pulse. It disengaged, and his hand came loose from the limp elastic, which sloughed off like a used condom.
He swore that he could hear Captain Wu’s voice barking an order in sour Cantonese. He reached out, the hiss in his helm matching a calm heartbeat, his damp hand trembling a little. Their bodies remained still. Firmly, with focus and intent, Matt pressed his palm to the dark stuff which slowly engulfed them.
A vast and oceanic cosmology opened beneath him like the Red Sea, and like the Red Sea engulfed.