A 7-year-old girl responds to DC Comics' sexed-up reboot of Starfire:
'via Blog this'
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Halloween Photo Story Challenge
The Nautilus Engine is hoping to inspire a bit of creative writing. Shocking, you say? Indeed.
Here's the basic idea: any and all who are interested should write a spooky short story in honor of Halloween (which will be here before you know it!) based on this photograph:
Base your story on this photo, either strongly or loosely, but within the guidelines set forth for all our story submissions (see sidebar). Submit by October 23rd, 2011. Best story, as determined by the NE staff, will be published at The Nautilus Engine on Halloween day to much fanfare and accolades!
Here's the basic idea: any and all who are interested should write a spooky short story in honor of Halloween (which will be here before you know it!) based on this photograph:
Base your story on this photo, either strongly or loosely, but within the guidelines set forth for all our story submissions (see sidebar). Submit by October 23rd, 2011. Best story, as determined by the NE staff, will be published at The Nautilus Engine on Halloween day to much fanfare and accolades!
Friday, September 23, 2011
Bring Us the Moon by Chris Castle
Bring Us the Moon by Chris Castle
Jack
Trump walked through the misty harbour, watching the drunks and the whores slip
through the shadows. London 2 a .m.
The
killer had acted in a cycle, every two or so weeks, as if out of habit or
routine. The police had dismissed each idea as much as the newspapers revelled
in it. Each day the headlines reported each rumour as fact, each story as
evidence. It had culminated today in an absurd concoction; a hand-drawn figure
of a spectral soldier, stalking the nights to kill wrong doers and
ne’er-do-wells. The restless soul was an Avenger of moral rights, acting on the
hand-written notes of Queen Victoria herself. The masses applauded and cheered
over their pint glasses and cigarettes.
Jack
reached what he predicted to be the latest spot and saw the rough outline of a
crowd. As he drew closer, he could feel the penny -- a supernatural, precious
thing -- burn brightly in his pocket. It had been given to him on the crater of
the First World War battlefields, by a man who knew something of the dark arts.
He drew it out of his pocket and watched it simmer with white heat as he edged
towards the mob. Whatever was killing in the streets of London
To
his astonishment, Jack found a crowd of almost fifty, gathered and hunched as
if a late-night horse race was somehow in the offing on the cobbles. All of
them were throbbing with expectation, their voices almost melted together into
something like a chant. He edged closer, half in fear and half in expectation.
As he slipped into the throng he made out the words that drifted from their
collective mouth:
‘Where is the moon? Bring us the moon!’
On
they went, swaying as if hypnotised, even as Jack looked left and right,
searching for the result of their hushed prayers. Sure enough, a man emerged
from the shadows and rose his hands to the crowd, silencing them immediately.
He drew his arms down and looked around them, his face a mixture of ringmaster
smirk and cold, dead glances.
“Who
amongst us seeks justice?” He began, somehow distinguishing himself from the
shroud of fog. “Who amongst us seeks entertainment?”
His voice was low and persuasive; Jack had the idea this man could steal a
pocket-watch and sell it back to the rightful owner without letting his cheeks
flush once.
“Aye!”
someone in the crowd hollered. Another joined in, until the mob was crying in
unison, their blood-lust vocal and unashamed.
“Then,
in these hard times, let us see something remarkable,” he went on, drawing
another man from the shadows; the man was dirtied and pitiful, though there was
something in his eyes, something that burned bright, that made Jack flinch.
“You
all know him,” he whispered. Then his voice turned casual, almost goading.
“Y’all know him!”
“The
killer!” one of them almost panted. “The devil who went looking for the poor
kiddies!” The voice tapered off, breathless. Jack noted it was not with horror
but with something like exultation.
“That’s
right! And who would see this creature downed?” He went on; his voice seemed to
veer between accents, as if too many characters lay inside his head, desperate
to climb out and have their turn. “Who would see this devil lay bare and be
taken from these fine streets?” The crowd hollered on, almost frenzied.
“Bring
us the moon! Where is the moon?” the crowd began to chant. The master of
ceremonies looked up to the stars, away from them for a moment and up to the
sky. Following his glance, Jack saw the last puff of cloud slip away to reveal
a heavy, almost bursting moon.
“Behold!”
the man cried and then nimbly stepped to one side, as another shadow rushed
from the alleyway. As Jack stepped forward, the penny high in his hand, the
spell book in his grip, the crowd surged forward, stranding him in the centre
of the melee. Helpless, he could only look on at the spectacle.
What
Jack had first thought was a rabid dog of some sort exploded over the man on
the floor. In moments, blood spurted high into the air, almost tainting the London
By
the time Jack had reached the corners of the crowd, the show was already over.
Already, the men were beginning to disperse, their hunger sated, their dark
needs satisfied. The creature was gone, back into the alleyways and the dark,
so all that was left was the ringmaster, who stood solemnly over the carcass, a
look of quiet joy on his face. He looked up and stared Jack right in the eye, winked
and then stepped forward, careful to avoid the spray, his right foot hovering
over a rib, before deftly side-stepping it.
“I
sensed you, I did,” he said, not extending his hand but acknowledging Jack
openly, all the same. “I felt the white heat searing the air, like a scythe.
Different fingers, same heart. What happened to the old man who went before you?”
“He
died defending his country,” Jack said, the pale feeling of what he had seen
subsiding and being replaced with a sudden anger.
“And
what a country it has become. Tell me friend; do you feel it is one worth
saving? Let alone sacrificing noble souls such as the one that went before
you.”
“You
dare preach after conducting this monstrosity? Sir-” The man waved Jack away
and began to walk down the cobbles. Jack followed him, dumb-struck.
“Come
now, what is it you can prove? Scum being ravaged by a rabid dog? Or the fifty
odd witnesses that cheered it on, before slipping back into the London
“But
what you are party to…” Jack said, struggling for the words to define just what
exactly he was involved with here.
“This
country is on its knees. The war has crippled us and people sag though their
pockets are empty. The rich laugh from their county piles, while the country
goes to the gutter. You ask me what it is I did tonight: I removed a killer and
provide entertainment free of charge. I’ll be knighted before I am caged, sir.”
They reached the harbour and the break of the fog.
“I
will see this is done, sir. This has no place in our city and if you think me
wrong you are sorely mistaken.” Jack flushed, stepping away from the man.
Somewhere, a whistle blew and the heavy clip-clop of policemen filled the air.
“A
country with no wealth is on its knees to any pleasure it can find, my friend.
You mark me well on that. You and you’re lucky penny is best served further on
up these canals, where the gambles and the cost are far lower.” He drew his
cloak together and broke away from Jack’s gaze.
“How
do you know about me, sir?” Jack called out as the man stalked down the street.
“Us
charlatans stick together!” the man shouted back, as the mist thickened once
more and the sound of a policeman vomiting filled the air.
Jack
went back to work, unsettled by what he had seen. In the most simple terms, it
had satisfied his suspicions that a werewolf was indeed loose in the London
During
the following week, Jack set about his plan. First he oiled and checked the calibrations
of the rifle -- one of the last few things he had yet to pawn -- until it was
to a standard. Along with that, he worked through the night, accruing hours and
removing suspicion until he found himself with a window of time to act. He
slipped into the machinist’s work-room and pulled his silver medals of honour
into his palm. Without a second thought he poured them into a tool until it
became a somehow beautiful puddle. When it was time, he poured the batch into
the hollow boards and fashioned six silver bullets mere minutes before
sunrise-and the morning crew-arrived at the docks.
On
the night of the next full moon, Jack slipped back into the night and the fog,
his body shivering with something other than the damp October skies. Rather
than the creature, it was the man that bothered his thoughts; not just the
eloquence with which he spoke, but the twisted, almost seamless logic he
pursued it with. This is a man who could
lead us into the next war, Jack thought. As he drifted deeper into the mist
he wondered if the ringmaster was insane or close to a genius.
The
crowd had swelled one hundred deep by the time Jack reached its fringes. He
wondered how the police could not help but be drawn to such a commotion and
then realised with a cool, thin stab of horror that they were probably close
by, waiting for the denouement before rushing to the remnants of the scene.
Jack wondered if the ringmaster had even managed to talk the coppers into
giving up the criminals in some sort of deal. As he peeled away and began to
climb the ladder, Jack wondered if the government itself had been privy to a
discussion with the charismatic leader of the mob.
Positioned
within reach, Jack squinted into the sights of the rifle, trusting his old
instincts to guide him towards the creature. The audience-and that was what it
was now-began chanting and jeering, shambling as if afflicted by some voodoo
chemical, until the master appeared at the very centre of the men. Jack felt
the heat of the penny and drew it out of his pocket. Something in him, an
instinct that was as unfamiliar as it was over-riding, made him slip the penny onto
the edge of the scope of the rifle. Immediately the path way of his vision
seemed to lighten, the mists sheared apart, the way unimpeded. Jack gasped once
and then tightened his grip, just as the events played out before him.
It
happened almost in slow motion; the criminal was flung into the heart of the
group, the wolf itself burst from the alleyway and at the last moment, the
ringmaster looked up, sensing the white heat funnelled from where Jack lay. The
man tried to grab the creature but too late; Jack’s first bullet was true and
clinical, dropping it to the floor before the cowed man could be attacked. The
mob stopped confused, before cat-calling their master, surging forward, even as
he escaped into the alleyway. Denied, the gang turned its attention to the
huddled man on the floor and attacked with a ferocity Jack was uncertain the
wolf itself possessed. He turned away, setting down the rifle, closing his eyes
for a moment, listening to the pitiful screams and the higher, fevered screams
of ecstasy that drowned him out.
*
Jack
went back to work the following day, suppressing yawns and waiting for the
papers, to see how the news of the night before would be reported. It was the
eternal lie; a brave pack of local men confronted the killer and in the ensuing
melee, the murderer spilled forth into the docks, his body undiscovered. The
men were being considered for medals of valour by the council for their brave
actions. Jack thought about the bullet lodged in the poor man-beasts’ heart and
wondered which of them were the most monstrous in the whole, sorry affair.
It
was as he made his way home that Jack saw the ringmaster, hovering at the edge
of the docks and smiling to all and sundry. A couple of Dockers took offence at
his grin and approached him but left a minute later, looking somewhat dazed and
perhaps lighter in the pocket, Jack suspected.
“Good
evening Jack Trump!” The man called out, looking over. “You’re fellow workers
say you are a hard-working, quiet man; they say the horrors of the war left
their mark on you. They certainly sharpened your aim.” He pulled one of the Dockers
wallets from his pocket and counted the coins as he sighed. “Stealing from the
poor is such a redundant pursuit.”
“What
do you want?” Jack said, suddenly feeling more tired than he thought possible;
The same weariness he felt in the trenches, the idea of dying suffused with a
cloak of lethargy that was as heavy as the world itself.
“I
wanted to ask if you stayed to see the criminal dispatched. I wondered if you
looked through your scope and saw the upstanding members of the community pull
the poor lad’s head clean from his neck.”
“I
saw enough,” Jack said quietly. He watched the man’s eyes sparkle with
something like joy.
“This
is the world we live in Jack. You’re penny only detects the ghouls, not the
monsters.” He winked and turned on his heels. “I’ll be seeing you.”
Jack
watched the man slip into the fog and disappear. For a moment he thought about
the ringmaster and how a lunatic with a good line in words could almost sound
like a politician. He thought about the crowd of men and how they had savaged a
human being like a pack of dogs. The ideas Jack felt bubbled and brimmed in his
head and he closed his eyes for a moment until all the hurt and pain subsided.
Dawn broke as he walked towards a café, eager for coffee and to search the
papers not only for what had happened but also the future and the next task at
hand.
THE END
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Cosmic Log - NASA: Satellite won't fall on US
Cosmic Log - NASA: Satellite won't fall on US:
But if you're somewhere else on good ol' Mother Earth, read this to spot the pieces....
But if you're somewhere else on good ol' Mother Earth, read this to spot the pieces....
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Clive Barker UK Gallery Exhibition - Science Fiction and Fantasy News
Clive Barker UK Gallery Exhibition - Science Fiction and Fantasy News:
Remember good ol' Clive Barker? The Neil Gaiman of the 90's?
Remember good ol' Clive Barker? The Neil Gaiman of the 90's?
Friday, September 9, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Sunday, September 4, 2011
6 Eerily Specific Inventions Predicted in Science Fiction | Cracked.com
6 Eerily Specific Inventions Predicted in Science Fiction | Cracked.com:
'via Blog this'
'via Blog this'
Yeah, the flip-phone thing was my first thought....
6 Terrifying Sci-Fi Predictions (About the Year 1997) | Cracked.com
6 Terrifying Sci-Fi Predictions (About the Year 1997) | Cracked.com:
Six things about 1997 that it's darned good I didn't know about back in 1996!
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Violet Cigarettes by Chris Castle
Violet
Cigarettes by Chris Castle
No-one knew how it
begun and now everyone was dead. Dominic checked the bar across the front door
for the hundredth time and then looked back out to the street. It looked odd,
seeing it empty. Without the cars it looked shapeless somehow, as if the
vehicles had given the roads its form and structure. Without the children
playing outside, running, checking their phones, eating and talking, it looked
sad and joyless. Lifeless, a part of
him whispered and he knew that was the truth.
“Mr. Bingham?” the
voice drew him back from the door to the little girl. Petra Capsi looked up at
him, her eyes straining past him and looking out to the street. He stepped
forward, trying to block out as much as he could with his body. She gave up
trying to see what was out there and looked at him.
“Is there anything
out there?” she asked. Her voice was naturally quiet but now, after everything,
it was barely a whisper.
“I can’t see
anything, Petra
“There’s no-one
else out there?” She was searching him now, looking for a sign, a crack. Her
voice was devoid of curiosity though; there was only fear.
“It’s still,”
Dominic said, ushering her back to the classroom. “Now, I want you to finish
the exercises we talked about while I try and find out what’s going on, okay?”
“It’s all empty,”
she said, as she took her seat. He knew she wasn’t talking about the classroom
but he glanced around nevertheless. Without realising it, he looked up to the
back door of the classroom that led outside to check the key was still turned
in the lock.
“I’ll find
something out, I promise.” Dominic touched the book and then turned the pages.
“Three pages before I come back, okay?” As he walked out, he saw the CCTV in
the top left hand corner of the room and felt his heart flicker. Petra
What had he really
seen? As he sat in the office and played back the cameras on the screen,
Dominic really thought about it. In the break between class, he had stood on
the balcony and smoked a cigarette, looking down at the small village. Since
moving to the country a few months before, the balcony was always his favourite
spot. True, he still didn’t know the language but it had started to feel like a
home; the boss below him on the second floor, the school itself one level
further down. It was enough for him, he had remembered thinking.
Smoking reminded
him of his late mother; how every weekend she would dye her cigarettes to match
her new dress. It was the most vivid memory of her that he had; violet
cigarettes in a small, discreet tin and his mother looking like a movie star.
Once, he had kept a list of all the colours in his diary; July and the height
of summer was his favourite: emerald, magenta, turquoise and olive. A noise
distracted him, bringing him back.
At first he
couldn’t believe his eyes: an old woman ran across the street and leapt onto a
man’s back. He actually laughed, not quite being able to believe what he had
seen. Two people had come out of the local shop to break it up and then
suddenly turned on each other. Dominic remembered having to shift his position
and tilt over the balcony to see the rest of it. A pane of glass burst and
another woman rolled out onto the street, joining the chaos.
The cigarette had
burned down to the nub and scorched his fingers, bringing him back to himself.
He looked down to his finger and then the small drift of smoke in-front of him.
Oh god, he suddenly thought, it’s in the air. He turned and ran
inside, slamming the doors closed, stumbling back and falling on his ass. For a
second he sat where he had landed, waiting; waiting for something to happen,
something in him to…change? Snap? He had no idea. He felt his heart drumming
but knew that was only panic and fear. Seconds passed, a minute. When nothing
happened, a new jolt of panic ran through him as he remembered her sitting
downstairs: Petra
Dominic sprinted
down the stairs and found her sitting in the classroom, looking through her
text book; it was dumb luck that she always chose not to go outside during
their private lessons. As she looked up, he tried to compose himself and then
turned and jogged to the front door. The people in the street had disappeared
from view and he wondered where they were, if they were still fighting of it
they had…stilled. He looked over the door, saw it was sealed and ran into the
office to the computer. As it whirled into life, he reached into his pocket and
tried to call his boss, who was on holiday but saw the phone was unable to
connect: the two of them were alone.
The cameras went
back as far as that morning. Isolating the one positioned over the back door,
he wound through it, flickering lines running across the image of the steps and
the flower pots. There was no time code to track, so he simply kept winding it
on and on until he found something. A shift in the pattern, as the gate
suddenly swung into back and a flower pot toppled onto the concrete, breaking
and spilling dirt onto the concrete. The shopkeeper came into view, then the
old lady, one on top of the other. What made it hard to follow was the speed
with which they moved; it was as if Dominic had speeded up the tape, when in
fact he had slowed it down. By the time he had managed to see them without any
blurring, he noticed the playback was almost on pause. He peered closer to the
screen, one question throbbing through his mind; what made them move so fast?
He watched as they
tore into each other and then after, what came next. This is not possible, his mind whispered, as he watched the image.
He looked at it; the steps, the gate, the broken pots and the…heap in the
centre of things. Dominic drew back in the seat and was aware there were the
facts of what was happening and what his heart was saying could not be. The
dark mass seemed to twitch and Dominic thought for sure he was going to be
sick. He left the monitor running in one corner for any more…movement and went
back to the news sites. Out of the bedlam of what he’d seen, there was only one
thing he’d understood; what he had seen on the cameras were not people anymore
but…creatures.
The news came up
and to his horror he saw the same scenes being repeated over and over on the
screen. Most of it was shaky handheld footage, taken on phones probably,
showing the same jerky movements, the same speed and violence. Some of them
looked like apes, the way they swung and moved, while others seemed to move
quicker than seemed possible, swooping down like birds in a blink of an eye.
The reporters
replayed the events, each of them visibly shaking at they did. Information ran
along the bottom of the screen, first denied, then dismissed, then finally
acknowledged as the truth. This is hell,
one newscaster, said, clearly unaware his mike was still on; hell in a handcart. It was such a quaint
phrase, it almost made Dominic smile. A new banner headline came up across the
screen, one word, which ran across the centre of the screen: FRENZY
“Mr. Bingham?” He
looked over to her and saw she was clutching her book to her chest.
“Yes, Petra
“I’ve finished
those pages. Would you like me to continue with the exercises?” Somehow, it still matters, he thought
wonderingly, looking briefly at her before taking the book from her hands. He
marked her answers and skimmed the next few pages, circling each corner.
“Try and finish
those pages and we’ll see where we go from there, okay?” He looked up and saw
the hurt expression in her face. At first he looked out to see if anything had
happened on the street. It remained clear and he peered back down to the book, where
she was looking. He realised her book was pristine and all her answers were in
pencil; he had circled the book in red pen and somehow ruined it for her. She
was probably planning to re-sell it, or just keep it nice. In amongst
everything, the look on her face right then made his heart sink.
“Petra
A third box
appeared as he accessed the social sites. The amount of chatter was huge and
for a moment, he was surprised the systems were not crashing left, right and
centre. He skimmed through the messages, trying to find some evidence behind
all the expressions and abbreviations of panic. A bolt of something hit him and
he realised in that moment, how lucky he was to be alone. Every message
mentioned family, lovers, all the things he no longer had. Dominic read on,
thinking one thing; what world is this
becoming, when the lonely are the fortunate ones?
Everything was
conflicting; contaminated water seemed to be a common thread, even as it was
being dismissed by the news agencies; incredibly, conspiracy theorists were
already at work, laying blame and accusing those in power. The amount of sheer
hysteria overwhelmed him to the point where he shut it down, leaving only the
news box and the CCTV. A sudden
weariness rode over him; it could be anything, he realised; it could be in the
computer screen, the water, the air. Maybe
our own fears have finally made us crazy, he thought. Dominic closed his
eyes and for a perfect second everything stopped. It was only the sudden furore
on the news report that brought him back.
The announcement
was as brief as it was incredible; just a collection of warnings, really, a
hell’s-own shopping list. Dominic felt his jaw go slack as they described the
symptoms. If it wasn’t for the man reading it, the man who could destroy the
world at the touch of a button, he wouldn’t have believed it. As it was, the
list went on; ten points of possible ‘extremities’ or ‘points of physical
occupation.’ It was finally there, the point of confirmation that it was really
happening. When it was over, even the press were stunned into a moment’s
silence; then the flood of questions began.
Dominic clicked on
another site and read the newly issued symptoms back. The language was awkward;
‘ability to reveal information not previously known’, he assumed, meant mind
reading. ‘Removal of necessary layers of clothing’-was stripping. It was only
as he read it for the third time, that he actually realised he was not
displaying any of the warnings signs; Petra
“Petra
“No,” she said and
he noticed she was blushing again. On the desk was her book, a notepad and a
bottle of water. She didn’t have a mobile phone.
“Would you like to
use mine? It would be no problem, if you’d like to speak to someone, your
mother…” he let the words trail away.
“I’m fine, thank
you.” She looked at him and waited for a few seconds. “Would you like me to
write an essay from the book?”
“Yes, Petra
“Okay.” Her voice
stayed the same, quiet without being timid. Dominic looked away as she glanced
up to him. He walked to the door and paused to check on her; she had already
begun to write.
The reaction to
the news was incredible; riots started almost immediately and hysteria exploded
in the cities. The mis-calculation of giving out the warnings was there to see.
Dominic suddenly remembered a moment a month before, when his boss had asked
him if he’d seen a mosquito. He hadn’t but from then on, he felt it everywhere.
People see what they want to see.
The images showed
places burning, fighting and looting. The sight of people being hung from the
lampposts were brief; the screen blanked for a second when they realised what
was being broadcast before hastily moving to something else, some more
recognised form of chaos. Dominic wondered if his boss was okay. He looked out
of the window to the stillness all around and wondered what was worse;
witnessing everything or seeing nothing at all?
For a long time he
stared out of the window, thinking about the children. Over year he had come to
care for them in a way he could scarcely believe; it was as if the affection he
had felt had crept up in him and tied itself up in his bones. And now; if one
of them rushed up to the door and shook it? What would he do; the right thing
or the good thing? Thinking about it made him sweat; he began to remove his
cardigan and then stopped himself, remembering the signs. As he rolled his
sleeves up, he shook his head, almost grinning; paranoia in others was one
thing but in yourself? He was pretty sure that added up to simple, flat out
craziness. The smile left him as he found himself glancing back to the glass
door and thinking about the kids and found himself suddenly glad the roads were
deserted. As he walked to the classroom Dominic wondered if it was any less
insane to be thankful you were trapped.
“Everything okay, Petra
“Yes, thank you.
I’m on essay number two now,” she said, barely looking up. She was still formal
with him, not like a lot of the other kids; he wondered if it was just because
he was a teacher of if that was just her way. Sometimes he forgot how awkward
and virtually unbearable it could be to grow up; and what’s going to be left to grow up in? He thought sharply.
“Okay. Well done, Petra
After a few
minutes, he closed the computer down. Dominic watched as the camera faded out,
the messages disappearing and the chaos slipping away into black. For a moment
he found himself thinking of other, better things; a little kid sitting on a
milk crate, smiling at the sun. The way the back of his fingers turned silver
like fish scales when he had once taken anti-malaria tablets. The sound of his
old friends when they laughed, the impossible hours they used to keep.
A noise came from
someplace close and he realised Petra
Two essays sat on his desk now and he smiled to see her with her head still buried in her book. He checked the clock on the wall and saw their normal lesson was over; had it all happened in less than three hours? It seemed like a short amount of time, for the world to collapse but then what was appropriate?
“How about we do
some speaking, Petra
“Okay,” she said
flatly.
“Let me just
correct these and then we’ll begin.” Dominic
drew on his glasses and looked down to the paper. As he began to read, he
checked the door was open far enough for any sounds made against the glass door.
After the first paragraph he turned for a moment to check the back door of the
classroom was still locked. The key was missing and for a moment, his heart
stopped. He patted his pockets but felt nothing in there, save his dead phone.
Pushing the papers back, he walked over to the door and checked it was secure;
the door knob barely moved, let alone twisted. Dominic returned to his seat and
picked the papers back up.
The first essay
was fine and he ticked the bottom of the page with a tick and an ‘excellent!’
He turned to the second one and read the letter- a story-and felt his heart
cool. ‘It was the last day of the world’,
it began. As he read more, his eyes darted up over the top of the page to find
her face still buried in the text book. She
knew about everything all along, he thought. The sadness he felt crawled
over him and something else, too: panic. It gripped him in a rush, the sweat
building in fat beads across his forehead.
“Let’s do some
speaking, Petra
“Okay, question
one: ‘What do you like to do with your family at the weekends?’” He said,
feeling suddenly idiotic to be pretending now. Her brow furrowed for a moment
and then she looked up from the book, looking directly at him in a way she had
never done before.
“At weekends I
like to watch my mother dye her cigarettes the same colour as the new dress she
wears each Saturday night…”
THE END
Friday, September 2, 2011
Cosmic Log - Apollo 18 in fiction and fact
Cosmic Log - Apollo 18 in fiction and fact:
The Apollo missions ended (officically) with Apollo 17, but a new movie plays with the idea of 18, parts of which were built and now sit in a museum. Check out the link for the whole story.
The Apollo missions ended (officically) with Apollo 17, but a new movie plays with the idea of 18, parts of which were built and now sit in a museum. Check out the link for the whole story.
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