I feel like tinfoil,

Cut from something stronger,

Cheapened material,

All rolled up and stocked, contained,

I lost dimension.

I feel like tinfoil,

Folding into more creases,

Sheathing unimportant portance,

At your whim, crinkled,

Made to hide hallow secrets.

I feel like tinfoil,

Torn apart lightning,

Malleable bodies and souls,

Conformed to something other,

Never whole again.

From the bottom of my cold heart,

I wish you a Merry Christmas.

I hope the melting icicles don’t fall on the carolers,

As they wish you a Merry Christmas.

Don’t sing too close together now. Don’t even touch,

On this infectious Merry Christmas.

Santa probably won’t die of covid-19 this year,

On this Merry Christmas.

If he does die, the stores are open,

If you could afford a Merry Christmas.

Here are your presents! A mask, a ventilator, and a casket.

Merry Christmas.

Maybe the bad little boys and girls will get a vaccine instead of coal,

For a Merry Christmas next year.

Imagine that in our universe, life is common and varied. The story you are about to read below may be happening right now, somehow. --Allowed to reality through the laws of space and time. This world is harsh, like Earth. There are chances to love. To live. To die.

____

“Hehaha! Hahahaehehah!”

“Shut it, Veligh!”

For Genesis, the end of the gulag was upon her. She had been paraded by her captors and tortured for months inside one of the Veligh concentration camps. Her shoulder, once broken, had mended itself into an abnormal shape. --Just like how they reshaped her mind.

Before Genesis could become a woman, she became crazy. The gulag named Horatio broke her. Used her. When she was sane, she had been chosen as an offering to the ones who sent her to Horatio. -The Nyrts. The ones who gave her the laughing curse.

Genesis cackled to herself inside her cage. A Nyrtian guard must’ve taken off her cowl. She found herself blinded by the Star of Mantle. --It shined bright upon the arid world that hurt her. After adjusting, she frantically looked around. Stifling a fit of laughter at what is around her and wincing at the pain in her shoulder.

Other tortured people that belonged to her veligh kind were caged too. The pale people wept. Their red hair, which was usually vibrant, had faded. Their albino eyes indicated just how malnourished they were. Some of them had their long noses cut off. Genesis looked down. She was naked, only wrapped in a gray peasant’s blanket. --Just like them. She burst into laughter.

“Shut it!” The guard said from behind. The nyrt must have struck his weapon against the cage. Genesis felt the loud resonance of metal upon metal. The way she was entrapped, there was no room to get out or turn to look. She didn’t dare try, for fear of more torture.

No, she thought. Why escape when there’s a show to be performed? She laughed to herself for now.

What she did see were train tracks. Sitting atop the rails was a single train of larger cages. In them were young nyrts. Genesis could still tell her kind apart. They didn’t have red hair. The albino eyes and the noses were smaller than that of a Veligh’s. Genesis forcefully took a breath in with her teeth. It was all she could do to stifle herself. She let out the smallest of giggles.

These young nyrts were no prisoners, not at all. Genesis knew the boys were going through their coming of age ceremony. --The Killing. A ritual murder sacrifice. The hushed stories of her kind told of young nyrtians having to endure the pain of being like a Veligh for 5 days. This, before killing many of them and emerging from their cages to celebrate as Nyrtian men.

Genesis found it funny that her cage and their cages would be so close. Like we’re about to do the forbidden kiss! She mused. The younglings far to the left of her looked angry and anxious. The closest one she could see had a small knife in his bony hands. He was still clothed. --In the purple garbs of the rich, no less. Tick, check that one off living like me! She sneered at the boy. He only blinked back.

Suddenly, off to her right, she heard the voice of a Nyrt man, which drew her gaze. The man sounded like a priest. He was wearing a full complement of armor, with the edge of his maroon metal lined with glistening gold. A chieftain for the boys to latch onto, perhaps?

“Listen up, slags!” He yelled. Genesis laughed uncontrollably when the Nyrt teens perked up, like pets. Her cage rattled again, and she quieted down.

The man continued: “You are here as Velighs! You’ve been tortured to live like these scum at the Horatio gulag.” He spits with some force, probably onto a Veligh next to him.

“Now that you know the pain of the lesser, it’s time...to become more!” He continued.

“Ready your knives, young ones. Choose carefully where you strike to end the lives of these poor wretches. For you are not Veligh. You are Nyrts!”

Really, he was the executioner.

The train blew a whistle, and the large cages atop the tracks went into motion.

At long last, it was time to die. Genesis started to giggle at the thought, which erupted in laughter. She closed her eyes and hollered praises for Mantle, and damned the rest. Other veligh were weeping around her. To her left, she heard how the knives would slice into the throats of her peers. So, she laughed harder to counter the noise.

When she opened her eyes, she saw a blue blur. It was just past the large cages and on the desert horizon.

Cackling now, she knew what was approaching. She was hysterical: “How do you not see with your perfect features, Nyrts? The Vhee is coming, the Vhee is coming!” She sang her song and repeated the phrase at least twice.

The blue blur was growing larger. Genesis’ cage rattled again: “Quiet, Veligh! You’ll die soon.” She heard a gasp next to her as she watched a child slit the throat of her nearest companion. He had reached through his cage to grab the Veligh firmly and do the deed properly. The blue blur grew ever larger. It juxtaposed against the red blood on the passing child’s hands as he was wheeled away on the tracks.

“The Vhee is coming! Look behind you, child, it’s the God of Mantle!” Genesis said to the next caged teen. This one was wearing simpler clothing. Tan coloring, meant for Nyrtian soldiers. There was a small cut on his cheek, just below his left eye.

Just as the Nyrt child grabbed her and stabbed her throat, she heard another forced gasp.

--From behind her this time.

“A Vhee!” The soldier called from behind her. Just as the child removed the knife from Genesis’ throat, did the train of cages topple from a high-speed impact. --And Genesis with them. For a few moments, she saw a blur of red from the blood, the orange of the dirt, and blue from the Vhee.

Genesis couldn’t stop laughing, even as the hot star blinded her sight. Her cage had been pushed over so that she was on her back.

She heard the shouting of the nyrtian guards. She heard what must have been 6 submachine guns trained on the Vhee. Genesis made fun of the screaming soldiers. She swore she witnessed an arm flying away from the noise, landing just next to her.

After a full minute of silence, all she could hear was her own laughing. Genesis’ cage was being kicked forcefully. Her blanket was full of dirt and grain, and she clung to it for dear life. She felt something grazing her side. It punched her, and she heard a growl of frustration. Somehow, she found herself free from the cage and on her stomach.

She stopped laughing and groaned in pain. Now free, she frantically looked up to find the Vhee kicking at was originally her cage.

It was mangled.

The blue thing was facing away from her. It’s several bowed legs with several bony joints kicked and prodded at other cages. Occasionally, she witnessed several tentacles unsheathing themselves from somewhere on the Vhee’s torso to feed on the dead. The looming beast must feast daily, usually on wildlife. However, it seems the Nyrts unknowingly placed a buffet to support the nearly 10,000-pound creature today.

Genesis laughed at the thought. The creature turned around. There were bullet holes riddled into the fat thing. Three eye stalks gazed at her from its gelatinous head. Curious. She tried waving to it with her bad arm, smiling gleefully. --Playing with death’s door. The Vhee turned back around and feasted on more corpses.

Genesis was no danger to it. She looked at her surroundings. Other Veligh survivors were still in their cages. Not one dared to scream. Genesis snickered and skipped towards them. She let them go freely. While officially done with the torture, she was disappointed that she was not going to die today.

A child crying inside of one of the large cages drew her attention. The only Nyrt survivor was the very boy that had stabbed her in the throat.

Which reminded her. She checked the damage he had done. It didn’t sever an artery. She only cackled at the thought of being so close. She knelt down at the boy’s cage. His arm was broken. His knife was gone.

She opened his would-be tomb and grabbed him. The boy attempted to fight back.

“Where are you taking me, Veligh!” The boy yelled.

The Vhee turned around and eyed Genesis again. She playfully pranced the boy around, as he yelped in pain and shock. It stared. A tentacle slurped inside of its bulbous torso. The Vhee must have made a decision as it turned back around to feast. Genesis sat him down. She remembered her shoulder again.

“Looks like it’s your lucky day, Nyrt! Hehaha, Mantle doesn’t want you dead, just like me,” Genesis said.

After a moment, the boy cried out: “Just kill me!” Genesis looked into his eyes. Was the boy scared, or shamed? The Vhee didn’t care, so she didn’t care.

The other surviving Velighs witnessed the scene. Some picked up some of the weaponry and armor that had been given to them by the Vhee. Thinking of an answer, Genesis finally laughed, and retorted directly to the boy’s face:

“That’s not what Velighs do, weakling.”

With that, she walked away from the tracks. She made her own way, but other Veligh followed. She was barefoot and naked in the desert, but she knew she’d make it. One of the velighs offered her his blanket, and she took it.

Genesis laughed uncontrollably when she noticed the boy following close behind.

A symbol of a seat belt illuminated above me. “Attention passengers,” Said the hollow intercom. I was already in my seat, ready to finish the pair of flights that culminated in some of the most stressful days of this year.

“This is the captain speaking. With the lightning storms along the Washington skies, we’re expecting heavier than normal turbulence. So it’s recommended you keep your seat belts on at all times,” The speaker blared. It seems the storms were following me from Texas to the greater Seattle area too, I thought. Just one more flight to go. Seattle to Spokane. --After that, I’m done. I can finally spend my new life there.

I wasn’t the type to be scared of this weather though. The worst part about these flights were the bleating children and the proximity of strangers around me. --It wasn’t the booming thunder or the lighting. But the warning was useful. A worried mother ordered her daughter to switch seats and sit between her brothers, to avoid the window. Meanwhile, the children themselves complained about matters unknown. The captain continued:

“The arrival time is about 35 minutes. Because of the dangerous weather, I’ve instructed the flight attendants to remain seated through the duration of our voyage. So, apologies, but there will be no drinks or snacks. Thank you for flying with Alaska Airlines.”

As the attendants went through the flying safety protocols, I dug out my pen and notebook from my disorganized pockets: “Please be aware of the life vests underneath the seats,” they said.

My plan was to do a little writing before I land. I watched outside the window as the plane moved silently on the dark asphalt.

“In case of emergency, you’ll find yellow breathing masks automatically drop down...”

A drenched man with a guiding orange light was assisting the captain from outside. He waved at a consistent pace, walking with the jet as it pulled away from where we funneled inside. His dripping face had the look that said it all. --He’d done this countless times before, possibly in worse weather.

“...put your hands around your legs, or on the backs of the seats in front of you, and curl into yourself to brace for collision…”

After a considerable time, the speed of the aircraft picked up, and the humming inside grew to a deafening pace. By then the attendants had finished their safety demonstration, and checked between the aisles to ensure seatbelts were on.

The kids at the front hushed their arguing and whimpered as the engines came alive. I watched through the window as we lifted off. The wing must have been fighting heavy winds. It was flapping, slightly, like a bird. The lights at the edge of the wings illuminated hues of blinking red against the darkness. Soon the clouds engulfed us, and I could no longer see the stars above or below me. I only saw the flapping wing, and a crack of lightning from far away.

I put down my notebook, and dozed off looking into the abyss.

I woke up to chaos.

The light hum of the plane was replaced with thrashing, like an earthquake. My whole body vibrated. I knew the plane was crashing down at that instant. The cabin was still dim, and a dead silence hung over us. Why isn’t anyone screaming? I only saw tense faces.

No one was curling up to brace for impact. I attempted to remember how to do it myself.

I look up.

There must’ve been a malfunction at my seat, because the breathing apparatus didn’t deploy. I yelp in a panic, causing my neighbors to yell too.

In a hurry, I look towards the window. --To see how long it would be until my fate was sealed. Until the plane crash landed.

Oh.

We landed already.

No matter how we swim,

The river flows the way it wants.

You could plan your strokes,

But the water always overpowers will.

Not because what you do doesn't matter,

The flow goes where your matters don't.

It threatens to drown and choke,

If you fight against the flow,

Or let it over-take the life you swim in.

Where have I gone wrong? I thought to myself. I had the idea that I would run this city. The great Eric Humble, making his mark in the bustling and modern Seattle!

“Shit!” I exclaimed to no one. The house was dead. Only one light was brave enough to shine against cold walls. The doors are closed. They vibrated to the shouting. “All shit!”

The bills piled on the messy bed drooped and creased like they had cried not moments before. Guess the facade is over, yeah? I thought. My recent failures kept piling on the weight. I had to face reality. Eric Humble didn’t make his mark. I didn’t make my mark. Seattle marked me. --Marked me for dead. “And die I am going to do!” I hollered to nobody.

The plan was simple. Tomorrow I grab the heaviest things I still owned, two 45-pound weights and some rope, and walk to the lake nearby. I closed my eyes. For the longest time, I fought the sleep until it too marked me for dead. I shivered through it.

What must have been sometime later, I felt a weight on my bed wake me. This fleeting feeling of calm washed me. --Cleansed me. It was a feeling I had not felt in a long, long time. When I opened my eyes, I saw a figure that matched the weight.

“Oh, so you’ve opened those sad eyes at last, hmm?” He said. The tone of his voice seemed like he had already measured my character, but I didn’t feel threatened. The transparent man wasn’t looking at me, yet I saw a well-defined mustache that must have taken years to maintain. Simple glasses protruded from his face. He looked dressed to impress. Coifed hair to boot. I sat up.

“Who are you?” I asked the ghostly being.

“It doesn’t matter.” He wryly stated.

“Why not?” I ask. The ghost turned to look at me for the first time. His eyes were the rare kind, the ones that could pierce into your soul. He searched me with those eyes before answering: “I...my name is Friedrich Nietzsche.” His head bobbed slightly. Friedrich seemed unsure of himself.

“German?” I replied.

“Yes.”

“Well, my name is --” Friedrich interrupted my introduction:

“You are a dead man, sir.” He said.

I scoffed, but Friedrich didn’t look unsure of himself this time.

“I’m no more dead than you are!” I retorted, raising my hand out to gesture towards my guest’s visage. The ghost raised his eyebrows and made an effort to observe his arms. He patted his legs, testing his own physicality.

“Treat it as a matter of perspective. To you, I am dead. But despite my body being dead over a century ago, I find myself alive.” He replied.

Deep in thought, I wondered if I should confess to Mr. Nietzsche. Before I could muster up the courage, he got up and walked towards the brave light. -- A lamp adorned in brass, with intricate design. It was something that belonged to the past. Yet, the ghost was very interested.

“How did humanity harness the power of the sun?” He looked directly at me, full of curiosity.

I was flabbergasted. Stumbling for an answer, perhaps to seem smart, I answered: “Well, scientists found a way... I think it has something to do with the filament inside the light bulb.”

“Light...bulb. Ha! Hahaha!” The man seemed overjoyed, almost hysterical. I got up and showed him how to operate the lamp.

“You see?” I flicked the switch at the base. The cold walls looked warmer as we laughed and toyed with the century-old invention.

“Purely amazing,” Friedrich said at last. However, his mood sobered. “But this light is not the reason I am here, Eric.”

I was taken aback, but not surprised this ghost knew my name. “So you do know me, Mr. Nietzsche?”

“Yes.” He said as a matter of fact. “You are a dead man.” His eyes pierced me again. And I sat back down on the bed. Tears welled up inside of me. I cried out.

“I am a failure!” I yelled at him. I unconsciously sucked in the air before continuing: “I’ve lost my money, I’ve lost my friends and I’ve got nowhere left to go but the lake!” Friedrich was silent as I told him about my hopes in Seattle. How life seemed to be kicking me to the curb. How I was going to kill myself. --And I got angry.

“So who are you supposed to be? Huh? An angel of God who’s supposed to tell me that life is not over yet? Well, I don’t need his guidance!”

Friedrich laughed at that.

“Ha! Hahaha! I imagine to you it must look that way, yes?” He replied. “No. Again, it’s a matter of perspective.”

“What do you mean it’s a matter of perspective!?” I exclaimed. The ghost’s eyes had a spark of sadness:

“Well, to me, God is alive.” Then, Friedrich pointed at me with an extended arm.

“To you, God is dead.”

I was confused. Was this why I had failed? Was God’s death the reason for my personal torture and tribulation?

Friedrich continued: “Can I tell you something?” He didn’t let me answer before going on: “In life, I was a philosopher. I have this concept. Übermensch. Err, how do you say in English? -- The over-man. The over-man is better than man. Just like how man is better than the ape. You see, I was --we are -- a bridge! Towards something better than what we are now!” Friedrich was excited. He seemed to be more inside his head than anything. He noticed his excitation, and cleared his throat: “So what do you think about that, Mr. Humble?”

I replied: “Well, that sounds like evolution.” Or perhaps the next form of life after humanity. Like artificial intelligence?” Friedrich looked at me as if he had seen himself for the first time.

I got up sheepishly. “Or something like that. What’s your point?” I asked. I open the door and go to the kitchen. Friedrich followed, where he remarked at the dirty dishes. Ignoring him, I made some tea. Friedrich continued:

“Anyway, my point is, Eric, that you are a worm.” I looked at him. Now Friedrich did insult me. He unapologetically continued: “You keep saying, young man, that your failures proceed you to die. --To die like the worm that you are, no longer fighting back to reclaim your values.” Friedrich moved towards the sink. “Please understand. I think that if you are so focused on dying, then it’s your right to choose death. No one is coming to save you, my friend.” Friedrich reached for the switch to the garbage disposal and shrieked when he flicked it.

I watched him floundering about to turn off the device gargling and gnashing underneath the sink. After he finally mustered the courage to turn it off, he asked: “Where was I?”

“I am a worm,” I replied dryly.

“Yes! A worm!” Friedrich and his mustache smiled: “This sort of relates to another philosophy of mine. Eric, what is more important to you? Willpower, or values?”

Before I had the chance to answer, he interrupted: “It’s will, of course! The power of will is more vast than values. How could you succeed in anything you value if you don’t have the will to do what is necessary?” This statement did pique my interest.

“Friedrich, wait. You are saying that values do not matter?”

“Yes!” He exclaimed. His eyes were practically screaming crazy. I silently poured my tea while he waited.

“But that’s immoral,” I replied eventually. Friedrich’s eyebrows scrunched.

“Bah! Fuck morality. It’s useless jargon invented by successful people to lead the sheep. Do you want to be great? You want to succeed and go beyond the rest? Live without morals, and you could do anything.”

With this mind-blowing assertion, I wanted to test Friedrich.

“So, I should kill people?”

“Dictators have done it, countless times.” He replied.

“What about rape? Or slavery, or doing evil?”

Friedrich laughed: “Let’s just say that there is more to morality than good and evil, Eric.”

I debated with him, on and on about morality. While doing so, I finished my tea and occupied myself by doing my dirty dishes. Friedrich helped me. --If not to learn how the dishwasher worked.

At the end of the conversation, the sun spilled into the room from half-closed blinders.

I wondered about this ghost. No, I was dazzled by him. --The dead philosopher with old truths and dated knowledge. “Who are you?” I asked him again.

Friedrich’s eyes dug themselves into me once more. After he was done searching, he replied: “It doesn’t matter. And you?”

“I am --” Nietzsche interrupted me again.

“You are not dead.” He smiled with his mustache and faded away with the light.

“Yet.”

_________________________________________________________________

Friedrich Nietzsche

No one can construct for you the bridge upon which precisely you must cross the stream of life, no one but you yourself alone.

My dear friends, thank you for gathering.

For we are mourning something special.

I’m paying respects to you, my habit.

Without you, I wouldn’t be who I am today.

When you were new and enticing,

I fought at first, you know.

I scratched, and I bled,

Tooth and nail.

I just kept coming back.

You kept encouraging me,

Even if I didn’t want to.

Especially if I didn’t want to.

You weren’t the best habit...

But it was better than the alternative.

I regret I couldn’t have known you more.

Now that other habits have their sway.

So, I bury you deep within the mind.

Safe and sound, until the new habits die.

After all, I still remember what we did.

I now hold the memories of what you have done to me,

And the lessons you’ve imparted.

_______

Photo by James Harris on Unsplash

The Black Shard is a story about two lovers who must survive their way of life by illegally mining in space. They hope to make billions of dollars in one lucky run, but find that there is something else out on the rocks aside from a few precious metals.

The Black Shard: Part I - https://theprose.com/post/323367/the-black-shard-part-i

The Black Shard: Part II - https://theprose.com/post/323606/the-black-shard-part-ii

The Black Shard: Part III - https://theprose.com/post/323912/the-black-shard-part-iii

The Black Shard: Part IV - https://theprose.com/post/324436/the-black-shard-part-iv

The Black Shard: Part V - https://theprose.com/post/324870/the-black-shard-part-v

The Black Shard: Part VI - https://theprose.com/post/326810/the-black-shard-part-vi

The Black Shard: Part VII - https://theprose.com/post/328791/the-black-shard-part-vii

_____

Back in the cockpit, Hoitt and Jennifer took their seats to prepare for exit procedures. Hoitt glanced at his overhead dashboard, searching for the row of green buttons. He pressed the only one among them colored red, labeled: “PRIME”.

“Priming Engines,” Hoitt said. The cockpit started shaking slightly, indicating that the engines were warming up.

“Copy that. I’m monitoring. Nuclear reactors are stable. Engines are getting heated, but it’s well under the threshold,” Jennifer replied.

Hoitt and Jennifer yelped as the shaking turned into thrashing. --Only for a moment. Hoitt swore he heard the faint sounds of metal scraping on metal from behind the cockpit.

Was that from the exit procedures? Hoitt wondered.

“Computer, what was that?” Jennifer called out.

“An impact breached the Cargo Bay. Likely from a miniature asteroid. Processing damage,” The computer said.

“I thought you could detect those!” Hoitt yelled at it. He was angry that something like this could occur when they needed to run. If they got caught mining in the restricted zone, damage to The Flying Weasel would be the least of their worries from the likes of Space Force.

“Minimal damage to the ship occurred. The cargo container is depressurized and needs sealing. The collision was impossible to detect,” The computer stated.

Hoitt thought the computer was mocking him. However, he was happy to see that the damage was minor.

“Let’s continue, and check out the damned cargo later,” Hoitt said to Jennifer. Hoitt was feeling impatient and for good reason. She agreed.

“Computer, path a course to Mars Colony 22. Get us out of here!” Jennifer commanded.

“Pathing course. Turning the ship starboard,” The computer answered immediately. The sound of thrusters reverberated from The Flying Weasel’s port side as the computer oriented the bow towards its coordinates.

Hoitt looked at the asteroid field from the viewing port just as Jennifer commanded the computer. The lost gold mine, Hoitt thought absent-minded. The sea of asteroids panned to only a blanket of stars as they sped towards home. --Mars.

Another thought occurred to Hoitt. He remembered the black dot crawling from the mined asteroid. Slight panic took hold as he continued to stare, but he stopped himself. More things to worry about, he affirmed to himself.

“Fortifying ship for departure,” The computer said. The viewing port self-sealed with an iris of metal sheathing. Hoitt blinked. He presumed that the rest of the ship’s vulnerable ports were sealing too. Well, perhaps other than Cargo Bay.

The vibrations throughout the ship intensified as the stern thrusters came online. Hoitt grit his teeth and looked at Jennifer, who was focused on the monitoring screen. Shoulders hunched.

“Thrusters are nominal,” Jennifer called out. She looked at Hoitt and caught his gaze.

Hoitt nodded at her. He wanted to let her know that everything was okay. That they were going to be okay. That they would still be rich from the metals they found. That what he did was enough to secure them for the future. Though, Hoitt doubted it himself.

Jennifer smiled and nodded back. Hoitt didn’t know what she was thinking, and he wished he did. He checked his monitor again as if it would help things go faster.

The main thrusters of the ship evidently came online, as he felt the heightened vibrations slow to a familiar and somber hum inside the cockpit. Hoitt sighed in relief. Jennifer sighed too.

The computer confirmed the departure: “Mass and thrust are now in equilibrium. The approximate time to reach Mars Colony 22: About six Martian days.”

“Good,” Said Hoitt. But he didn’t celebrate yet. He knew they officially bought time, but they were not out of danger. For now... Hoitt took a sharp breath.

“We should fix the hull of the ship before we reach the colony,” Hoitt said to Jennifer.

“Looks like we have all the time in the world for it now,” She quipped back. Hoitt turned to see her give a stiff glance back at the monitor before letting her head lazily fall towards him. She stretched out her hand, beckoning. Jennifer looked on edge, so Hoitt grabbed it. When he did, he felt her fingers softly pet his knuckles over the gloves.

“We’ll be there in just 147 hours. You think we’re gonna make it?” She asked. Hoitt didn’t hear fear from her voice, but he knew the truth. He looked on and squeezed her hand silently.

Ever since he found her at that bar in the slums of Earth just a few years ago, she hasn’t left his side. At first, he knew she was using him to escape. --To run from what generations of people before them named: “Humanity’s Last Mistake”. To fly away from the only experience available to Lowborns like her on that cursed planet; The salt mines, the factories, the smog scrubbing plants, and the overpopulation. It was culture for Lowborns to show no fear. They laughed at the famine and disease that was just a part of their lives on Earth. Hoitt knew Jennifer wouldn’t show him how scared she was, ever. He kicked himself for forcing her to run a second time.

But it couldn’t be helped now. He got up and pressed his helmet against hers. “No time to waste, Ms. Bones.”

Jennifer took a ragged breath. Hoitt watched her shoulders rise with his peripheral vision as he stared at her eyes. She blinked. “Yeah,” she said. He noticed the faintest quiver from her lips. They let go of each other, and Hoitt walked to Cargo Bay. He heard a whispered cuss, along with her footsteps following just behind.

It was time to assess the damage, and make repairs. “Computer, what is the status of Cargo Bay?” Hoitt asked. He pressed the button to open the first hallway hatch.

“The Cargo Bay hull is damaged due to a collision, likely from a small asteroid,” It replied. The hallway hatch opened with a hiss. Hoitt gave a grunt. He already knew what happened to Cargo Bay, and felt annoyed.

The computer continued: “The air is depressurized, and many electric systems are compromised. Doors leading to Cargo Bay are compromised.” They stepped into the hallway and made their way to the second set of doors. “I thought damages were minor, computer,” Hoitt said.

“What about the inventory?” Jennifer interrupted from behind.

“Safe.” The computer replied. “Oh, thank God,” Hoitt said, exasperated. He pressed the button to open the second set of doors, and waited.

“Standby,” The computer said without prompt. Five seconds pass as they let the mechanism suck in the ambient air.

Just as it opens, the computer chimes: “Warning. The temperature is rising. Significant radiation also detected in Cargo Bay.”

“What?” Hoitt and Jennifer say together. They picked up the pace towards the last set of doors leading to Cargo Bay. These doors had small windows, unlike the ones before. Hoitt saw a warm yellow glow emanating from the right side of the bay. He overheard Jennifer whisper: “What now?”

What now is right. Hoitt thought too. He pushed the button to open the doors. But they didn’t respond. Only the blinking red LEDs on the door panel reminded Hoitt that they were broken. He felt the frustration building.

So he pushed the button again and again, frantically, hoping they would obey. “Oh, come on!” He yelled.

“Move!” Jennifer shouted as she pushed beside Hoitt in the cramped hallway. He watched her pressing her helmet against the windows of the door to see the other side.

He saw her eyes go wide. Then, her mouth agape. The glow lit her face, and Hoitt felt his stomach drop.

No noise came from that stony petrified gaze.

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Boy, this part took a long time to finish! While it was eight months since the last part, I learned a lot more about writing and tried to develop a more present-tense style this time. I hope it shows improvement from my last chapters. Thank you for waiting. More coming soon. -Ryan

Writing is certainly a career I aspire towards. But I don’t feel like writing sometimes! This is a problem for career writers. Perhaps that happens to you too. I would love to think that writer’s block is there, strangling our muse until it dies and leaves us uninspired at the keyboard. It pains me to ask, but is blaming writer’s block as a murderer of the muse something we should be doing? Can we get revenge for it wringing our creative ideas out of its blood-stained hands? The reason it pains me to ask is that I think I know the answer. I confess to murdering my muse! It’s better than if I framed writer’s block... Below, I’m going to explain why and try to help you get over any rut you may be having with writing too.

Do you know the term “Practice makes perfect”? Well, I’m sure you do. We’re all different, but chances are that you have something you love to do over and over again. That’s practice. --Obviously. It’s very basic to say that the more you write, the better at it you will become. However, this is not easy for most people. It’s not easy for me. The hardest part about starting or resuming a writing project is not practice. It’s the simplest task: Starting your project in the first place.

Why? How is it that starting the first letter, the first word, the first sentence, and so on be so hard? I look at my role models and I ask myself why can’t I write like them; Stephen King, R.L. Stine, Ernest Hemingway, J.K. Rowling, Edgar Allan Poe, and the rest? They are known to me as elite writers that seemingly perform unhindered by distraction. There are several reasons.

Is it depression? In my case, I find depression helps me start writing. Whether or not that’s necessarily healthy is not a topic I’m interested in. I cannot say that depression prevents me from writing. --It’s an outlet for me. However, for you, it could be the complete opposite. If depression is the reason why you can’t write, let me help by saying that I know exactly what you are going through. I want to let you know that are empowered to control the harsh critic inside of you. Depending on how you take it: Your inner critic can be the most useful, or the dullest tool in your arsenal. Outside critics can go to hell until you decide to listen to the ones with practical advice. For less clinical forms of depression, like what happens when your relationship ends, give yourself some time. Your will to write will come back. There’s no need to rush when you need to take your time dealing with life.

Are medical issues or handicaps preventing you from writing? They certainly could be. Other than depression, I thankfully don’t have any other afflictions, so I can’t speak on this confidently. I don’t think that medical problems or handicaps turn into deadends for the aspiring writer, though. While people tend to make fun of Hellen Keller, I bet some people reading this article would be surprised to learn that she was an established American Author. --And she was born deaf and blind. Her will to write despite her issues was a triumphant achievement. If Hellen Keller could become an author, so could you. So while it could be hard, I implore that you don’t use your condition as the reason for not writing if you want to write. Turn it into a strength that propels you forward.

Is it because of procrastination? Ding ding ding ding! For me, this is broadly the reason why I don’t write. --Probably for you too. When I first started writing, I had better things to do. I didn’t have the inspiration, the knowledge, the time, the place, or the feelings. Essentially, I had more important actions to waste my time with. I still do. But, I still want to write. Sometimes, during a blue moon, I would have the inspiration to write over 3,000 words, with the aspiration to turn whatever my idea was into “Something great!” My muse would be on overdrive, and it was the drug that kept me addicted to writing. I relied heavily on the way my muse had me write, but now I know that this motivation is fleeting. It’s the ice that melts in your drink, which ultimately dilutes the flavor. --It makes one want another drink. Continuing that project of mine by the next day would always end with a whimper, anyway. Thus procrastination wins the war of attrition. For you too, procrastination can happen in a multitude of ways. It’s certainly the easiest excuse for why we aren’t writing.

What about writer’s block? Surely, writer’s block had something to do with murdering your muse? No. It didn’t, I’m afraid. I don’t think it exists. Why are you sweating? Don’t like what I said? Wait. Are your hands red?

Writer’s block, in my opinion, is a lie that writers tell people when they don’t want to confess to procrastinating. Well, there you go officer, cuff ’em! I caught you red-handed. You would have gotten away avoiding writing too if it hadn’t been for my meddling muse!

I know that my opinion isn’t popular for many writers, so hear me out. I think that as soon as you recognize that writer’s block is a general term for procrastination, the more power you’ll give yourself to fix any problem you have with writing. When people say they have writer’s block, how can they find a fix for that? It’s too general of a term to describe rationally! They might as well shrug and not write at all. But if you put a more specific reason as to why you can’t write, you can narrow down your investigation. Here are some examples:

- “I can’t write because I don’t have time!” This isn’t a simple fix by any means. At least you know that to write, you need to find more time. Shift your schedule around and see what works, and what doesn’t. Write with smaller word counts than you normally take on. Perhaps you are limiting yourself to one device or medium that you are too ignorant to adapt from? If finding time is impossible, even with effort, writing as a career probably isn’t in the cards right now. But don’t give up! Instead, focus on writing as a hobby so you’re not stressing yourself out and murdering your muse.

-“I can’t write because my writing is terrible!” A great fix for this is to keep learning how to write. Find time to study punctuation, grammar, etc. Don’t be afraid to use auto-correcting tools as a basis to learn from. Keep doing this until you are comfortable writing again. But please heed me: While writing is considered to be a profession for perfectionists, ditch that mindset. Don’t try to overcome your role models and judge yourself based on their significant experience, success, and talent. Just do better than what you did yesterday. Being a perfectionist won’t help your writing develop if it murders your will to write without a second thought.

-“I can’t write because I don’t have inspiration, motivation, or an idea of what to write!” This issue is tough to master. It’s probably the second most used reason writers have for not writing. However, I think there’s more merit to it. Lack of inspiration is certainly more of a descriptive form of procrastination than saying your reason is writer’s block. My fix is to ignore inspiration: Ignore your muse! Practice writing as a habit. Habits have a way of drawing you towards completing an action regardless of inspiration. I don’t recommend working on a pet project you were inspired to do before. Not yet, anyway. If you could write your pet project without motivation, you probably wouldn’t have this problem writing, so humor me. Type up a paragraph, a page, whatever you feel like. It can be about anything on the horizons of your mind. -- You know; frustrations, feelings, thoughts, pains, dull stories about muse murder, whatever. Then, go into editor mode, and scrutinize the work you’ve produced. Edit it down, read it aloud, and ask yourself how you could have written what you produced better next time. Writing becomes more of a habit as you practice constantly. After that, inspiration and motivation will be the least of your concerns.

Attributing the lack of your creative writing to specific reasoning is way better than attributing it to writer’s block. Look, I get it. Writing is hard. Unfortunately, that’s not an excuse. --It’s a fact. Especially if you want to be writing for a career someday. But if you want to do this job seriously, you have to own the fact that writing demands responsibility.

With that in mind, there are many more specific examples to help with procrastination. I wish I could cover them, but I think my muse was shot in cold blood. I think that it’s ultimately up to the writer, yourself, to be honest with identifying why you can’t write today. It’s certainly not writer’s block. I know! The muse’s blood is on my hands too.

Image by Raditya Febrian from Pixabay