Star Trek: The Labyrinth Ch 2Star Trek TOS
Christine stumbled onto a level floor, into another dark space that stretched away for an unknown distance around her. She stood still, taking stock. The space did not feel large. She stamped her foot, and the echoes did not sound large. Held close to the wall the tricorder showed her a hint of pale green paint, smudged and flaking and revealing layers of other pale paints beneath. And something at the edge of the pool of light
She shifted the angle of the tricorder. It was a flat metallic panel affixed to the wall at shoulder height. She touched it and almost shrieked for the second time. Light flooded the space, at first dazzling and flickering and unsteady, and then fading and settling to a dim glow. She blinked, unable to see even in this low illumination after the darkness she had grown used to. She pressed her hands over her eyes, holding them steady and then slowly parting her fingers, slowly letting incre
The Last of the SpaceboundThe last flight of the space shuttle streaks overhead, a chalk line on violet.
The night sky is barely sky. It is space unveiled, no longer blushing before our eyes. It is the beauty of an electron microscope, the seeing of between as important as the matter that sparks with fire and blazes with urgent purity through the darkening void.
We are falling, we are falling. Earthbound, we are all tumbling west to east, out of control, spinning faster than our minds can imagine. And something like vertigo catches hold of me, my back pressed hard against the ground, my chest and stomach precarious, facing the sky, waiting to plunge like a skydiver through freezing winds. My brain seems to rock inside its fragile shell, blood and bones as real as the merciless stars and the void between them. Blood. Blood as red as death caught inside elastic tubes. Air clear as dreamless sleep standing between me and eternity.
The last flight of the space shuttle, its lines far beyond my tentative reach. Falli
Savings and InvestmentsYou saved
Monte-Carlo tickets in a leather case,
the reminder of Princess Grace, and
your hurried, graceful attire.
You saved old man's beard
as a memory of the time in summer
when afternoon turns to evening
and he kissed your hair from behind
and tucked fallen leaves behind your ear.
You saved the four-leaved clover
you found as a girl and
tucked away in a papier-mâché egg,
in those days when whimsies were made of paper
(and you saved the luck that it brought).
your grandmother's tea-set,
and your father's quicksilver sketches.
You saved the privation of your upbringing
in your bones and in your way
of squeezing the last from every foil tube
and neatly rolling the end, snail-shelled and tight.
You saved the memory of heat rising,
tarmac-scented, from damp Cardiff streets,
and saved the light where sky touches sea
in the irides of your eyes. Even near the end,
the light shone back. Even near the end,
all these things were saved, in you.