What I Write
“It’s all right,” Shai Laren said as Anselm swung down into the driver’s cabin of the Laplacian Express. “I’m almost sure I know how to fly this thing.”
Anselm’s stepped through the haze of bitter smoke pouring from the split control panel, almost stumbling over something obscured underneath it. “Where’s the driver?”
Shai didn’t look up from what was left of the controls, but the iridophores in her skin rippled blue and green with irritation. “I believe you have just found him.”
“Ah.” Anselm leaned out into the snarl of Martian wind. “What about landing? Can you do landing?”
Shai Laren flipped one of the switches and the thrum of the interstellar engine dropped by a full tone. “Maybe,” she said. “Give me time.”
Anselm rested back against the bulkhead and crossed his arms. “So long as you can do it before we plough into the side of that ravine, take all you time you need.”
“Ravine?” Her eyes flashed purple then drained back to silver-blue.
Pointless trying to get the overhead display to boot up. She stepped into the open door and leaned out as he had done. The wind was a billion of grains of hard red sand, superheated by the bright white thrusters underneath the train. It was like putting her head into a blast furnace. Shai turned away. Her headtresses washed over her face as she looked back down the silver ribbon of the express train glinting blue and violet in the sunset.
She held her breath and turned back into the wind. It cracked against her ear drums and then everything went as quiet as cotton wool. Beyond the horizon, the verdant green of the agrisphere was rising in front of the night’s first stars. She watched it getting swallowed by the half a mile high wall of jagged red cliff-face emerging from the rusty shadows of the desert.
Shai ducked back inside and pulled the headtresses out of her face. “Yes,” she said. “I can see the problem. That isn’t good.”
Her eyes met Anselm’s through the smoke. He was still leaning calmly against the bulkhead, the veil torn back from his face so that she could see the golden weave of filigree over his skin. She looked away quickly, but her skin flushed with thick purple stripes before she could stop herself.
“You don’t look much better, I assure you,” Anselm said crisply. “And no, it isn’t good. I quite agree. Perhaps you would like to try and stop this thing before it stops itself and kills us all?”
Shai flipped another switch and slammed the flat of her hand against a dead section of the console. It flickered for a moment, and came to life.
“If you’ll stop bothering me for just one moment, doula,” she said. “Then I will see what I can do.”
|What I Write||
C.A. Hawksmoor is a writer, activist, and publisher living in North Wales. They write fiction, non-fiction, and poetry, and have a particular love of fantasy, science fiction, social activism, gender-fluidity, post-civilised environmentalism, and otherwise using fantastical worlds to reflect on the injuries to this one that are too painful to look at directly.
They are currently serving as Fiction Editor at SteamPunk Magazine, and can be found mostly on Facebook, procrastinating when they should be working on the hundreds of different projects that they try (and fail) to keep up in the air.
“Trigger Point” – Future Fire #2015.32
My Write-a-thon Goals
I have three!
* Write 40k words (1,000 words a day)
I’d love to hit at least $100, which is about $2.50 a day.
* For every day I’m on or over target, I’ll post my favourite sentence from that day’s work to Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/c.a.hawksmoor) and Twitter.
* Donate $10 or more, and I’ll send you a nifty postcard with a few words I’ve written over the challenge on it! (You may or may not need to drop me an email [caerwyn(dot)allegra(at)hawksmoorsbazaar(dot)net] for this, check in if you haven’t heard anything by the end of July!)