Mappa Cutis
Malc shivers against Hal, scratching at his calf. They’re all at it; Hal can’t reach where he wants to,
so he’s just walkin’ the line, walkin’ and groovin’.
‘Hal, I’m scared…’ Scratch, scratch.
‘At least you’ll only lose your leg.’
Latex fingers tap between Hal’s shoulder blades.
The last thing he hears is the skinsaw whirring; the last thing he sees, the rest of the Resistance’s map jigsawed on The Ministry’s lab wall.
Will’o The Circle
The vowels of the zephyrs call Coleridge as the sand migrates in crests and troughs rivalling the combers of Hawaii.
Eee-ooo-eee…
East: sand; west: sand; the only feature on the miniature planetoid beyond the hypnotic sine curves is the drop pod behind him.
Then:
Drip…drip…drip…
He staggers towards it, fleeting days ephemeral, until finally, on his last reserves he sees a feature ahead…
His drop pod?
Eee-ooo-eee…