Latest project. Let’s see if this goes anywhere.

Ok, so: new project. After getting some good feedback on a short sci-fi piece, I’ve decided on a new project.

And AREN’T YOU LUCKY? I have decided to share just the first ~370 words of the first draft of what is tentatatively titled “Waypoint Station.” I think might turn out to be pretty good, actually. My brain is constantly spinning on it, which is a good sign for me, since sometimes I feel like I must have ADH–SQUIRREL!

What? Oh, sorry.

Anyway. Here’s the tease. Let me know what you think.



            I gazed out the tiny viewport in my cabin and saw the stars in the blackness, the glowing eyes of some far off creatures looking back at me. I wish that the stars would drift or move like they always did in those movies I watched as a boy growing up on Luna-2. The tales of those intrepid adventurers, bravely hurling themselves into space, surrounded by cascades of streaking light as they moved from adventure to the next. How many nights had I spent watching them, looking up at the stars over my head and wishing I was there?

I’d learned quickly that the reality of space travel, as did so many things, paled in comparison to the dreams of small boys.

I’d spent the last three months aboard cramped, battered, and overworked transport vessels, the last two weeks on this one, the Maybelline. So far, they had all fallen far short of my childhood visions of spacious, well-lit, first-rate luxury, like some sort of Queen Mary of the stars.

The stagnant air was warm, and I could feel the sweat gathering on my forehead as I sat in my cramped cabin, and I caught myself absently brushing my light brown hair away from my forehead. It didn’t actually cover my eyes, which stared back at me from the plas-steel window, but it was a habit formed long ago, as a boy, long before I’d ever thought of traveling into the stars. Somewhere behind those blue eyes was the boy I had been not so very long ago, trapped in the body of man who now sat in this small cabin, and who had traveled so far to get here.

At least I had a cabin. There were only a handful on this ship, and I counted my lucky stars—stars again—that the company had graciously paid for me to travel in some sort of privacy. Most of the two-hundred-odd people on board were racked and stacked in a converted cargo bay, with bunks stacked four high.

No. Cramped or not, this cabin was far better than the alternative, and I knew it.

The small speaker in the ceiling emitted three sharp, electronic beeps, signaling an announcement would follow shortly.


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