Last summer's night
Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews
John kissed Helen for the last time, under the dying sun. The press photographed it for posterity. He looked into her red eyes for the last time, trying desperately to memorize the flicker of the fire inside her head. Their relationship had an expiration date the the whole world could see. L'amour fou. He licked his lips, savouring the last taste of her. And then she was gone, disapearing into the shuttle, and entering his memories. The shuttle ripped free of the earth and made it's ascent into the heavens. A column of white smoke against the purple sky. John watched as it became a speck of sand.
The ship made it's merry way to the sun. He followed the news. It was unbearably cold. There had been no light for days. John had heard the whispers, that Helen's mission had failed, that she wasn't the right one for the job. He had seen inside her head. He knew that they were wrong.
In outer space, Helen approached the waning sun and exited her spacecraft. Her head blossomed like a flower as the star inside her brain exploded. A sacrifice to the sun goddess. The earth wouldn't die for a while. It would live on Helen's heat.
John stayed away from the celebrations. To him, it felt like they were celebrating her death. Instead, her stared at the new sun. He gazed into it, letting the new features blind him. The after image burned into his retinas. It was worth it, he thought. No matter what, he'd see the firey outline of Helen.
John kissed Helen for the last time, under the dying sun. The press photographed it for posterity. He looked into her red eyes for the last time, trying desperately to memorize the flicker of the fire inside her head. Their relationship had an expiration date the the whole world could see. L'amour fou. He licked his lips, savouring the last taste of her. And then she was gone, disapearing into the shuttle, and entering his memories. The shuttle ripped free of the earth and made it's ascent into the heavens. A column of white smoke against the purple sky. John watched as it became a speck of sand.
The ship made it's merry way to the sun. He followed the news. It was unbearably cold. There had been no light for days. John had heard the whispers, that Helen's mission had failed, that she wasn't the right one for the job. He had seen inside her head. He knew that they were wrong.
In outer space, Helen approached the waning sun and exited her spacecraft. Her head blossomed like a flower as the star inside her brain exploded. A sacrifice to the sun goddess. The earth wouldn't die for a while. It would live on Helen's heat.
John stayed away from the celebrations. To him, it felt like they were celebrating her death. Instead, her stared at the new sun. He gazed into it, letting the new features blind him. The after image burned into his retinas. It was worth it, he thought. No matter what, he'd see the firey outline of Helen.
posted by Rob at 9:44 p.m.
2 Comments:
"A column of white smoke against the purple sky. John watched as it became a speck of sand in the sky."
This feels awkward. I think it would work just as well as "A column of white smoke against the purple sky. John watched as it became a speck of sand."
Reading 'sky' twice that close together doesn't sound as good.
Yeah, you're right. Now it has a much better flow. Thanks.
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