, , , ,

Wrote this waiting for a friend. Essentially nothing happens, but I’m posting it anyways. I don’t do the not poetry very often, so here it goes


Regrettably, several weeks now spread the gap between today and the last time I wrote to you. Admittedly, things took a turn for the worst recently, something I thought nigh impossible. Due to current circumstance, I fear my letters to you are soon to cease.

We managed to reach that planet I spoke to you of, which we named Kx-317 upon our arrival. As we descended through the atmosphere, I felt the imminent crash looming. Its whisper rang through me in the final moments before our collision, yet thankfully, here I am. Tal-Sol deserved more credit, I suppose. Our fungus mothers unfortunately fell to blight in the final days of our voyage here, and given the frozen abyss that this planet unveiled itself as, I doubt anything edible or usable calls this glacial wasteland home. There is a good chance the water ice on this planet is clean enough to use as a source of power. Reportedly, it’s more efficient than the ethanol we normally use, but I am not a scientist.

The harsh conditions of life here, both from this desolate planet and ourselves, only exasperates our plight. As the first few frigid days turned to relentless and cruel nights, with winds that sliced our faces and ship like glass, the reality that if we continued to fail to find any crude supplies here, a fate only marginally better than those of Zephyyr forced itself upon us. My comrades and I constantly mourn whatever it is we are doing at the time, bicker, lament, and miraculously, still keep ourselves functioning. It’s understandable, as we all feel our nearing deaths descending. We usually get along as a whole, but the stress of our situation is quite overwhelming to those who understand it, let alone the rest of us. I prefer to spare you the details, but with brevity, the song of violence enticed many, even Yog’Tor. I, myself, continue to tire from constant dribble of Neythas. On the ship, I strained to bare it, and now that there is something worthy of complaint, the shrill scratching of Neythas’ voice sends my sanity to the deepest void of space.

The captain, much to my dismay, decided to solve these problems by breaking us into small groups tomorrow morning. We are to use the last few drops and fumes of fuel in hopes of finding any trace of the refinable metals and rocks to pulverize that our initial scans of this system promised us. I appreciate the difficulty of this decision, but I fear that if it fails, so shall we.

Earlier, I enjoyed, with gratitude, some rotting and reduced rations, quite possibly one of my last meals. Looking at the situation I stumbled into earlier, I truly found only humor and serenity. My foreclaws gorged on a vile abomination that smelled and looked worse than that slime our Broodmothers’ used to force upon us, but I failed miserably as I tried to contain my amusement, much to the confusion and dissent of my comrades.

Each race in the known Universe possess something of merit, and I’m sure even the cretins of Thorg space hold some objective purpose in this grand adventure we call life, although I strain to see it. So cold, is the darkness of space. I experienced the pleasure of meeting many other species in the earlier stages in this saga of my life, and of course, our skills in the art of persuasion are our stereotype. It makes sense, I guess. Despite this, spending the last few cycles in such desperation, now stripped of all the comforts of civilized society and thrown to the elements, left only to a small group of our own and own devices, we foolishly cling to reclusion and quiet condescension. I find my own free time spent back on the ship, tucked away in my quarters in silence. Rereading my past letters to you and my holobooks until my eyes hurt, or conversing with myself about nothing are the only life I have left.

Watching my breath crystalize as this systems star descends past the planet’s horizon is one of my few glimpses at beauty in recent memory. Already, my notepad is starting to dim and flicker with the dropping temperature, and the last few nights stripped my sight away, anyways. With all sincerity, I say I hope to write to you again soon; however, I feel this letter’s conclusion draws near, regardless of my choice in the matter.

I know not what tomorrow brings, but I hope it brings some sliver of chance to this solar system.  The next planet in this system, dubbed Kx-428, is just a few days away with the ship in its current condition. Tal-Sol believes we need just over fourteen kiliqs of crude fuel to make it there, but I doubt that anyone else knows what is actually acceptable. The planet we currently shiver on showed better prospects from the outer regions of this solar system than Kx-428. Considering the disappointment that Kx-317 took extreme pleasure in showing itself as, I hope some severe error in our initial scan occurred. Unlikely, but this journey of mine continues to take unforeseen turns. I hope these letters someday make their way to you.

Please be alive.



coming up on two years of having this page, so thank you for baring with me. i still like turtles.