Archive for the ‘Adam Francis Smith’ Category

Bug Hunt by OtisFrampton on DeviantArt.com

Behind a rock I hide, praying for a miracle. It’s one against eleven.

I see but cannot hear the ricochets, gray puffs erupting in vacuum. Soon it’ll be red puffs joining the gray.

Nothing to lose …

I pop up in near-zero gravity and fire as I rise, unerringly taking out one bug-eye after another. I’m hit and pirouette, and the spin helps me see. Crawlers die, sun-hot fires in their thoraxes. I’m a spinning pillar of white, shedding red beads like a spiral fountain. I shove a gloved finger into my wound and my jet pack flares, taking me home.

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Harpy by telthona on DeviantArt.com

We form up and charge across the docking bay, hoping to force the Skrebs through the shield, into space. We smash into their mass as if we’ve hit a wall. It’s all about our makeshift weapons against their glass-sharp talons.

I swing my wrench, breaking Skreb limbs. Now and again, I’m sliced on my shoulder, back or arm. There’s feedback from my communicator, and I see the Skreb before me flinch. It doesn’t like the sound. Finally, a real weapon! I shout an order and soon the Skrebs are leaping into space, escaping the sound. It’s a song of victory.

Soldier by Orpheus7 on DeviantArt.com

“Do you even know if this prison ship is space worthy?”

“We’ll find out,, McTish,” smiled Geener.

Smilt and Bern mimicked the grin.

The doors opened. Guards rushed in. Bern’s face exploded. I knelt behind him, taking cover.

Geener threw a chair. When he went down, I could see into the hall through the hole in his middle.

Smilt was the first to surrender. Captain forced him to his knees and executed him on the spot.

Six more after Smilt until it was me remaining.

Captain whispered, “Thanks, McTish, but don’t think you’ve won any favors.”

Space Oddity by Cikalong on DeviantArt.com

“Swords don’t breach hulls!”

“A gun kills at a hundred yards,” I argue.

“Name a shuttle that long.”

I feel stupid.

She runs a mutineer through.

At the airlock we suit up. She cycles the hatches.

The sword looks cartoonish in her glove.

Red lights flash and we’re out.

“Take my hand!” yells Veronica. I grab blindly and slice my glove open. I spin, venting gasses.

She clamps two hands on my wrist, stopping the purge.

“Your sword,” I say. It floats away.

“Your hand,” she replies. It’s frozen. Dead.

Maybe if we’re saved in time, both will be replaced.