Embedded Files
I'm Ben, the president of the Creative Writing & Journalism Club. I enjoy writing prose, especially science fiction— which all pieces below are.
Both pieces below are lightly edited versions of those written in meetings.
Both pieces below are lightly edited versions of those written in meetings.
Call to Adventure
Call to Adventure
The vast majority of planets cannot support life. It takes a perfect mixture of elements, of heat, and of pure dumb luck. Six days ago, a scientific probe discovered a planet that we thought might meet all of these conditions. We found oceans of water and an atmosphere much like our own. Yet on this planet, there is no life. Not even the most microscopic pinch. Bacteria have been collected in the most desolate and remote reaches of space, and none in this perfect petri dish? You are wondering, how? So are we.
As explorers - as humans - we must answer this question. It is for this reason we are asking for volunteers.
You should understand the risks. This new world is far, far away. If you volunteer, you will see no one but your fellows for decades. This new world is, we are sure, dangerous. If you volunteer, you may very well not survive the trip. But this new world has a secret, and it is one we must uncover. If you volunteer, you will be a hero. And would that not be worth any price?
Be ready to leave in four days. We will take only the best.
No Ordinary World
No Ordinary World
Oralie was a beautiful world with rather many a beautiful place. She had lakes of shining blue water, fields with rainbows of flowers, and titanic mountains the color of the sunset. Talia imagined it was how Earth used to be.
Talia loved Oralie. It was quiet, but loud, in the ways it was supposed to be. Of course, Talia didn't call Oralie it. Talia spoke to Oralie every night, and Oralie always spoke back.
Talia's father arrived on Oralie years and years ago. He never told Talia who her mother was, but Talia always knew it must be Oralie. She knew when she heard the breeze over the lake whispering to her.
"I love you," it said.
She knew when she buried her father in his favorite field of red flowers. Oralie cried, and Talia cried too.
Oralie only had Talia. She could see the Traixes flying above her skies, the Cuitrans plodding across her land, but they didn't see her back, not really.
An rough imagining of Oralie
I wrote this longer story outside of the club.
I wrote this longer story outside of the club.
I
Great crimson leaves drape their surroundings in shadow, gasping for the sunlight and rainfall. White sand almost spills from the brim of its pot, vines push against the glass. It wants them to thicken and spread, so that it can burst free. It cares nothing for the others, the tiny vases beneath it that yearn for something to fall through the bloody sky. They would die and it would not notice; they are dying. They only hope that the crimson will die first. Too much sun burns it to a crisp, it drowns under all the water it has stolen. It grows too large and it bursts the pot, sending sand and leaves and glass to the ground in a dead heap. Then it won’t be so beautiful. After the storm, the tiny plants can grow great and beautiful, they believe. If they were inches north, they already would be.
A wisp of a plant watches the murder, hanging from above, and does not see it. It is a strand of hair, the color of algae festering in stale liquid, and it only sees the crimson. The wonderful crimson, full, rich, and healthy. The wisp could blow away at any moment, indeed, if wind came, it would. It dreams of not worrying, and it wonders how the crimson does not. It wishes to have the same gift. Why can it not? It drinks in the light and the water, tries to push out its paper-thin vines. It tries, so hard. Nothing is stopping it. But so much has passed, and it remains no more than a wisp.
Page updated
Report abuse