Updated: Jan 24
I was assigned to an inter-galactic space mission—it would cross distances measured in aeons. However, after we set off, all was not well on our vast ship—a ship that was bulbous like a pregnant whale; it had a gentle look—a full look, and it was coloured like creamy milk. If you saw it from the outside it was studded with thousands upon thousands of little yellow windows—and each window was a little yellow life. It carried many generations. All was not well—the ship would not leave the solar system; we returned to Earth.
On Earth, we identified the problem—a problem connected to inadequate organicism in the ship’s navigation system; we needed to insert a grey worm-like organism into it, we needed to become less technological ourselves—the fix was simple, actually. All was now rearranged for our new departure. I waited for our second departure in a long oblong building, an office building of the type you see on satellite business parks—if you want to know the smell and texture then imagine a Starbucks; and then imagine it stretched out as a long building.
This building had walls with floor-to-ceilings windows on every side. As I looked out the windows, I felt a dull thud—and then a mushroom cloud began to rise, perhaps ten miles distant. At first I thought it was an industrial accident. Then I thought, “Oh, they’ve done it.” I turned and looked at a fat black woman next to me, she seemed to speak about nothing. Then I crouched down and closed my eyes and everything washed out in intense white light. Moments later I was in the building’s lower level—constructed like a gym. There was a second explosion, a second blinding light, and a woman in the basement level warned it would collapse. “Can there be more than two?” Yes. I thought about the ship, we were about to leave—yet I knew, heart heavy, it was too late.