Vicor B

The portside skid disintegrated on

an outcrop hidden in the searing sand

and we went rolling... smashed to pieces... gon-

ners... So I thought, at least. But no... the land-

ing didn't kill us all. A few came out

alive, and we survive on hope that some-

one will report us missing. Samuels doubts

it. Not in time, he grins, for them to come

while we're still kicking. Horner disagrees.

I've had to separate them. Not so simp-

le crammed inside what's left of Vicor B's

remaining fuselage, all twisted... crimped.

 

The heat is slowly broiling what skin

the sun has left us. Samuels grins and grins...

 

 

 

© Keith Ward 2008

Hit Head On

 

Click here for more about this image and this series, SF Sonnets.

 

Done