Another storm forecast. The third today. Sunset was another forty-three hours away so we could expect a few more before the day was out. Hopefully we would be able to get outside and rig the anti-icing screens before dark. Although only a curious form of purple twilight, not truly dark, it wasn’t safe working outside once the sun had gone down. The natives seemed to gather strength at these times and always wanted to make a scene. Their parties were not for me sadly. I preferred to sit in my chamber watching re-runs of old sports games on my telekran. Anyway there was actually some work to do tonight. My discovery on the Carmillion plain today deserved a couple of extra hours. The only difficulty was how to get the news back home during one of the sparse communicator periods. That was when I got what I would call my flash of inspiration. Just like one of those bolts lighting up the mustard-yellow, methane-cloud filled sky. I will lodge a full report in my next telecast.
Sam looked at the trees lining the highway. Varieties that he and his fellow prisoners had uprooted many years before. He knew tears would flow with every mile they covered, with each new memory. Memories of a life passed and lives lost amidst tears, both wasted and wasteful. Tears mixed with sweat-diluted blood. In the blazing, tropical, midday sun, moisture was precious, the guards watching every move, seldom and reluctantly offering water to drink. They had laid the track yard by yard but now he was perversely pleased to see their death railway transformed into the main highway through Burma
Five young gunslingers from Tooting
Taking
Philip put on his coat and hat. With the rather old but still functional library ladder tucked under his arm he walked out to the now quiet high street. Elated, he realised that the clear night sky held the promise of a stargazing bonanza.
When the pen takes control. 