04/02/2011 § Leave a comment

Writing the waves.

When I wasn’t sleeping, I wasn’t dreaming. Now I am sleeping, so do I write about my dreams?

Nope. I am reading (my research of words.)

Excerpt from a short story about Fred going to work with his dad on the moon:

Just outside the city’s centre, Fred could see a blanket of darkness flecked with bulbs of light. Fred’s father noticed.

“Over there, it is dangerous. They are criminals, dirtying the core. Over there is drugs and violence. It ruins the lives of many people trying to just enjoy themselves here. Here, there is light and life. Now, if you look over here…”

Fred wandered away towards the dark, wondering what drugs and violence meant. Getting closer, he heard the mechanical laughter fade and a strange melody growing.


It resonated to his heart and drew him in.

“Kid! What are you doing here? You are not a lunatic! No, you’re Fred from Earth,” the lunatic said while examining Fred’s name-tag.

Fred stood still.


Fred looked around.

“You like the music. You want to hear more?”

The lunatic took Fred by the shoulder through a maze of tents and huts, paths and criss-crossed wires, through broken boxes and pots stacked to the side, foreign conversations and gestures, to a circle where a few lunatics gathered. In the middle, a pile of iridescent rocks.


It shook in his chest, the melody flowing to his fingers and toes, keeping beat with the pulse.


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