The Dead Satellite
by Isaac Carmichael
The dark outline of the dead satellite drifted smoothly across the face of the round, full moon, gliding effortlessly, as if on ice. There is something intriguing – eerily fascinating and seemingly unnatural– observing objects out in the vacuum, unfettered by the bonds of gravity and friction we are born into and wear around all our days, close and familiar as a second soul. It crossed the pellucid white circle, awkward in profile after the collision, floating like a cold, mechanical bird; a icy harbinger of grim news.
Tears welled in my eyes and stayed there annoyingly with nothing to draw them away. What could I do, really, other than cry? The crack through which all the pressure and oxygen were escaping blurred, leaving only the dull clattering disharmony of alarms to remind me of my hopelessness.
I pulled the gloves off and placed one bare hand on the damaged viewing panel and the other on my unconscious partner. The window was cold – an oddly refreshing cold. Tara’s vacuous face was warm and soft and the closet thing to reassurance that I wasn’t completely alone. The tears in my eyes began to boil, and I wiped them away to look back out at the receding satellite trailing beautiful debris, golden stardust settling gently over the world lumbering below.
Everything got really small as that dark silhouette pulled my soul delicately along, in surreal spaghettification, and it feels like I’m forever crossing the tenebrous threshold home.