Palliative Dehiscence

Don't scratch now. We're so close.

We descend over wandering cerulean in a sea of green

Blue blossoms waving proud pistils in our wake

As if to say, “We’ve made it here—so can you.”

A sight for tired eyes, crusted and red

From cryogenic sleep sickness

From the tears of years lost, planets lost

From the blight that circulates among us

Through breath and wind

Air handlers and life support

Suffocating us slowly, silently

We hope this planet won’t see.

 

We land aquatically, in a splash of jade

Await the opening of the airlock

Restrain our fingers at our sides

Don’t itch, don’t scratch, not yet.

 

In blows the breeze, the welcoming whispers

And the tingling fingers contort.

We step forward into the emerald waters

Reach for the helmet release

Don’t scratch now. We’re so close.

 

The flowers freeze, blue gone grey

They know something’s amiss.

It’s too late now

We think as the air infuses our lungs.

The petals go black

We scratch our eyes

And the itch is relieved

Free to spread anew

No longer our burden

As it consumes this new flesh.

Our time is over.

Empty vessels finally at rest.

Share "Palliative Dehiscence" with your friends!

About The Author

Buy the Issue

Issue 2.1 Paperback

In this issue of The Dread Machine, you’ll meet a few shapeshifters, launch an attack on Her Majesty’s Royal Admiralty with a ragtag band of space pirates, and watch Paul McCartney die over and over and over again.

Read a sales listing for a cursed household mirror, deliver some fresh ears to your grandmother, greet the Big Bad Wolf in the cosmos, see influencers battle for democracy, experience your worst nuclear nightmare, change your face, hunt down a dangerous engineered creature, and discover a strange splinter. Whatever you do, don’t itch, be careful about which derelict ships you decide to salvage, and do not trust the maintenance bots.
$10.00

Featured in

Issue 2.1 Paperback

Meet a few shapeshifters, launch an attack on Her Majesty’s Royal Admiralty with a ragtag band of space pirates, and watch Paul McCartney die over and over and over again.

Read a sales listing for a cursed household mirror, deliver some fresh ears to your grandmother, greet the Big Bad Wolf in the cosmos, see influencers battle for democracy, experience your worst nuclear nightmare, change your face, hunt down a dangerous engineered creature, and discover a strange splinter.

Whatever you do, don’t scratch, be careful about which derelict ships you decide to salvage, and do not trust the maintenance bots.
$10.00

More stories

More from 2.1

When I’m #64

Hello, I’m Paul, and I’ve died 62 times. But don’t worry. This isn’t going to be one of those sad stories about dying. That’s not my story, at least.

Goodly Creatures

When Crawford, a bioengineer, stumbles upon the eviscerated corpse of a florafox, she must hunt down her escaped biosynth—a dangerous benthomander whose genecode may have been compromised.

Palliative Dehiscence

Don't scratch now. We're so close.

Share "Palliative Dehiscence" with your friends!

What's the password?

blank
Login to your account

Stay informed