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.

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Issue 2.2

In this issue of The Dread Machine, you’ll visit an automated retail hellscape, attend a wild party on Earth’s tempest-ravaged surface, and determine what caused the strange deaths at the AudioSnap building. See the stars in the prison walls, inherit the sacred responsibility of an irradiated priestess, meet a sinister sommelier, befriend a spider, then attend a macabre art show. Whatever you do, don’t eat the honey, and avoid the child with the robotic toys.

$10.00

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Issue 2.2

In this issue of The Dread Machine, you’ll visit an automated retail hellscape, attend a wild party on Earth’s tempest-ravaged surface, and determine what caused the strange deaths at the AudioSnap building. See the stars in the prison walls, inherit the sacred responsibility of an irradiated priestess, meet a sinister sommelier, befriend a spider, then attend a macabre art show. Whatever you do, don’t eat the honey, and avoid the child with the robotic toys.

$10.00

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Palliative Dehiscence

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

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