Tuesday, 20 October 2015

PPPC1

Plots Pilots & Plans


Whenever He Returns
(Redit Quotiescumque)



Little now could justifiably remain alive.  Only the most determined of photosynthetic life could last the long winters and the punishing summers.  Even the seasons had stopped their perpetual cycle vast eons ago.  
The glowing yellow monstrosity tempered all actions, preventing much but the most doleful of movement until the slow descent of the indomitable ball of fire, back into it’s nightly cradle, where it would wait until its next phase, to rise again and punish the living once more.  It was anon that the time was drawing ever closer.  
Little now grew in this torrid land of death.  Nourishment, such as it was, could only be had by the most determined of forager.  Yet the living continued to defy the valley of death, existing on the remnants of the planet, digging deep with their shovel-like hands - each sinew and muscle about those phalanges a dance of near perfection.  
Deep in the pits the foragers dug, where even the sun could not reach.  The heat burned like a furnace, yet could not penetrate those layers upon layers of impacted soil, no manner the toil.  But it didn’t need to.  The sun had no malice, it had no ulterior motive; it had no conscience from which to deliberately cause harm.  It completed its function, like all things did, and moved on.  
It was that star, however, that found itself in the deep throes of death.  The planet was dying also, symbiotic in its desperation and connection to cling to that ultimately tiny dying rock of a star.  The satellite, once the lunar rock, was long since occulent, and tidal forces were no more as water hid itself in Remo




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