u/Significant_Crew_488

First Contact Was A Funeral: Ten Cosmic Tales.

Ten stories, ten completely different scales of contact.

  1. A radio signal that turns out to be a forty-year-old song of mourning for us and won’t stop transmitting until it knows we’ve heard it.

  2. A depression forming in a man’s ceiling. 3mm, then 8mm, then 19mm, directly above the flat of a woman whose husband died six weeks ago. The building isn’t subsiding. Something else is pressing down.

  3. An alien research file on “Subject 7,441,882, Informal Designation: The Breakfast Man” a guy in Baltimore who’s been eating the same breakfast, from their vantage point, for 11,000 years. They have a paper forthcoming on why his coffee is always the same temperature.

  4. Asettlement’s official meeting minutes on a planet light-years from here, opening with an entry that predates their arrival, that nobody admits writing, that the director insists stays first and won’t say why.

None of these four share a universe. All ten stories share one question: what does it cost to finally be seen by something bigger than you?

Free on KU. Whichever one just got you — that’s the story built for you.

I live in the US, and I read the Mahabharata and rewatch Interstellar not for something new, but to remember it’s bigger than I remembered. This is my debut collection: ten stories, ten different first contacts, one question what does it cost to finally be seen?

https://a.co/d/0ag1VBgn

▲ 3 r/Poetry

[POEM] My Favorite- The Horizon from Hammer And The Star.

The Horizon

After death—does the soul rise, or fall?
I am not risen yet. Not fallen.
 
I row toward the horizon line
where water meets sky,
where the question is not faith or fate or worth,
but whether I pulled the oars when my arms burned,
whether I bailed when water filled the hull.
 
The horizon never arrives.
You only move toward it, or drift away.

 

reddit.com
u/Significant_Crew_488 — 2 days ago

Random thoughts- While Drinking

Jazz is breaking
the thoughts in my mind—

Love, sadness, emptiness.

I don’t know what to show and what to feel.
I look at the glass—

the whiskey finished.

Are my thoughts finished?
No.
They are not.

They keep coming now—more with each beat.
How do I stop it—do I even want to stop it?

“Let it go,” I say.
“Let it go.”

But I feel the void—

a space that is just expanding,
that does not end.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/Bfg7REoFgD

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/tJRuQUycIB

reddit.com
u/Significant_Crew_488 — 2 days ago

Loosing Myself in Jazz

Neon bleeds across dead ice,

a saxophone dragging its feet through the dark.

Amber rings on mahogany —

a map of hours, ounces, quiet.

The needle finds its groove, stays,

a stutter against the ribs,

static filling a hollow room.

Glass cold. Throat dry.

The shadow on the wall keeps growing.

Hands steady in the pockets,

floorboards humming low and blue.

No anchors left in the smoke.

Just a window, reflecting a face

watching a room erase itself.

Cheers 🥃

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/EhC0UKD0N9

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/natx8fLNYL

reddit.com
u/Significant_Crew_488 — 3 days ago