tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022413452547277809.post612549195216607483..comments2023-07-06T07:33:06.262-04:00Comments on * Writers' Spark * Every story has to start somewhere *: Prompt: The Last Human Voice You’ll Ever HearUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022413452547277809.post-88079299865510481932013-04-05T01:17:06.064-04:002013-04-05T01:17:06.064-04:00Oh, I like this! Quick setup w/"cold sleep&qu...Oh, I like this! Quick setup w/"cold sleep" and "far side of the galaxy". Nice description of the cold creeping (and the fingers/toes issue). Love the contrast between the cold and "I was on fire". Good rough sketch of the mental state and the physical room. Very nice sketch of the doctor and contrast with own skin. Definitely have a story here!Margaret S. McGrawhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18301618521427459626noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022413452547277809.post-20508781110682389772013-04-04T16:35:51.650-04:002013-04-04T16:35:51.650-04:00Prompt: The Last Human Voice You’ll Ever Hear
I...Prompt: The Last Human Voice You’ll Ever Hear<br /><br /><br />It's a strange sensation, the floating chill as you enter cold sleep. The doctor's voice comes in through a small grill in the capsule, saying something, which you hope isn't too important, because instead of listening to her you're wondering if it's the last human voice you'll ever hear. Your fingers go first -- probably your toes, too, but you don’t suddenly think about picking something up or scratching your chin with your toes and then suddenly realise you can't. As the paralysis creeps up your limbs, there is a moment of panic: wait, did you really sign up for this?<br /><br />And the doctor's voice drones on, and you listen, and she's saying to relax and that it's almost over and soon--to you--you'll meet her counterpart on the far side of the galaxy. Then the cold reaches your torso and you're so tired and, yes, relaxing does sound like a good idea. And you go to sleep.<br />#<br /><br />I was on fire. I sat up, a body full of pins and needles, and waited for the burning sensation to subside. For a moment that stretched uncomfortably long, I couldn't recall anything of myself: where I was, what I was doing, _who_ I was. Then bits surfaced, less like a memory and more like a recording narrating my life, telling me about my most recent past.<br /><br />Cold sleep. I swung my legs off the--table? shelf?--upon which I sat. The room was smooth, a sort of dark green marble pattern, with what might be called furniture exuding from the walls or floor as if grown there. Or, no, more as if the room had been hewn out of a solid block, to leave behind these useful protuberances. I tried to push my memory back further, to get my internal narrator to tell me who I expected to meet upon waking or where I expected to be.<br /><br />A portion of the wall wavered and a figure stepped in. I first thought woman, then had to reassess, and concluded I was not sure. In any case, she was tall and bald with shimmering black skin, iridescent like fire obsidian. I reflexively lifted a hand and regarded my own matte, medium brown flesh, double-checking my vague memory-sense of my own appearance. No, I did not look like her. And I was fairly sure I had never met anyone who did. Nor, did I think, had I expected to. <br /><br />She smiled, recognisable, but something was a bit odd about the way her mouth stretched in her face. "So, where have you come from?" she asked. Except she didn't speak: her smile remained unmoving, and the words seemed vocalised from the same internal narrator who had told me about cold sleep. I began to wonder if that narrator had been correct about hearing my last human voice.<br />Annenoreply@blogger.com