Date: 2010-01-24 09:44 pm (UTC)
The world tilted axis, dirt shifted and became floor, hollow-hard and plastic. The bright swell of gravity churned and pushed him by his shoulders, shoved him down, pulled listlessly in echo. He hadn't blinked, the flash of color, of atmosphere light became something dry and strange. His lungs caught against his throat and he coughed as he twisted.



Everything was bright, bled silver and blue at him. He knew even if he didn't and his teeth clenched.



He lashed out, curled a fist and struck. The fields were bright and blue and scalded as they cracked, sent splinters up his arm and shoved him back. The ground had no footing, it was no better than a wall, and he fell back, connected against the ridge of a bed. His bones felt closer, floated up toward the surface, and he hissed as he pulled himself up. There were no words, not in Lloannsu, Rihannsu, or any of the languages he knew for this. He let out a shout, terrible and wordless, and his voice escaped out with it.

The language of liars. He would waste no more words for it.
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James T. Kirk

January 2020

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