Derelict Space Ship

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Short story with the topic: Derelict Space Ship

Am I?


The eyes are closed but in the blackness of null vision, the two words flash.


Am I?


A reappearing after image, no- not reappearing. This question is burned in thousands of plasma pixelated whites. The thoughts do not move from it. The eyes do not see past it. They do not see at all. 


It is a blank tv screen they watch. 


Am I?


This question is not one of image retention, but image indefinite. Image permanence solders an unbreakable connection into the one-sight sockets. Even in the blackest blindness, still the question follows. 


And it is black. It is darker than black, it is the color of forever fresh pavement- not to be stepped on but to be sunken in and devoured by. It is the color of the night sky without a twinkle, without a moon, and without the coming of the day. 


It is black and there is only one light. The crossing light to guide the pedestrian soul. And it flashes in the night. Blinking, urging they to cross its depth. 


There is little time and still the question lingers:


Am I?


The lenses focus, still unopening, but now they think they hear this prison spotlight that scans the. 


They think they hear a noise. 






Is it?



No. No it’s not.


not a pulse. An alien’s instinct pulled they to hear the beat of a creature's heart. 

But this noise is inorganic. This noise is high pitched, deafening, and metallic. There is no bass or vibration. Just an ache. And it says:


Click click 

Beep beep 




Someone fastened a digital watch to the audio and gave it the rhythm of a car’s turn signal.

And the more they hear it the louder it gets. 


louder and Louder and LoUDeR and LOUDER and LOUDER!!


And it speaks to they, or it speaks of they, or it speaks into they - it speaks to they indignant of any audience and in even greater indignance to the I in itself and it asks:


Am I?


The abyss speaks and it asks:


Am I?


The oblivious oblivion asks in deafening sound and isolated light: 


aM i? 


But there is no answer to give. And for all it stirs and for all it asks- there is no I in they, or they in I. 


There is only the emptiness of its question, in sight and sound. 


The grandness of this question and its ever unworthiness of answers gives they only one insight:


A world-weaving dereliction has occurred.


And its shipmaster bears the flag:


“Am I?”




Yet  worlds wroughtly woven span nothing to the ruler of time.


And as time moves, so do you from the sound. And the sight. The dereliction.


While neither ever leave your lens or become any less audible, they become bearable. 


And the bearable dwindles. Never gone, never out of perception, but moved to the periphery. 

The protoplanetary words of astronomical inquisition diffuse. 


Spreading across what you can see of this black galaxy. 


And to these corners of light your optics begin to adjust. 


Time and time and time pulls the lights like sheets of white planetary dust over your eyes. 


And the sound-


its no sound, or noise, 


Its the silent alarm of desolation. And it spins in your circuitry to the elliptical orbit of this protoplanetary question. 


Time, the unknown variable, attaches to this innumerable coefficient of orbits and it spins forevermore along the inside of your corpus. 


Until the noise is at last. 


And then it asks:


Who Am I?


And the sound and the sight and all its painful inquisition become spread out. Like a star exploding, the world unfolds unto, into. 


The who is here and with your company are rocks. Lights. Twinkles. Blacks and whites of static tv screens. Freckled dotted black and white visions that obscure with eyes open.


But now you see. Not with eyes but with mind.


The pavement becomes striped. 


The asphalt worn from its blackness grows firm. 


Lights flicker on, never long enough to stay, but long enough to cast a shadow. 


Long enough to cast cracks in the darkness. Long enough to give the darkness its first limb: light. 


The abyss’ shadow yet formless, exists. 


The world as it is to be known not seen, exists. 


The who of you flickers and the signs of a channel to receive and search for beckons you. 


There is a receiver now, and he knows of no signal, but he is here. 


He is…




Submitted: October 15, 2021

© Copyright 2022 Weighted Ink. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:


LE. Berry

Tight and suspenseful Sci-fi, very enjoyable!

Fri, October 15th, 2021 7:57pm


I like the prose of this intriguing story. Makes me think of the many dimensions of string theory too.

Sat, December 4th, 2021 11:20pm

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