by Stephen Humphrey
We sat for dinner, that night before I boarded the starship. The occasion
was lovely but strange. We laughed, kissed, watched hover-cars from the balcony.
I asked, “Would you like the dishes, the rice pot and the cooking stuff? It’s
all pretty new.” Soon I would be gone and you didn’t
complain once, which wounded me.
After, I was alone. Stars sped past the windows. They reflected coldly from
the polished floor. The ship was too big for one occupant. All its white hallways,
cryptic panels, humming engines and no-one aboard but me.
I watched blackness speed past, blazing with spectacular stars.
To call me captain was grandiose.
In my final dispatch, I announced bitterly, “I pace these hallways, arriving
nowhere: prisoner, passenger, dreamer.”
— from Juniper Volume 3, Issue 2