PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Commander Zentrik was just finishing his bitter black coffee and entering endless data into the computer mainframe when he heard a monotonous knock on the door—1, 2, 3, 4. He took another quick sip and set his NASA mug down on the stainless steel table, entered the data, however incomplete, just so his morning work wouldn’t be lost, then exclaimed loudly enough to guarantee that the knocker would hear, “Yes, enter free!”

It was the young, newly signed cosmonaut. As he entered, the door didn’t creak but instead opened smoothly on its greased hinges and pushed a breeze from wall to wall with an ethereal murmur. He closed the sleek door behind him and turned around to address the Commander. The boy’s face was glistening with coconut oil applied after his shave not an hour ago, giving a profound dimension of deepness to his sharp, vibrant cheekbones. His eyes were big, bright, and calm. He wore his beige hat and uniform that were provided yesternight. He had folded the garments meticulously, like any good soldier, and slid them under his silken cot and slept.

“Galvin, Sir, reporting for duty,” he said and saluted.

“Galvin, yes. Do you happen to know why you’re here?”

“I haven’t been informed much as yet, so not really.”

“We will discuss your mission in a bit. Go get some breakfast.”

Galvin departed and walked through the corridors. His stiff boots clacked like hooves on the polished marble floor. He saw the neon pink sign that read “Pantry” reflect its light with an inviting aura, perhaps designed with that purpose in mind. He turned the corner and stopped surprised in the doorframe to gaze a moment into the room. There were swiveling egg-shaped chairs nailed into the marble around a couple dining tables, everything pink, maintaining the flamboyantly feminine theme. Jesus Christ, this here quarters is awful queer, he thought and chuckled. I wonder if they serve pink goo too?

He went to the broad window. And by broad it is understood that the far wall was comprised entirely of glass. Outside, the industrial fumes formed frenzied eddies in the pink—pink again!—sunrise air that highlighted the various space shuttles. And the workers also fumed. They passionately sang their joyous tunes in that gaseous monsoon which mixed also with the natural morning mist of another day on the decks of LS6000 (Launching Station 6000).

Galvin strolled to the food platter with a stern strain fixed on his face, walking super slow as his mind was engaged in thinking about all the supernatural strangeness in this fancied world. It was as if, in that very moment, his whole life and everything was to be questioned and doubted; inklings influenced by the sudden shock and illumination of such a prominent perspective like revelation—borne by memories blossoming in earthly experience and its foregoing ubiquitous illusory illustrations. If I keep up this way, I am bound to develop a migraine.