Here’s a science fiction poem that I wrote recently, provided both for your enjoyment and to perhaps get those mousai of yours fired up, just in case they’re a little sluggish right now.
Somewhere along the line I read that the truest definition of a writer is someone who wrote yesterday, is writing today and will write tomorrow. Making writing a habit, a daily activity, is a sure-fire way to developing as a writer. Practice makes perfect, or at least better and writing is a skill.
a revolving scimitar of rock and ice,
await the return of the starships,
a caravan of translucent-red Saturnian anthropologists and entrepreneurs,
compiling data from their sojourn in the field,
enjoying the voyage home in glowing, disc-shaped craft
possessing the untold quicksilver magic of technologies an astronomical eon
beyond that of the bestial earthlings.
The Saturnians had shared a collective thought-chuckle at their expense.
Saturn awaits its ancient race.
As it has for over a billion years. Saturn will now await the earthlings, too.
Decisions have been made in collective thoughtings.
Greater efficiency has been mandated.
The whole of planet Earth and the Moon will soon be gravitationally entrained
by Saturnian worldgripping technology and pulled to the rings,
protected by immersion cloaking.
There they will remain for a time.
To be studied scientifically, and for celestial experimentation, resource stripping and advanced waste disposal;
eventually to be expelled from the solar system by reverse entrainment.
The flaccid bodies of the Saturnians pulse with bioluminescence, thought-lights rippling deeply
through a muted, dissolving physiology —
throbbing globs of cherry Jell-O held aloft, refracting the starlight.
Their plan for the watery-blue Earth and its dry-gray Moon is an exquisite manifestation
of the severity of thought and application that make the Saturnian civilization
the cosmic equivalent of a can opener;
the quivering envy of so many lifeforms in this solar system and far beyond.
Saturn’s scimitar awaits.