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A Spoodle in Space - The Space Tourist Chronicles

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  Blast off on a wild space adventure! We're crammed into our battered little Subi spacecraft, heading to the dusty outpost of Outpost Aurum. Our mission: to reach the ocean planet of Oceanus Station. Join us as we station-hop through space, in a calamity of errors, as intrepid space tourists.  Script Our battered Subi spacecraft, a relic of pre-Collapse Jump engineering, groaned under the weight. Myself, BK, and Katcha, the genetically modified spoodle with its enhanced olfactory sensors, along with enough protein paste to outlast a minor vacuum breach, were crammed inside.  A brand-new Brass Monkey cryo-unit hummed in the boot, our lifeline for the long haul. Our mission: a jump from Beagal's orbital dock to the dusty outpost of Outpost Aurum, a waypoint on the long haul to Oceanus Station, a planet known for vast oceans. Outpost Aurum, a rumoured oasis of functional grav plating, was our first target. Beagal's orbital dock was a pressure cooker of recycled air and stal...
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GODin Pot

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GODin Pot
In our time of relative peace, there are those who will forthrightly blame others to gain ascension.
They seek revenge through blinded principles.
But it is foolish for our society to gain prosperity from grounds of wrong.
To gain via perceive threats is untenable.
Centuries of thought have passed and still our want to employ hate lingers.
That is, to stop others and to gain our wants through forced misfortune.
And as our inflictions grow in number so does our determination.
Us theirs and ours cannot be decisively contained.
The more our empowered profiles gain clarity the less our perceived enemy is defined.
Until our enemy has no humanity that we can describe.
Until only shouts of evil and defiance describe only our state of understanding.
Within this scenario of threat, our real purpose is deliberately camouflaged.
And us we and they can no-longer see and or remember what was.
This is how our leading few maintains normalization.
Scratch this delusion and you will see that it is ourselves who are actually broken.
Our way of life is the tragedy of which we will not openly speak.
Our cost of understanding is misfortune.
Our consumption of self-hate is profitable.
We hate them for solace.





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