The Empire of the Primrose - Station 1 Do you have recurring dreams? Travel Sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett The cycle always resets at dusk, like waking inside the cold architecture of an unyielding, repetitive dream. I walk the wet, cobbled veins of an ancient European city, passing beneath stone arches hung with heavy, lifeless flags, heraldry drained of colour, damp cloth clinging to wooden poles like dead skin. There is no breath of wind, only the low, humming pressure of an era turning in its sleep. I reach into an iron sconce and tear loose a torch of roaring, ragged fire. The flame casts jittering amber shadows against the masonry as I plunge down the same discrepant corridor, a passage that bends against geometry, narrowing and widening like an inhaling throat. The Empire of the Primrose - Station 2 Past the broken gargoyles. Into the moss-eaten ruins of a seated angel whose stone wings have sheared away to jagged stubs. And onwards, deeper into the vaulted h...
Trapped in a cosmic gridlock, navigating space felt less like an adventure and more like rush hour back home. Ahead, the opulent cruise liner, The Stellar Serpent, dominated the view, its countless portholes gleaming with the carefree anticipation of its occupants. We were surrounded by a frenzy of vessels, from elegant private yachts to bulky cargo freighters, all vying for position, their navigation lights impatiently flickering like agitated fireflies.
Our Subi yearned to escape, but felt anchored. Katcha, usually composed, emitted a low growl. Our frustration mounted. This jockeying for position was proving expensive. The Subi’s guidance system incessantly blared “Collision Alert (Minor),” each warning was complemented by a blast of avoidance energy. Days seemed to crawl by, the euphoria of the Kepler Kiss now a fading memory. This wasn't the boundless exploration we'd paid for; nothing is worse than this illogical congestion.
Then, a subtle change. A barely perceptible shift in the massive cruise liner's engines, a slight drift to starboard. Our moment had arrived! With a rush of adrenaline and a sudden, involuntary blast of a space shanty about 'freeing the thrusters' on my comms, the Subi skillfully maneuvered the Stardust Drifter through a narrow opening between a hydroponic supply vessel and a particularly flamboyant pleasure barge. The ship vibrated, the engines roared in glorious protest, and for a magnificent, fleeting instant, we were liberated. Primary Trade Lane Delta-Nine stretched before us. The irritation of the jam evaporated, replaced by an intoxicating euphoria more potent than any synthesised space brew. The unknown beckoned, and we were once again, gloriously, hurtling towards it.
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The Terminal Horizon Highway The Terminal Horizon Tourist Bus Would you catch the Terminal Horizon bus? Travel sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett The Long Highway Out here, the world ends not in silence, but in fire. The asphalt bleeds into cracked red earth, stretching toward a bruised horizon where the sky refuses to cool. Behind the glass, you drive chasing ghosts through a desert that forgot rain a lifetime ago. Beneath the Scorch Every road leads deeper into the furnace. Even below the surface, the rock fissures and weeps, hot steam rising through subterranean fractures where molten veins pulse in the dark, feeding an ancient, unforgiving heat. Broken Arteries What we built couldn’t hold. Rails twist into the dunes, swallowed by iron sand and wind. Bridges split down the seam, concrete splintered into raw bone, tangled rebar, and dying wires crackling into the smoke. The machines stopped; the wasteland stayed. The Last Horizon And when the road finally runs out, the...
Through the eyes of the Lost Soldier The sky is bleeding into the dirt again, and the old hunger crawls up through my boots. It no longer matters. Time does not march out here. It pools beneath a dry creek bed, stagnant and unseen. But when the moon swells, heavy and bruised with copper rust, the cold in my ribs becomes a scald. The scrub does not burn with heat. It burns with memory. Through the tangled mallee, I see the flash of artillery, the orange-red roar of a barrage that never stopped falling, trapped forever inside the rib cages of these dead gums. I taste copper on my tongue, sharp as rifle oil and dried blood. The black heavens press down, bending the whole world inward until I am trapped inside a glass bead of fire. I pace the boundary where red light cuts into deep shadow, waiting for a relief column that lost its heading eighty years ago. Everything here is parched. I am so thirsty. But I do not want water. I want your nourishment. I want your dawn, your warm pulse, as yo...
From Adelaide River to Daly Waters Somewhere south of the Adelaide River "South of the Adelaide River" explores the haunting intersection of modern progress and forgotten history in the vast stretches of the Northern Territory. At the center of the composition stands the specter of a lone soldier, a poignant symbol of profound loss and of abandoned souls swallowed by the unforgiving outback. Stripped of a specific name, era, or mission, the figure represents all those left behind by the relentless march of time—individuals whose sacrifices and stories faded into the scrubland while the world simply moved on. The striking juxtaposition of this spectral wanderer beside a towering, contemporary road train underscores a profound sense of isolation. The heavy machinery of the modern world inches forward down the isolated track, entirely oblivious to the lingering ghosts of the past tethered to the roadside. The brilliant, atmospheric lighting that breaks through the forest canopy ...
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