Lost at Space

The indicator light blinked incessantly on the edge of Dackson's vision. Like a petulant child, the red light flared once a second, every second, demanding his attention.

'Three hours of oxygen remaining'

That's what the tinny voice of the computer kept insisting. He pressed himself from the fuel pump and floated through the all-white interior of his shuttle. He looked at all the whirring meters and spinning dials with thin eyes; unsuccessfully willing them into better numbers. Two steel doors hummed open, showing the crisp polyester seats and the starry blackness he drifted in.

He pulled himself into the seat and clicked the buckles together while his hand reached and flipped a single switch on the console. He grumbled as he stared at the blinking light again. He stretched a flat palm out to the light, hovering it over the light. He drew his hand back and scratched his dark hair.

He reached and toggled a different switch on the panel - one close to the panel edge and away from the oxygen warning light. The dial was yellow, with two oval eyes and a stretched smile. He twisted it slightly. An unoccupied patch of metal on the console flipped over and white lights shone up into the full face of Feed 41, the shuttle's artificial intelligence.

"Hello Pilot Dackson," the digital voice intoned without emotion.

"Computer," he barked, "show me the vital signs of the cargo." The holographic face melted into six smaller ones, each accompanied with numbers showing things Dack didn't understand.

"Vital statistics on the cryogenic passengers are normal," the voice replied. The six faces melted back into one, "Be advised, there is currently two hours, forty seven minutes, and fifty three seconds of cabin oxygen remaining."

"Divert oxygen from the private tank."

"I'm sorry Dackson, I cannot do that. The private oxygen tank is specific to the individuals in cryogenic storage."

Dackson hammered his gloved fists onto the control panel. "I will not die here!" he shouted at the thinning air. "I will not die here. In a can. Adrift. I will not have that blinking light blink forever."

The stars glittered through the cockpit glass as Dackson panted with his fists on the control panel. The ship grew murky through his tears as he wasted air with his angry breaths.

"Object detected," Feed 41 said. Dackson smeared the tears out of his eyes.

"Full scan," he groaned, "aft thrusters fire so we can see it." The stars outside whirred in white streaks until a grey sphere loomed in the distance.

"It's identity signal addresses the object as: The Cape Town Biosphere." Dackson's hands darted to his hair, gripping them in tight fists as he brought them down before his chest, shaking them in celebration.

"Home," he sighed. He flipped switches with frantic, spidery hands and in an instant, the Biosphere loomed closer. It grew to dwarf the stars around it as the docking arms on the base of the great sphere with spired patches. Great clunks pulled the ship inside as fresh air hissed through every cabin and every compartment. Men in blue uniforms lifted the capsules with the six onto their floating supports and ferried them out the shuttle.

"Pretty long time for a milk run," his friend Salford said by the airlock. Dackson dumped the command key in the breast pocket of his blue uniform.

"Too long," Dackson admitted, "nearly left me breathless. All that matters now is that I'm back." He patted his friend on the chest and strode into the Biosphere, making the slow walk home.

The Black Case

Inspired by this song and accompanying art by Killerblood, as shown to me by the game Cytus, by Rayark Games.

...And the King A. files are the last to go into The Black Case.

I've lost count of the number of the number of casefiles and documents clients have asked me to pilfer. People forget that 98% of all documentation  and official records are kept on paper still. What's hilarious is that almost none of it is looked at again. I don't like how ignored all those words are.

If it's ever said about me that I only have one rule, it's that I read everything I steal. No client or rogue government or corporation is so important to tear me away from my evenings leisure with a glass of vermouth.

With the papers inside, The Black Case shakes my arm as I clipped the heavy locks on it. I straighten my jacket and ruffles and with my right hand flip my top hat onto my head. I check the laces on my embroidered leather dress shoes - the shine of the polish shows my reflection even from a standing height - and promptly leave the archive room of this embassy.

Turning left out of the and walking briskly down the hall, I look to the right and take in the floor to ceiling view of nature of the country who's name I can't pronounce.

I'm already getting the confused looks from ministers and security officers. It's not helpful that I tip my hat to each and every one of them. They return my greetings by muttering something into a crackling walkie-talkie.

I pull my hat closer to my ears and turn my brisk walk into a vigorous jog. My feet leave a trail of clapping sounds against the polished tiles of the floor but I don't concern myself with it. Time is of the essence.

I jump a flight of stairs and slide down the hand rail of the other as I enter into the lobby. It is a beautiful building. The security cavalry have assembled to greet me, lining impolitely in front of the door. As I approach, the automatic gunfire starts to shower me; their inaccuracy and the strength of The Black Case keeps me safe as a perfect shield.

As the mistaken security force attempted to reload I simply release smoke from a pellet up my sleeve and walk through the group as they choked.

The street was crossed and I placed The Black Case on the passenger seat and sped off across the cobblestones. The electronic jazz formed from sound system and a smile played on my face; I have reading to do.

An Introduction

Hello All.

I could easily start by saying how worried I am to the new and shiny world of blogging but I don't think I will. That'd make me sad and it'd put you off of mine blog which I certainly won't do.

Instead I will tell you about myself. My name is Adam, I am 18 years old and I'm an aspiring writer. I know that that's one of the most common vocations or aspirations for anyone my age but that's not just empty words. Nothing cannot be achieved without work and I will try to work and write and read and rewrite and reread and rereread as often as I can despite having college as a distraction. No; despite having college as an unnecessary drain on my time. Hmm, it is hard to self express sincerely sometimes.

Well, lets just say my priorities are somewhat scrambled in comparison to people my age.

Writing, not learning, is the most important thing in my life at this moment which is what this blog (and this quite pretty notebook which I'll reference a lot) will aim to do; it's why I've called it The Sharpening Stone.

In times of old, before guns were invented and when people actually had measurable fighting skills, people sharpened their swords on large spinning stones in Blacksmith shops and Castle Forges. This is what this blog - hopefully - will do for me: sharpen my sword to cut through the swamp of my imagination and present all the weird and wonderful ideas I have to whoever wants to read them.

So, welcome to my blog dear reader, I hope you and I have some fun together.