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Weekly Contest #134
A dribble of light like spilt milk. Is that what I think it is, asks Gabriel, scratching under his wing. Could be gas… Fix my left eye to the telescope again. He says, let's get this up on the screen, boy. You can see the little space-tracks they leave, shooting through the vacuum. Soul slime, we call it, up here in the Watch Tower. Doesn't happen often, he says. Maybe only once every thousand years or so. Some wiseass convinces them there's a way out, I guess, and off they go, wiggling into the darkness like so many spermatozoa. Headed for...
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