Last Log

We drift now in the blank space,
the black space between the stars,
Engines gone. Torn away by an errant
cosmic string or some such particle
unexpected where we hit.

Most of the crew dead. The captain
retired to his quarters with a knife.
The engineer marshals our power
to keep life support a few more days.
Gives him something to do, he says.

No rescue possible. No engines, no
highspace communications. No one knows
we are lost. In this vastness, another
warpship lighting on this point
of nothing beggars imagination.

I wander the arboretum ring. Alone now
except for the green plants whose
names I never learned. I touch their
leaves and pluck their blooms. I still
water the rows, but they won't survive us.

Listen, this is the log of Navigator
First Class of the Twilight Grace.
Listen ... listen to me ...
... at times ... footsteps
echo in the metal corridors;
no one responds when I call.

Copyright 2011 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express written permission by the author and publisher.

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