Inertia was broken when I walked in my spacesuit down the long white corridor toward the strobe-lights and launch pad. I already felt weightless.
Strapped into the seat of the capsule I focus on the backward series of numbers, each of which shapes a dynamic of ignition sound.
With the zero arrives a shaking that is everywhere through the cardboard.
I undo the belt that holds me into the bucket seat of a disappeared Corvair. Around it the refrigerator box cockpit is an array of crudely drawn dials and screens. Traces of last night’s alcohol waft through my fishbowl helmet. The Mylar suit I am wearing could be tinfoil. It is a hot summer evening. I am not having fun.
I open the cardboard hatch. In the odd geometrical shadows of the launch pad stand a few people wearing lab coats. They want to believe they are scientists. They want to believe I am an astronaut.
I look past them toward the galaxy of tiny multi-colored lights in the midst of which spin solar systems and Tilt-a-Whirls.
3 responses to “Capsule by Stephen Hastings-King”
I guess space suits would be pretty hot in the Summer but still sounds like fun to me!
Was I there? felt like I was. You’ve tricked my imagination…
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