Factor, Attic, Fill

A short story incorporating three random words, written in 20 minutes.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

Fill what’s empty
one to twenty

space unrecognized
brain disguised

Addict’s eyes
Attic’s rise

March backwards
stuffed clam

Time to rhyme
Logic and
Reason be damned

Not a factor
wheal-less tractor

Scorch, Violet, Toys

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

The sky shimmered for a moment between the violet clouds. Like a glassy mirage in the deep purple disappearing into infinity where cosmonauts fall in love with earths finity.

Space ships: toys in the bathtub they float in the expanse. Cosmonauts: kids in the deep end terrified of staring for too long at the bottom. The anxiety of what might appear gripping them.

A glance back at that glowing ball of blue, brown and green hues with wisps of white like a tattered cloak.

The mind will twist into itself, further than the shape of its walnut, deeper than its shell.

There is no warm comprehension only cool calculations: The language of positions, diagrams, degrees, millimeters, rations, nuts and bolts. Still, never their minds attempt to bury the why, who, what, where, how?

The cosmonauts dare to ask. They stare and float and wait for answers suspended in antigravity but they can only ask and make calculations.

To the rest of the bipods standing on that illuminated globe, the answers are the cosmonauts. The space travelers turn from earth, seeing it as the light at the end of the tunnel being swallowed as they drift closer and closer to nothing.

Understanding comes, not directly, to the questions ahead in the vastness but from the things of earth.

Staring into that blackness, seeing lights poking through the black blanket. The inspiration to kneel and reach their hands out to the nothing is tempting. they do not have answers so they beg for a screaming face to prove their questions are correct to begin with.

A momentary slip. Their great understanding of earth has allowed them to partially, if only feebly, understand what is not earth.

Answers be damned. The truth of the matter is always in asking questions in the correct order. So it goes the cosmonauts built a ladder mode of questions and bombs. They rode their explosions into the meat of the sky.

So they return. The cosmonauts not with answers, only slightly different questions until they ride those propulsion toys back into the violet of dusk, scorching the sky.