WIP

A lot of what I work on nowadays is hobby-based. And a lot more of what I work on is long-form analytical essays.

And I mean a lot.

Unfortunately, this results in nonsense, such as 1369 words about a Call Of Duty ship.

And, perhaps worse than this, this results in boredom, which results in creative writing. 

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The inky black beyond you contorts, attempting to claw at you, rip your body from your mind, or your mind from your body. You are protected only by the windshield of your ship. No wind in space, though. Maybe it should be called a starshield. You’ll tell your fellow astronaut friends this when you get home. If you get home. You’re floating, a good few thousand… somethings, from your home.

It's okay, though. You’re not alone. Oh no, you’ll never be alone again, in fact. You can already feel them writhing their way into your skin, burrowing, mating, you are their hive, you are their home, their host, their queen. Don’t claw at your skin to rip them out. That just hurts you, and we don’t want that happening, do we? What you need to do is focus, idiot. You place your hands on the wheel. This won’t work. We’ve established this. You have no power. You’re a crew of five, you each use three kilos of oxygen, you have ninety. You have six days. You’ve got doctorates; you should be smarter than this. Look around, think, use that big, beautiful brain of yours. And work fast. Faster than that. You’re slacking. And the solution is obvious. You know it is. So just think. Why would I tell you? Don’t ask me. My job is to guide, not to instruct. Ask yourself. Look inside yourself. Not literally, that’s repulsive.

The walls around you are panelled, covered in metal and wirings and- Hey. Listen to me. I’m doing my job, you do yours. How about we start again? No, we have no time. Just listen, and do your bloody job, understand? Good. Maybe we’ll get along after all.

Your crew are waiting for you once you enter the room, sat around a table, drumming their fingers expectantly, in sync, like they’re all listening to music you cannot hear. Or maybe you could hear if you stopped interrupting me, and then I’d be able to play it, instead of cutting us short on time.

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Is it the best piece of writing in the world? No. Is it even decent? Questionable.

Was it fun? Yes. Will I finish it? No.