Observations of The Urban Spaceman 
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Jason froze mid swig. “What was that?”
“What was what?” Guy countered.
“That noise. Like a scratching noise. Coming from the walls, I think.”
As described in my last post, I’m setting myself (and inviting others to join) a writing challenge designed to stretch unused writing muscles and limber up the creativity. Each month a new topic will be set, and each Friday we’ll write something based around that subject.
ToBe shuffled down the corridor, passing from the 22nd Century to the 21st. Soft harp music played over the loudspeakers, a tune of his own devising. It was a mathematically brilliant piece… but he wasn’t sure if it was actually any good. It had been a long time since there’d been someone he could talk to about these things. Such a very long time.
“Mr. Jones next door just bought a Bentley,” Keith told his wife.
“That’s nice, dear,” she said.
Keith went out and bought an Aston Martin.
Sanjay grumbled to himself as he followed the path of the stream. The water echoed him in solidarity, a soft grumble of water against bedrock. Each river spoke with its own voice, and this little stream’s voice was as annoyed as Sanjay.
Tom fiddled with the small dial labelled ‘red’, tweaking it millimetre by millimetre until the sky’s hue was a more pleasing shade of deep pink. Everyone thought Atmospheric Controller was a purely technical job. ‘Boring’, most deemed it. Kids didn’t even glance twice at his stall on Careers Day.
As described in my last post, I’m setting myself (and inviting others to join) a writing challenge designed to stretch unused writing muscles and limber up the creativity. Each month a new topic will be set, and each Friday we’ll write something based around that subject.
To try and give myself some structure and get back into the swing of writing, I’m going to get myself a pair of training wheels. And a safety helmet. Maybe one of those big bubbles to travel around in. And to do this, I’m going to give myself a type of structure to adhere to over the next twelve months. I dub this dubious challenge:
12 Months of Writing
Cloaked in darkness, I stared out through the window of the crumbling tower. The years had not been kind to this place; nor to me. The weather of time had eaten away at the stone and mortar of my soul, and the tower slowly crumbled in unison.
“Excuse me, Madam President, but it’s time.”
At Naomi’s whispered prompt, the world’s first female president tucked the well-creased piece of paper bearing her own handwriting into her breast pocket and squared her shoulders. Out there, behind the purple curtain, Earth was waiting. A crowd so large that SolSec had needed to pay for a thousand guards to work overtime.
Glorken
The Urban Spaceman
Observations of The Urban Spaceman 
Things humans said