Star-seared flesh crawls over the cityscape; all the inhabitants of the atmodrome have evolved photovoltaic cells inside their skin — no one there needs to eat anymore. ¬†All they do is bake, laying out like ancient lizards on rocks, regenerating the neurons that die off in the hypothermic evenings, waking up long enough to get from wherever they fell asleep to the next bit of warm ground until they find the mating territories, where prime couples rut until moonrise chills the nightscape and leaves them too sluggish for another go-round.

Fuck flying cars; this future is way better.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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0 Responses to Cold-blooded

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    Read twice. Skip nothing.

  2. Trent Lewin says:

    I dedicated a shitty story to you. Sorry. On short notice, we do what we can. I should have nominated the previous one, but that was before I realized that you’d returned.

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