Dear Mom,

It seems that the only thing this spaceship has enough of is paper, so I thought I’d write. I know I told you I would be too busy, this being a fancy new ship with a fancy new mission, but something’s a bit off. Ericson went and checked the fuel gauges this morning, and apparently we’ve hardly enough to keep us afloat, let alone the amount it takes to turn this stupid thing around and bring us back home. I know, a billion dollar ship going down because someone couldn’t spare the time to check the gas is hilarious, isn’t it? I’m not going to check the numbers myself, because my head feels fuzzy, like I’ve drunk too much. But don’t worry, there’s no liquor on board, I won’t do anything stupid.

Dear Mom,

It feels odd to have so much free time, so mostly I just drift around listening to the air conditioning hum and Ericson’s racking sobs in the room next door. For someone with such a commanding figure, he cracks easily under pressure. He’s been accusing me of communicating with aliens, and his fingernails are bitten to the quick. Poor man, I suspect he’s got family back on earthside.

Dear Mom,

I shot him today, twice in the chest, and once in the middle of his wobbling forehead. He’d gone for the pistol in the cockpit, but I already had it stashed down my boots. I’d like to leave the body alone, if it weren’t for the crawling stench. It’s a pity the showers are no longer working.

Mom,

I think I saw something drift past the windows, but I didn’t dare look.

---

Paul Berlin looked down at the papers in his hand, and let the pencil fall to the floor. He desperately wanted to make one last profound statement, wanted his words to be immortalized, carved into stone, remembered. He wanted it, terribly, but he had nothing left to say. Something had stolen all his words and tossed them into the yawning mouth of space.

an/for the november wcc v: