Still Life

For a moment, everything was still. The room a painting of a single second, movement implied. Joseph stared at the perfect image. The cherry sat above his glass. He had tried to drop it into his drink, a lifetime in a gravity well bestowed a host of useless reflexes. Useless, he thought, the story of his life. He lifted the glass, scooping up the cherry on the way. The drink burned all the way down and Joseph made an all too familiar grimace.

He looked around, again, at the station. His station. He looked over to a monitor, read through the schedule again. Everyone else had left, their time long since passed. Some of them had spent as much time here as Joseph, but not many. Lifetimes of work spent making a home among the stars. And now they, no, he, was going to take it all apart again.

He reached for the bottle again. No squeeze bulbs on a station meant to spin. He stared at it for a long time, trying to remember how he had poured the first glass. He put the liquor down again, a thousand memories pouring into his mind. He stood. Time to go.


Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction.

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5 thoughts on “Still Life

  1. I read an article recently about why alcohol isn’t allowed on the International Space Station. Apparently, among other things, in a weightless environment, alcohol just collects as a ball in the stomach causing uncomfortable gas and lots of smelly belches.

    On a station that spins, everything is different, though.

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