Six – Fi

Nikolai stood at the precipice

of the great golden rock, flicking

the metallic flakes from

his helmet like dandruff. The

mercurial rain quickly

began to fall and his skin and

the land shone slippery with the

chrome and slick of the alien wet.

This world had made Nikolai akin to itself

despite his domed helmet

and pillowy suit, his hair and fingernails,

blood and spit. Nikolai held his

own hand in sudden desolation,

but both hands beckoned for

the other beneath their thick, gloved

tombs. Desperately, he felt himself blink and

blink and breathe and swallow. He licked his own

lips and cried. The tears referenced the lines

of his face in their path to the mouth. The only

known water was running down his face. A map

was made of salt and he tasted it then. No

one would ever hope to hear the man scream.


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