My greasy hair is flowing upwards, blonde flames licking the stale air of the ISS. Exercise twice a day, followed by sponge baths only.
“I know, sweet pea, I know,” I whisper into the microphone. Her newborn cries inconsolably.
Twice a day I am only 220 miles away from her.
Dini Armstrong, now Scottish, has worked in journalism and psychology. She is currently completing an MA in Creative Writing. Her controversial style got her into trouble from age six, when, after writing a particularly enraging piece about a cat blowing up three boys, she had to promise to her stepdad never to write again. She lied.
At the age of nine, Kathy begged her parents for a silver jumpsuit, boldly declaring she was going to be a space explorer when she grew up.
But a single day spent dodging her classmates’ taunts banished that jumpsuit to the back of the closet, never to be worn again.
Devon R. Widmer, a graduate student in chemistry, is currently hard at work resuscitating her childhood dreams.
An astronaut floats in a universe of untouchable splendor
as blue green auroras dance and flicker.
Pinwheels of clouds turn slowly
above an uncommon earth,
where fall leaves surrender gently to laws of gravity
and tides roll with thunder.
Thrusters to return still won’t fire.
Her son turns six tomorrow.
MJ is an aviator, author, and speaker on ways risk and fear can work to our advantage to dream and explore. She is preparing for suborbital space flight.
“Have you been to the moon?”
“Have you been to the International Space Station?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Have you been to the Hubble telescope?”
“No! What do you think I am, some kind of astronaut?”
“Well your résumé says…”
“Oh. Right. Yeah, I’ve been to all three of those.”