The station orbit was decaying; I stared listlessly again through the small window in my cabin, down towards the Earth and knew that if something, something (although I knew not what) wasn’t done, I’d be incinerated in a few days. The station randomly, scarily shuddered as the attitude jets fired. Rafir, my engineering colleague was no help. He’d long ago lost the plot and had taken to wearing plastic flowers in his hair and claiming that he was The Mackerel God. My own mental stability wasn’t exactly great; everything I once though of as solid was shifting under my feet.
M is for Mackerel
Prompts:
