Grave Science Rocket Robbing

Every shovelful of grave dirt sounds like sirens in the night. The glint of streetlight off steel catches the outside of my eye as I cut earth and my breath drops into my heart which balloons and a bit of my brain goes black. Shovel becomes clumsy cane. Occasionally, I must sit with my feet dangling above the crumbling hole and paint myself with filth against the prying eyes of those who would interfere.

The ship was almost complete. All I needed was a human nervous system to wire into the mainframe, something fragile and often mistaken, something to create and interpret false stimuli as the void expands around me, providing nothing. If I could take the corpse’s eyes and be done, believe me that I would not make such a mess of this once loving vessel.

But eyes are mere windows, we are told, and I was looking for a door.

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