412-GI Series 

Coming 2020-2021

A Little Excerpt...

Year: 2062

Location: Station 412-Gi

 

Kiz Norris, lead waste management technician II, sat on her outer cycle 2.7, waiting for the recruits to arrive. She wore a red space suit and boots, with a state of the art helmet. As far as she was concerned, it looked like a fish bowl, flipped upside down, and shoved over her head. She could see her dark reflection and ebony-colored eyes staring back at her when light hit the glass just right. Her lipstick, non-existent, was coupled with the sad fact that a good hair day was no longer a part of her lifestyle. She didn’t have time for perms. What did she care? She was in her late thirties, retired from teaching, picked up trash for a living, and her only steady companion was a sixty-year-old man, missing half his teeth.

She glanced at Earth. It was beautiful. Stars surrounded her, and the only thing blocking the view was Space Station 412-Gi. It was over three miles long, and rotated Earth five times per day, moving slower than most.

 

Ten years in space, collecting garbage from four different continents, and she still loved recruitment day. It was the only time she could see home without disruption, reminding her of the friends and family she’d left behind.  

She smiled at Dean, sitting on an outdated outer cycle. It was oversized and boxy, a fire constantly burning, to keep him steady. His suit was an original, white, heavy, and the helmet covered everything but his chestnut-colored face. A white-gloved hand waved and he gave her his most genuine, toothless grin.

 

Dean was originally from the Philippines. Thirty years ago, he became Lead Waste Management Technician I, but he would not hold the title for much longer. Soon, he’d choose a few of the incoming recruits and set off to a new assignment, making Kiz, the only lead technician on 412-Gi.

 

He pointed to the grey container that shot through the atmosphere. He’d told Kiz that it was an original pod, from his early years, square with a line of tiny windows, too small for anyone to escape through.

© 2009-2020 by CHRISTINA LEIGH PRITCHARD

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