The rust on the lips tastes like blood. I look at the nails – red. The memory of the tortuous night brings a smile. And the smile hurts even more.
Juliana Perazzolo
I am rusty. I am an old piece of iron lying discarded in an alleyway. The rain falls. It always falls. My surface is oxidized, brown flakes of me are chemically dried and scatter over the grimy ground. A lost soul with no way home because home no longer exists. No solution, yet there is still this monstrous thing called hope which sends my inner eye to focus on the best of possible futures, even though these possibilities are as atypical and unlikely as the purple clouds and the oceans of milk in this surreal land called Never.
Solar Flare
The metal was starting to fall apart. “It’s this damn atmosphere, ” she reported over the Comm. “We’ll have to replace the whole component. But it seems like it is starting to rust even faster than before.” The reply surprised her, “Climate change.”
Chanpheng
redish planet we now have send a tiny robot to
sam
I have rust issues. It all began when I took a ride on the One Hoss Shay. That ride fell apart quicker than I thought it would. I am now part of an anti rust movement. We’re trying to get WD-40 and paint manufacturers on board.
Rust is the bane of our existence, those of us who live near the sea. We love the sea, but like everything in life, it gives us some things, it takes away some things. Here, we get cool sea breezes and a limited lifespan of anything made of metal. And God help anything electronic!
Airhead
I saw the rust build up on the slice of steel which just penetrated my forearm. The crust of years of oxidized corrosion of steel lodged into my arm gave it a healthy glow when combined with the outflow of blood.
The rust on the lips tastes like blood. I look at the nails – red. The memory of the tortuous night brings a smile. And the smile hurts even more.
I am rusty. I am an old piece of iron lying discarded in an alleyway. The rain falls. It always falls. My surface is oxidized, brown flakes of me are chemically dried and scatter over the grimy ground. A lost soul with no way home because home no longer exists. No solution, yet there is still this monstrous thing called hope which sends my inner eye to focus on the best of possible futures, even though these possibilities are as atypical and unlikely as the purple clouds and the oceans of milk in this surreal land called Never.
The metal was starting to fall apart. “It’s this damn atmosphere, ” she reported over the Comm. “We’ll have to replace the whole component. But it seems like it is starting to rust even faster than before.” The reply surprised her, “Climate change.”
redish planet we now have send a tiny robot to
I have rust issues. It all began when I took a ride on the One Hoss Shay. That ride fell apart quicker than I thought it would. I am now part of an anti rust movement. We’re trying to get WD-40 and paint manufacturers on board.
Rust is the bane of our existence, those of us who live near the sea. We love the sea, but like everything in life, it gives us some things, it takes away some things. Here, we get cool sea breezes and a limited lifespan of anything made of metal. And God help anything electronic!
I saw the rust build up on the slice of steel which just penetrated my forearm. The crust of years of oxidized corrosion of steel lodged into my arm gave it a healthy glow when combined with the outflow of blood.