His shock and interstellar meandering now behind him, Maxwell nudged through the patrons of the End-Of-The-Line Club, forcing his way to the center bar. It was the seediest tavern he could find--a backwater haven for non-human thieves and drug addicts, a hell-hole carved from the belly of an insignificant asteroid in a rubble-strewn orbit of Arcturus. No respectable sentient would set foot here. Finally Maxwell could lose himself in self pity and loathing.
"Hey!" he shouted and motioned to the tentacled bartender. "A stiff Rigelian Rye."
He slid onto the stool.
How could he have been so stupid? With all his talent and after all his training ... hewas the best pilot in the human fleet. The shining hope! And he'd been proud--cocky really. "Deliver it?" he'd quipped. "I'll shove it down their throat and poke 'em in the eye as they swallow!"
Yeah, right.
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| The End-of-the-Line Club; Parking in Rear |
Founded in June 2010, Indigo Rising Magazine, edited by Tannen Dell, is a free online fiction magazine focused on the surreal, experimental or otherwise interesting--"a haven to the diverse." Its main page is: http://www.indigorisingmagazine.com/
To see all of my available published stories, click here.
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