Maiden Abbot was true to her word and had stood like a raptdactyl ready to dive into a dead carcass, overseeing Terra’s washing of the floor, her shoes, and gathering of her soiled garments. Pointing to the portal, the furious woman had ordered her to her quarters after confiscating her dinner token. Terra wasn’t upset over that punishment, since she couldn’t have eaten a bite anyway. She stood in her child sized zero-gravity mist chamber and let the crystallized water droplets moisten and exfoliate her skin. In her grief, she stood there so long that the operating system engaged the helpdesk, who asked if she was in need of assistance. Pressing the “bake button,” as most Ancestrians referred to the radiant ionizer that dried any residual moistness remaining after a wash cycle, she’d donned a robe and curled up in her bunk. There she’d remained, fetal position, until the following morning when the alarm woke her, and she lifted her wet face from the pillow.
Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).