Bonn often sits on a small hillock watching the last sun dip below the horizon. Shadows cause the cold to rise from the grasses and aerate the millions of tiny Blue Bow Butterflies. They have laid on the ground all day gorging the soft nectar of the grasses then, at dusk, their tail wings spin like propellers giving them flight. The three flapping wing sets create a brilliant, iridescent, blue sparkling as they rise in the cold night air, twinkling blue stars drifting from

Bonn uses Mother’s Puter-info for safety and making clothes and weapons. Stumpy blue trees are like Ashwood and best to use for making bows and arrows. He bounces his way to the closest Ashes forest 50kms away. The laser-gun fells a few and trims them to a bendy bow and straight arrows. Sharpened Grumblebum bones make arrowheads while leg sinews twisted with spook-reed flax stretch for bowstrings. Red-Black Pandabeasts are the simplest to hunt, while a spook-reed gassed

He sits in mother’s doorway eating psycho-melons. He is lost in space and time. He has no name. No one calls him or speaks to him or talks about him. He is a “Boy of No Name”. So, he calls himself just that -“BONN”- instructing Puter to call him Bonn, just so he can “be”. Bonn gathers fruit. Large juicy, blue-fleshed melons growing in massive patches are his favourite. Unfortunately, they give off psychotic fumes of close, cloying atmosphere that is overly sweet, sti

He crept along the banister holding on as best his little furry legs could grip the curved wood. Paint chips made the grip harder but the knife, firmly between his clenched jaws, glistened with spittle and sweat. The light was dim with only the moon coyly peeking out occasionally. It was enough to glisten off the blade that shone with a dull hue. He hissed and gulped back even more of his spit as he snaked around the banister pole flaking green shards of paint. No one wa

There is no choice. No way off this planet, no charts to guide him back to safe environments. The escape-pod is his survivor, friend, companion, parent and protector. ‘Mother’ protects him, feeds him, fosters him, teaches him, finds and collects water from the water-table. It doesn’t rain. Dew rises to the surface when one of the moons pass and draws it from the groundwater aquifers. It’s exciting to watch thousands of batbirds swooping or thundering grumblebums chasing

……and he pulled up into his parabolic arch after the booms, allowing him to create a controlled drop to the purple grass, just beside the spook reeds. Making sure his mask was tight, he stepped onto their grounds making the reed roots spark wildly and trigger the pampas-type heads to explode into translucent spectres of green spook-shaped vapour. He laughed, knowing the deadly fumes cannot hurt him as they did the red and black Pandabeast he witnessed choking to death when

Standing at the 2-kilometre-high precipice he looks down at purple valleys. Orange-blue clouds scatter below. This tiny boy, sole survivor of the escape pod, stares at the two suns beaming like white and yellow balls near the horizon. Being a ‘space-baby’, this is the only world he will feel. Other worlds are only video. He steps off the cliff and dives in a crux pose. Holding the pose till air pins his arms along his torso. Goggles dig into his face, mouth tight, eyes b