Art and Death in Zero-G

Flashes of brilliant orange and crimson fire; alloys and polymer spinning away into a wild vacuum.

It’s beautiful, really. That last hit was an artist. Fluid in its bright confusion, it delivered an impressionist’s dream.

Inside our broken hull it’s no less bewitching: my blood orbits, the droplets coalescing. Pink shards of bone float before my glazing eyes.

I can’t reach anything. I peel off a charred boot and throw it with all my faltering strength, hoping for some thrust to send me back to a bulkhead.

It doesn’t work. I just spin gently.

At least the view is pleasing.