Galactic Beacon

Science Fiction, Humor, Poorly Drawn Comics

O Captain, My Captain++

9/5/2011 jeffa

By Albert, Lord Graspington from source material by Walt Whitman

O Captain, my Captain!
My wicked, AWESOME Captain!

Our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weathered every rack,
and we had a lot of fun!
Plus those aliens who came down from space,
we kicked their asses back!

Not only did we kick their butts,
the prize we sought is won;
though I am not sure what we should do
with a bunny, giant and plush, O.
Perhaps the tiger or the snake would fit the ship's decor, O.

The port is near,
the bells I hear,
the people all exulting,
except that guy, on the left,
who seems to be convulsing.

While follow eyes the steady keel,
the vessel grim and daring;
But, O heart, heart, heart!
Heart, heart, heart, heart! O!
O the bleeding drops of red,
intestines draped about the rail,
brain spatters on my shoes, O!
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
fallen cold and dead.
Ask not my heart how I know he's dead,
when you can see the hole in his head, O!

O Captain, my Captain!
rise up and hear the bells;
you hate the bells,
this well I know,
but people like to ring them,
so I guess you'll have to deal, O!

Rise up--for you the flag is flung--
you could just pick it up (but NO),
for you the bugle trills,
for you the circus thrills!
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--
and nearly naked girls, O!
for you the shores a-crowding,
for you the whores are shouting,
For you they call, the strumpets all, their eager faces turning;
Though I must admit, when last we docked,
they left my loins a burning.

Here, Captain, dear father!
this arm beneath your head!
But not MY arm,
for it is too gross,
how the ichor leaks from your perforated head, yo.

It is some dream that on the deck, you've fallen cold and dead.
Yet I pinch myself, and it does hurt,
so I guess it's not a dream, O!

My Captain does not answer,
his lips are pale and still;
I poked him with a pencil,
but his reactions were just nil.

My Captain does not feel my arm,
or hand upon his wallet,
he has no pulse nor will;
For comfort's sake I think one thought,
"At least he's not a zombie."

The ship is anchored safe and sound,
its voyage is closed and done;
I'll miss my Captain, yes I will,
but that trip was still quite fun.

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
but I with mournful tread,
burdened by giant bunny plush
Walk the deck where my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead.
But at least he's not a zombie.



8/24/2011 jeffa

By Jeff Ammons

Page 1 | Page 2 | Page 3 | Page 4 | Page 5 | Page 6 | Page 7

Mars Rock Outcropping

Mars Rock Outcropping

Sarah stroked the rounded rock with a heavily gloved hand. The thick material and pressurization of the suit made it difficult to feel any but the greatest contrasts of texture.

This rock was smooth. Her hand met little resistance as she brushed away the fine film of settled dust.

She tried to imagine how this place must have looked when water flowed down from the mountains.

Was it green? Were there plants? Had Mars ever known a flower? What might have pollinated the flower?

Sarah stood and dusted her hands sending faint wisps of the micro-fine dust drifting in the thin air.

No one in the history of humankind had known whether or not Mars had ever supported life, but Sarah was here to find out.

She cross checked her wrist-display and helmet screen to confirm her O2 supply. 18 hours. Number Seven carried another 24 hour supply. The Rover, 2 kilometers upstream, held another 72.

Sarah pressed the rocker-switch next to the wrist display and felt the satisfying click even through the glove. A little whistle in her helmet confirmed the success.

Seven came prancing through the dust. The robotic mule raised little puff clouds with each dancing step.

Seven stopped two meters from Sarah and momentarily shifted in place before finding a balance it liked, lowering a bit, and locking down its joints. Servos and motors powered down to conserve power. Now it transitioned from pack mule to field laboratory.

Sarah began to unpack gear. She grabbed her rock hammer and a collecting box before moving across the bed of the desiccated river.

Martian Rocks

Martian Rocks

The tumbled rocks in the bed were smooth, but the banks held tell-tale striations that told a story of ancient sediment deposits that had hardened into stone before being sliced like a layer cake by the fast flowing water of a later epoch.

To find life you can’t see the terrain as it is. You have to see how it was several “befores” ago.

You have to know that in a body of water with little current EVERYTHING sinks into the muck below. It takes energy to avoid that muck.

When marine animals die, they drift like snowflakes in a forest to that all-encompassing muck.

Times change and oceans die. The muck dries and hardens into stone. In that stone lies entombed the entirety of species from their first mutations to their final demise.

Fast running water eons ago did the work of the heavy machines Sarah lacked, plowing a deep furrow through the sedimentary stone birthed by the long dead ocean.


No Time

8/24/2011 jeffa

For a long time there was nothing,

although it could have been

No time at all.

Time may not have been,

or it might not

Have been time but something


Then It happened.


Not just bang;


Now there was time.

Time for all things.

Things became things,

and things pulled other things

To become

BIG things

until the big things were

Big enough to FLAME ON

But not flame, could not be flame because



and the BIG things made

NEW things

And NEW things until they couldn't make any new things

And when they stopped creating,

they started dying

And the things they had made crushed down on them

And some made crazy new things and

blew themselves Apart,

throwing their things away.

But some things kept things

and pulled more things

Until they crushed things into no things.

But most things made things

and things killed things

Until OUR thing was made and

OUR thing made US.

We learned to make things

and break things

and smash things

to see things,

But what ARE things

and why why

and why and WHEN?

And why when?


We dance.

We dance in time to the beat we feel but cannot find.

Forward we dance and never re-dance

but little things dance

And might not dance the way we dance

but dance the other way.

And why?

And how?

Could we dance the other way

might we dance a different dance

And what would happen to all the things

if we didn't dance the same dance again?

Would they dance?

Would we dance into ourselves

and what then?

How long can we dance

before the




and things






And one more time

There is No time.