Andrew Rushby
Bio
I am a research scientist who has worked at NASA & the University of California studying worlds like our own around distant stars. I also like to write poetry & fiction with a philosophical bent.
Visit my personal webpage here
Stories (4)
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Cities in Pine
I awake from a dreamless sleep and, as always, gather my scattered thoughts about eternity before rising again. Behind me the boundless path runs to distant forgotten horizons, while the way forward is indistinguishable, absurd, and hazy. Powered by a ceaseless breeze flush with the rich scent-memory of a timeless but purposeful task, I wander the length of what I suspect to be an ancient evergreen tree, but at a scale that has afforded this lonely journey several thousands of years. Every needle-like leaf seems to stretch out before me as a limitless, empty plain bathed in dazzling light, the tree’s thick and unforgiving bark the indomitable mountain ranges that bound these alien landscapes.
By Andrew Rushby5 years ago in Fiction
A Final Word
A translation from a scroll recovered from the uninhabited planet ‘Paradise’: I am T’ak and this is my foretelling of the end of this skein, recorded for the first and last time and to be preserved forever in the holy script of our people, which is rarely used. For generations greater in number than the islands of the world, our history has been recorded as song, poem, dance and hymn. But, now, as we observe the signs of our coming doom, we attempt to preserve our unique bifurcation along this long path of years atop these islands for our ancestors and our descendants to judge, as they are doing now and have been throughout our long sojourn, on this singular scroll.
By Andrew Rushby5 years ago in Fiction
The Caretaker
The island on which the Caretaker resides, alone for the most part, comprises several square kilometres of volcanic isolation struck out from the continent. Although only a few hours sailing to the south, it seems as distant and removed as the Moon from the Earth; another world surrounded by the depths of an interplanetary sea both orbiting a dim Sun. It is wave-battered, windswept, and shrouded in mist for much of the year. An ancient peak on the east of the island crumbles through decay and erosion, pounded to dust and silt by the never-ceasing winds. The uplands slope gradually to a lopsided plateau, giving the island a saddle shape, at the terminus of which the western cliffs meet the sea with stoic, sheer grey walls of crumbling basalt. A lone stream trickles down from the misty prominence and meanders to an artificially-dammed pond on the west of the island. Beyond this stream and the sanctuary it provides, the rest of the island is mostly flat grassland, interspersed with a patchwork of sphagnum mosses, gnarled shrubs and little arctic ferns. Despite the ever-present cloud, it rarely rains and little groundwater exists here. The river is the only natural source of freshwater and life, but recently-installed fog harvesters now also add to the pond’s reservoir. Collecting water on the island involves stealing it from the air, which is reluctant to give it up.
By Andrew Rushby5 years ago in Fiction
Retreat
“Pour vous?” “Whisky, s’il vous plaît." Nils was the barman and proprietor of the only inn in the village, but unfortunately the best days of Le Table were firmly behind it. The dusty wooden floors creaked underfoot and the rickety stool on which I perched was in dire need of repair. Propping myself up on the ancient mahogany bar seemed almost disrespectful given its age, far in advance of mine. I felt there the combined weight of all those elbows supporting weary arms without complaint, the heavy heads of despair and drunkenness, and the jubilant dancing feet of happier times.
By Andrew Rushby5 years ago in Fiction
