I don't want to live on an occupied planet. Wanna know what those things are, with the wings you can see through and the singing? Not whales, I tell you.
by Teagan White
Sometimes the idea for a prompt emerges from free writing. This time around, I'll give you my admittedly bizarre motivator:
As time dwindles and my face melts, the no-dragons made of nothingness and air lighten the Boston skyline, giving dusk the odd appearance of a sunless everday. There shall be no moon tonight, but Mars, magnified through the Dyson-Katzenberg, could loom large, given the proper conditions. If so, Mars will bathe the streets with its orange glow, and the streetcars swim through it like fiberglass eels on rails.