A Perfect Time To Die
Copyright 2014 Susan Hart
Q broke a sweat as he rocketed through the blue-green planet’s atmosphere of two-thirds water. Despite his being immortal, he occasionally got lost in the vastness of space, that void where his spiral-armed galaxy was located. It was his home, but Q didn’t always find his way there easily.
He ran one hand through his spikey blond hair and over his trimmed, short beard. Q knew that if he didn’t soon land, the sleek, gunmetal-grey starship he was piloting would be on fire from the atmospheric friction and he’d be crisp toast. It had already started to glow soft reddish orange, a warning color that time was short.
However, Q liked to play at the edge of danger most of the time, that place where the dividing line between success and destruction lay, the place that could conjure up sensual pleasure likening to the second before a climax. It was his thrill to be on this edge, and it was his style.