the Music
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https://youtu.be/fVyLDjJZTZg
https://www.youtube.com/@grasspatchbum
https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
https://open.spotify.com/artist/3q0KcTUD3hmRdi1SUWd6VL
https://music.apple.com/us/artist/grass-patch-bum/1596136340
https://grasspatchbum.bandcamp.com/
https://grasspatchbum.com/
https://paypal.me/grasspatchbum
Rekordbox
122 BPM
Am
It’s a bit on the slow side for “true” Psy-Tech but I still think it fits that trippy sphere ;-)~
the Story
1
Amber fog drifted over the valley like the memory of a campfire long since gone cold. In its center sat a single egg, tall as a cottage and translucent as melted honey. Runnels of faint gold chased themselves through the shell in quiet spirals, illuminating glyphs no living scholar had ever seen.
Idra had not meant to find the egg. One moment she’d been threading a ravine in search of night-blooming thunderlilies; the next, her compass spun until it whimpered and the canyon walls unfurled into this hush of copper haze. Curiosity, that well-worn rebel in her pocket, convinced her to step closer. The nearer she moved, the more the glyphs pulsed—beat for beat with her own accelerating heart.
A fracture formed, fine as hair, then flowered open with the sound of distant thunder filtered through velvet. The shell curled back like sunrise petals, revealing not yolk or bird but an airship coiled into itself—a serpentine vessel of stained-glass scales, every plate painted by an artist who only dreamed in dawn and midnight.
The ship unfurled, rose, and bowed low in invitation. Idra did what every legend insists you never do: she stepped aboard.
2
The deck felt alive beneath her boots, flexing with tidal breath. Controls were grown rather than forged—lilac vines winding into levers, prismatic fungi pulsing beneath crystalline throttles. When Idra laid a tentative hand upon the central console, the ship stirred awake with a satisfied purr.
The fog parted. Down below stretched an obsidian plain cracked into glimmering dunes. Each ripple flashed mirror-bright, reflecting not Idra’s face but future faces she might wear—warrior, scholar, parent, ghost. Wind poured across the plateaus in slow billows, carrying the scent of meteor dust and apple skin.
Without crew or anchor, the airship surged forward, hugging the glass ridges. Its scales caught the scant light and threw it back as ribbons that stitched and unstitched the horizon. Idra braced herself against the rail, laughter tumbling loose despite the strangeness of it all; the vessel answered with a humming crescendo that felt suspiciously like joy.
They raced until the desert blurred, until the sky decided it was ocean and rolled overhead in foamy streaks of lavender. Then gravity, that stubborn monarch, abdicated.
3
Everything lifted. The dunes snapped apart into globes of citrine vapor. Idra herself drifted upward, no heavier than an afterthought. Around her sprouted trees made of memory: one bore crystalline pomegranates filled with childhood secrets; another dripped clocks set to tomorrow’s regrets.
Idra’s fingers brushed the nearest fruit. It burst into shimmering dust that tasted like the moment just before a first kiss—startled, electric, infinite. She spun once, twice, letting the flavor rewrite the shape of her grin. Above, the airship paddled its wings, navigating the orchard with languid flicks, its hull glowing in pulse with invisible music.
Presently a ladder appeared, rung by prism rung, materializing ahead of the prow. It rose into nowhere, each step refracting the orchard’s wonders into kaleidoscopic halos. The ship nudged the lowest rung, and the ladder accepted the weight as though expecting it all along.
Idra climbed aboard again, nerves singing. Together, traveler and vessel ascended the spectrum staircase—past garnet, through viridian, into frequencies unnamed by any tongue with sense enough to remain sane.
4
At the top waited a sphere stitched from night on one hemisphere and dawn on the other, the seam between them writhing like a dragon wrestling its tail. The ladder ended in that seam, and the ship never hesitated.
Entry felt like plunging through warm ink: colors inverted, inside outside, heartbeat reversed then righted itself. Within the sphere, light acted as liquid—eddies of radiance curled around Idra’s limbs, pooling into whirlpools of memory she could step across like stones in a brook.
Visions swarmed. She saw every path abandoned: the lover she hadn’t forgiven, the song she was too shy to sing, the door she refused to open when opportunity knocked in ragged boots. Each ghost life blossomed and withered in seconds, leaving only the lesson that possibility is neither kindness nor cruelty; it is invitation.
At the sphere’s vortex perched the ship’s engine: a spinning blossom of glass shards forever breaking and reassembling into impossible mosaics. It pulled Idra’s gaze and, for an instant, her entire history. When the engine exhaled, it scattered her across itself—yet gathered her again, rearranged with gentle mischief. She was still Idra, but every boundary now shimmered, half-erased, half-reborn.
Then came the hush, like a library when all the stories decide to inhale at once. The sphere sighed, and the vessel slipped out through a tear of pure white.
5
They emerged above a meadow bathed in ultraviolet twilight—grass blades afire in unseen colors, sizzling softly as though practicing distant lullabies. The ship spiraled down in leisurely loops, scales folding inward until it resembled once more the egg that birthed it. With a final contented shiver, it settled atop the field and grew still.
Idra stepped onto turf that hummed beneath her soles, each blade chiming like glass tapped by moon-silver. The sky overhead wore constellations she couldn’t recognize, yet she swore one or two flickered in greeting.
No farewell passed between her and the vessel; some journeys refuse tidy endings. Still, she lingered, palm resting on a cooling scale. A little electricity passed between them, and Idra knew the ship was neither tool nor beast but companion—and that companions sometimes part to make room for stories.
She walked. With every stride the meadow shifted hue: amethyst to sapphire to a green so deep it whistled. Hours—or maybe heartbeats—later, the first sun pierced the horizon, painting the tips of the ultraviolet grass with ordinary yellow.
Idra laughed at the sudden familiarity and understood the prank: extraordinary becomes ordinary the moment you decide you belong inside it.
She looked back. The meadow, the meadow, the meadow—but no egg, no glass serpent, no ladder, no sphere. Only the faintest glimmer in the air, like prism-dust caught in a child’s soap bubble. Idra inhaled, filling her lungs with whatever remnants of dawn-midnight light still floated there. It tasted of risk and reward, of acceptance offered without debt.
Then she set off across the humming pasture toward a skyline that hadn’t existed a moment earlier—towers carved from coral clouds, markets buzzing with languages shaped like constellations. The world waited, reshaped by her reshaping. Somewhere behind her, an echo remained: the hum of possibility, the purr of a ship grown from comet-seed and cared for by yearning.
Her boots pressed new stories into the ultraviolet grass, and the cosmos leaned closer to listen.
Afterword: Echoes in the Grain
They say travelers who return from the meadow keep a sliver of prism glint beneath their eyelids and a quiet hum in their ribcage. They claim the grass outside ordinary towns sometimes flashes ultraviolet for the briefest sneeze of a second, as though bowing hello.
And if you find yourself on a dusty trail beneath an amber fog one restless evening, watch the shadows. Should they curl into glyphs that pulse with your pulse, perhaps take the step Idra took. Curiosity is a rebel eager for company, and somewhere out there, a ship still dreams of flight.
the Gallery
Great as a background image, for high-quality images, right click or hold to save.
