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The Art of Space Travel by Nina Allan is a science fiction novelette. In 2047, a first manned mission to Mars ended in tragedy. Thirty years later, a second expedition is preparing to launch. As housekeeper of the hotel where two of the astronauts will give their final press statements, Emily finds the mission intruding upon her thoughts more and more. Emily's mother, Moolie, has a message to give her, but Moolie's memories are fading. As the astronauts' visit draws closer, the unearthing of a more personal history is about to alter Emily's world forever.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
134 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2016
“I saw them, though. I saw them at night, when I couldn’t sleep. Instead of counting chickens I would count stars, picking them out from my memory one by one, like diamonds from a black silk handkerchief.”
If you didn’t know her how she was before, you wouldn’t necessarily spot that there’s anything wrong with her.The relationship theme is also explored in Emily’s lifelong yearning to know more about her unknown father, which her mother evades, telling Emily various conflicting stories who her father might or might not have been. The Art of Space Travel is a book within this story (as well as the title and a commentary on the theme), imbued with additional significance because Moolie once told Emily that the book belonged to her father.
It’s all still inside, I know it—everything she was, everything she knows, still packed tight inside her head like old newspapers packed into the eaves of an old house. Yellowing and crumpled, yes, but still telling their stories.
If you didn't know her how she was before, you wouldn't necessarily spot that there's anything wrong with her.
It's all still inside, I know it—everything she was, everything she knows, still packed tight inside her head like old newspapers packed into the eaves of an old house. Yellowing and crumpled, yes, but still telling their stories.
For me, Moolie is a wonder and a nightmare, a sadness deep down in my gut like a splinter of bone. Always there, and always worrying away at the living flesh of me.
It’s all still inside, I know it—everything she was, everything she knows, still packed tight inside her head like old newspapers packed into the eaves of an old house. Yellowing and crumpled, yes, but still telling their stories.
I saw them, though. I saw them at night, when I couldn’t sleep. Instead of counting chickens I would count stars, picking them out from my memory one by one, like diamonds from a black silk handkerchief.