At thirty degrees it was a flaming liquid. At ten degrees it was smooth and delicious. At zero degrees it evaporated with invective.
The docking procedure was completed with a harried desperation, the eagerness of which left the crew of both vessels slightly ashamed.
The fetus robots were designed by an interstellar slime mold that was acting purely out of spite.
The Resplendent Haflphlonk was dangerously cuddly–a two ton love muffin with a subsonic purr that melted rocket cores.
After the ship recovers from an infestation of spiders the Psychon tricks the Introvert into taking his mandated vacation on the Sex Planet.
A dozen glasses of wine later the captain explained that their mission had always been to get rid of the arms and legs.
A trough was placed in front of them, as long and as wide as their previous, beloved captain.
After one more arcsecond they pummeled the ejection mechanism, creating useless jets of steam and terse complaints by the onboard AI.
An exasperated yelp came from the bottom of the engine well, then glitter and warp power.
The Commander and the Ectomorph must transport to the surface to rescue the Introvert from an uncomfortable conversation.
Blind interstellar creatures the size of suns stumbled around the galaxy, occasionally grouping together to spawn.
Again the sanitation droids refused to follow the first officer–the devolution was humiliating.
The uniforms were a symbolic representation of a million years of evolutionary remorse. Also, a bit tight.
Ears twitching, the lieutenant informed them that the intergalactic carrier had been eaten.
The space station’s curved, pristine white and beige interior had long since succumbed to a dingy, yellowing patina. The piped in Disco music was now laughable and inappropriate.