A remote-imaging satellite glides soundlessly over a distant planet’s moon, collecting terrain correction data. The raw information of the lunar landscape is then relayed to a network of unmanned computers in an otherwise empty building located somewhere in the frozen expanse of the Arctic. The surface of the moon is like skinned fruit, rolling out of reach. Many years later, the vessel sends back evidence of absence, countless and identical images of an unending void. Sometime later still the feed stops—the arrival of data ceases.
In the end the memory is without form, and void. The event occurs at some distance, just as the eyes can exceed the reach of the hands, the hands can exceed the reach of the eyes. First the black hole opens outward from within—seemingly impossibly—and collapses the surrounding matter back into its center, sucking down into a perfect cone. Distance is measured only in time. Starlight stretches into silver strands, as fine as hairline fractures in slabs of black glass, angled in the light. Within the darkness the light bends around an oblong object, betraying only a hint of its ultimate form.
David Peak is the author of the black metal horror novel Corpsepaint (Word Horde). His writing has been published or is forthcoming in Year’s Best Weird Fiction Volume 5 (Undertow Publications), Denver Quarterly, the Collagist, Electric Literature, and Black Sun Lit. He lives in Chicago.