do the stars know the names
by which we call them?
we,
the hubristic and temporary,
label the unthinkably ancient
with quick mouth sounds
and fading pen-scratches.
will they mourn
when we are gone?
would they say:
“nice try, two-legs;
you had one chance
at planetary survival
and missed it
by not paying attention.”
would but those who did pay
had more power than
only the will
to shout
stop
and make it stick.
SOMETIMES, “HUNGER” IS JUST ANOTHER word for “desperation.”
Prosatio Silban heaved a sigh and pondered his bleak future. How does this keep happening? he asked himself. How do my circumstances seem to always drop so low?
To be fair, it wasn’t all his fault. Already scant on funds, he had arrived in Village-at-the-Old-Forest on the premise of feeding the hungry locals and any prolific passers-through with the rumored plenty of the hamlet’s woods, fields, and orchards. Here it was a week later, and the rumors of abundance had been thoroughly disproven – call it “bad luck” if you believe in that sort of thing, or “the fickle whims of the Flickering Gods” if you don’t. Either way, he had nothing to show for his generous ambitions but a nearly depleted pantry, an empty coin jar, and negligible custom.
I can’t afford to stay, Prosatio Silban thought, sitting at one of his empty tables-and-chairs and drumming his fingers on its painted wicker surface. Neither can I well afford to leave. So – what shall I do?
Clearly the best time to be alive is when you start out wondering and end up knowing. There is only one generation in the whole history of mankind in that position. Us.”
— Carl Sagan, June 1974
THE OLD WOMAN SAT, SOFTLY singing, on a blue wooden chair in the vast cobbled square, rippling a carpet of birds with each cast of her seedful hand.
Tall jagged buildings loomed on all four sides — blocky and black-windowed, granite-yellow in the light of the dying sun, their shadows not quite lengthened to cover her frail red-shawled form. The air was cold her cheeks red as the birds fought for dried corn and cracker crumbs.
A tall man strode toward her — dark blue and broadshouldered, cap visor shading all but his dour mouth.
She rolled with the blow which sent her sprawling.
Fluttering clucks roared, arose, the birds swept round and round him. He raised his arms, alarmed; they were wings and he dwindled, his voice now one chirp among hundreds.
She felt herself, sighed, and satisfied, arose; then shifted her shawl and sat, singing softly, scattering seeds.
“THANK YOU FOR CALLING Total Auto, may I help you?”
“Yes, my car was swept away in the recent floods, and I would like to file a claim.”
“I’m sorry sir, but flood coverage isn’t included in any of our policies.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Flood coverage isn’t included in any of our automotive insurance policies. If you look at your policy statement, you’ll see that items such as unanticipated flooding, freak hailstorms, etc., are what we call ‘Acts of God.’ We can’t insure against something like that.”
“Why not?”
I am the greatest man in the world; indeed I am so great that I can afford great generosity: I encourage all others to adopt the delusion that they are as great as I. If they truly thought that they were themselves the greatest, they too would be as generous; and then we would all be able to humor each other, in peace, for none would feel threatened by the now-harmless delusions of everyone else.”
— Dr. Philo Drummond (Now go thou and do likewise.)
On and for the 54th anniversary of “Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.”
AS HE DANGLED FROM THE upper corner of the window before my typewriter, inverted and scowling, I first saw the Man from Mars.
His identity was obvious: three feet tall, emerald green where the spacesuit didn’t cover him, with more-than-vestigial antennae sprouting from a large bulbous head. His expression mingled disappointment with incredulity, as though his highest hopes had just been dashed, and with calculated cruelty.
“I cannot believe you people,” he said in a flat baritone. “Just can’t believe you.”
“I’m not sure I believe in you either,” I said.
He slid down to the sill, his scowl now level with my eyes. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Would you mind opening the window?”
“I would,” I said with ill-concealed suspicion. “How do I know you’re not, you know … part of some horrible invasion-force or other?”
“Because I’m the only Martian left – and I can’t even open the window by myself,” he said. “Besides, the latch is on your side.”
“So it is,” I said, and raised it.
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