«How to Plan a Summer Road Trip»

05-20-2309

Brick’s back in town!

Fondgrid has been one of my best friends for a while. Of the first acquaintances I made after moving to this desolate rock, I think he’s the only person I still hang out with. Well, I say that relatively since I only see him when he makes visits during his breaks from college on Earth, though that’s still far more often than I run into anyone else from that town. I know I just saw him two months ago when he came for the spring holiday, but it’s always good to have another friend around.

He had grown up and graduated with Linda, the girl I was dating back then–you know, the one I came to Mars for. It was so nice to find someone as intelligent as all my friends were growing up, smart like Allan, and I can remember great times hanging out, just the three of us, anytime he was back home from school. Late nights and the lights of Fender below, just smoking, drinking, talking…I miss those days, come to think of it. After she and I broke up, he did his best not to take sides, but always knew where to come if he needed a good smoke and a nerd off with someone.

He’s only staying in town two more weeks, though. At first I was upset that he wouldn’t even be back for a whole month, but last night I changed my mood about it.

“Say, sir, what are you doing come June?” Brick asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke in my direction.

“Uh…I’m pretty sure I have nothing going this summer,” I contemplated it as I took a hit, the exception coming to mind as I passed it back to him. “Oh wait, I’ve got one thing towards the end of June. Eon is making a trip back to grab all the stuff she left.”

“All the stuff they broke into your crawler for and didn’t even take?” he sneered.

“That’s the stuff. She’s coming to get it all and I just have to be here to give it to her, why do you ask?” He handed the glass back to me in a second, indicating with his eyebrows that the ash needed to be cleared.

“Oh, no reason, just…ROAD TRIP!!” he exclaimed, catching me so off guard with the fragile smoking piece in my hand that I almost dropped the little thing.

“What? Really? Where?” I didn’t know which I wanted him to answer first.

“I’m going to Earth, same way I drove last summer, but this time I’m staying in Carolina, working at the plant there til I go back to school in the fall. I think I can make more money there than working for them here.”

His family owned a corporation called Fondgrid Foods based in Olympus County. You might have seen them, I can’t remember if we had any back home, but in most of the sandwich cases in Martian liquor stores, you’ll spot an array of their products, neatly packaged with their famous red label. I’m kinda partial to Fondgrid jerky myself. Anyway, he usually spends his summers working for his father to make a little money for school, but last summer he had driven a company broadside to their branch in Carolina, just a few hours south of Menesopolis.

“Really, well I’ll be damned,” I was excitedly distracted from filling the glass up again.

“And before I start working…BONNAROO!!” I almost dropped it again.

Bonnaroo is a huge deal–Earth’s largest annual music and arts festival, or at least the biggest one I’ve ever been to. It rivals certain Martian events like the Carnival and Palmchella, but could even be considered the Earth’s equivalent to Mars’s Burning Man.

The half-weeklong jamboree is frequented by that same hippie crowd, still preaching the same verses of peace and love our parents have been singing since the late 2260s. Back in my younger, more drug addled days, it was exactly my kind of scene. I may have gotten all my chemical experimentation out of the way early in life, but I think I could still agree with ideals of peace and unity. Granted, there’s a bit fewer paisleys and rainbows around, mostly flashing lights and glowsticks, but whose keeping score, anyway?

“That’s astro, dude. I’m really jealous,” I congratulated him with contempt, remembering the fun I had, during the parts I could remember.

“Like I asked, what are you doing this summer? Cause one of the girls I’m tenting with dropped out and is selling her ticket for half price, and, uh…I don’t feel like making that trip alone this year..” he said. I was too shocked to say anything. So he continued, “it will take a day to get to the ferry, 2 to get across Luna and another 2 across the western continent of Earth. The other girl that’s still coming is catching a direct flight in on the 9th, so we just have to make sure we’re at least as far as the Appalachia Spaceport by then.”

“So we’d have to leave by 4th or sometime early on the 5th to make it in time,” I responded, the wheels in my head grinding away.

“So you’ll come?! Sweet!” Brick cheered, adding a sigh of relief.

“Yeah, money will only sorta be an issue. It’s pool season and my dad owes me a trip. Hell, what does he care, he’ll just be stoked he doesn’t have to cover my spacefare,” and that money could go towards gas, lodging, food and the ticket for the show, I realized.

“Man, this is going to be the ultimest road trip. Ever!” I could tell that his Martian cogs were spinning at full steam as well. “Should we go closer to the northern hemisphere of Luna like I did last time, or try deep the southern?”

“Mmm…well the only thing I’d want to do in southern Luna is visit my aunt in New Martia, but I don’t really have the time, it would be out of the way. Besides, that means we’d probably have to go through more of the south of Earth,” I shuddered to think of all those battle flags that still hung on front porches, along with their giant swingseats. “Which I am less than willing to do.”

“I as well, good sir, I as well,” Fondgrid confirmed.

“Hey, this way I could just bring all of Eon’s stuff with me to Earth, and neither of us have to worry about having enough room, or it being too heavy,” I pondered another second, “we’ll have enough room in the broadside for a couple of extra cases, right?”

“Yes, we should. We may need to cut down on other extra weight though, but I don’t mind if you don’t,” he agreed to the idea.

“No I don‘t, I need to practice packing less anyway. Hold on, lemme just text her real quick, run through the plan again, please,” I set the half-full pipe aside for a moment and reached into one of my pockets for my texti. With one swift motion of my thumb, I slid the phone open and began to send a new message.

“Ok, in two weeks we leave from Fender, heading north west, past the Tharsis Montes and just North of the Mariners Valleys. From there we catch a quick ferry to Luna. There we stick to the northern hemisphere and the same when we finally get to Earth. We’ll cut through the bottom of your state and be in Carolina in no time. This way we avoid the rednecks and the hicks and drop 10 kg by not having to carry a weapon and ammunition. Then, Bonnaroo. Good?”

“Well hold on a second, Brick. We don’t want to go too far north right? Terra is nice and all, but even in summer, it’s cold as the balls of an Acheron penguin up there. I mean, I think that’s why they put the border there in the first place. We should stay in the Territories.”

“Yes, Klay, I know all about it. My school is right next to the Terran Border. I left my passport there for a reason,” he chuckled.

“So that means we’re left with one option: to go through the religious ring,” I concluded, “so I still want to bring a shotgun.” We both laughed out loud, but I was suddenly serious.

“Oh. Well, we don’t actually have weapons on the truck, I was just joking about not needing them, cause we never actually do at Fondgrid,” Brick admitted.

“Ahh, gork,” I said disappointed, but understanding. It’s not that I liked guns, I’ve hardly used anything larger than a B.B. myself. I just don’t trust religious fanatics. “We’ll have to be careful, still.”

“Shut up, we’ll be fine. Besides, I plotted this route so we’d barely touch that horrible area” he laughed. “Now have you decided on a good school for it yet, or are you just baby sitting the little thing?” he said indicating to the inert glass in my hand, trying make a crack at me.

“Uh, right,” caught off guard by the joke, I looked down at the twisted piece, charged and ready to go, then smirked. “To the Summer!” I raised in toast. The lighter snapped aglow.

«Status Update»

02-26-2308

I really don’t know how to feel about virtual social networks anymore. At first it was nice to create an avatar to help define your online persona, and thus affect how your real identity is perceived by other members. But the programs have degenerated to shoutboxes or personal forums, digital walls for people to leave messages on, and I think extreme egotism might be to blame. See, once you’re given unlimited digital influence you must inevitably fall into an egocentric mindset. It’s only a matter of time before an empowered individual begins to believe that their simple existence is significant.

These social applications allow you to keep your friends, or anyone else stuck in your network, involuntarily abreast of your routine and daily experiences. It’s not uncommon for a person to manage profiles on multiple networks, as each will serve a different function. For instance, one general network may be great for keeping in touch with old friends and classmates, while another very similar one may help you meet new friends. You could have an account for artwork and or another for video, an even different writing or a music profile to show off your playlist, too. There are even systems that let you see which sites other members view and enjoy most, or browse someone else’s collection of bookmarks. But most importantly, they exist for you to whore yourself about for personal gain.

No matter what it is you‘re doing, whether you’re using a site to fish for positive feedback on poorly doctored pics or showing off feeble attempts at creating a piece of art or something worth reading, you’re undeniably using the internet as a self-esteem booster. You’re trying to turn nothing into something that validates your being, trolling for others who will feed your ego, others somehow even more irrelevant than you. A page of txt or script, or a handful of jpegs that you shit out because you didn’t have anything better to do with your time, raping the eye sockets of everyone you could force them upon. Maybe you just leave notes and cute animations on other people’s walls, even ones you don’t know, and encourage them to respond, just to see a new comment alert the next time you log in.

Well now it gets even worse. They’ve just made these social super-applications, ones that extend their tendrils to phone and pda systems, and have the ability of controlling your profiles on other networks. From your handset, button, touchi or even texti you can receive notice from or transmit updates to the nets from anywhere you can get signal out. You can begin to complain about your day, or make entertainment and cooking suggestions, or unleash a senseless onslaught of spam, or whatever it is that you do when you get home to your computer — before you even get home to your computer. A collection of blinks from the ephemeral present, already passing. Not only will it update your mood on this profile, but on each and every profile to which you grant it access. It will sicken you when you realize what a useful tool this could be.

To be honest, I have no idea what to use it for. Really, the novelty of being able to announce to everyone that I got a cup of coffee before I even swipe fades out fast. No, instead I feel the whole idea of a two-sentence update defeats all progress. Anything worth doing or saying can’t fit into 160 characters. No matter how hard we try, we always need more space to say what we need. And frankly I feel like it’s impossible to present my given current state in a serious manner when everyone else around here is just cheering any trivial victory they can express in a witty third person. So since I have this communicative exchange (if it can even be considered an exchange) I feel obliged to inform you with more than two lines.

I’m ok. I’m not well or great. Not bad or fucking terrible, either. Ok is also known as not so great or fine, and can be used in place of going into a long story filled with a bit of either side before finally explaining why the combination brings me to the middle… but I assure you I’m just doing ok.

Damn it, that’s just retardedly brief. I should do it right and explain from the top.

The  year is 2309, today is the fifth of March and it’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon. It’s mostly sunny and 71 degrees outside, a high for this week but not uncommon this early in the year. Tonight Phobos will be a waxing crescent and Deimos, as full as it ever looks, will actually rise at about the same time as his bigger brother.  They are inconsistent and unreliable, but twice or so every week they’ll ride in together from the western horizon to strike fear and terror, respectively.

I am a young Earthling male of Ganymedean descent; fair skin, dark hair and hazel eyes. I’m not first-gen or anything though. More like fourth or fifth so I don’t have pointy ears like most Jovians and — since my family doesn’t have anything else exotic anywhere along the line — I lack antennae, whiskers and an accent. I’ll turn 22 in less than a month, and have only lived on Mars for two-and-a-half years now. I didn’t have any family out here, spare a cousin near Alba Patera who I haven’t seen since before I even moved out here. Everyone else was on Earth, everyone I knew and loved.

I came to be closer to a girl I was dating, but wonderful as that was, it only lasted about a year after I arrived. It used to mean more to me before I realized I had always wanted to come here on my own, and did so to fulfill some sort of sordid childhood fantasy of paradise, using her as an excuse to get closer to Mars. I grew up in the suburbs of Earth’s capital, so I’m even more accustomed to the Olympus County and Novus Angelicas lifestyle than most other Earthlings. I am more familiar with wealth, narcissism, and decadence in general, than most of us Earthlings who don’t have nice weather year round, palm trees and picturesque sunsets consistently.  I know I’m going to need to move up the coast or to Elysium to really use Mars to its full potential, but here isn’t a bad place to start trying to carry out my dream.

I’m still…uh..getting there though….to that some important thing I’m… trying to achieve, that you would call my ambition or goal. I don’t have a job and the semesters I do go to school I attend very few hours, leaving a lot of free time during which I don’t accomplish much, reading constantly and watching a lot of movies these days. I still don’t have my crawler legalized so I hang out with Allan and his girlfriend Nymh most of the time. I usually have to use his 4Door to chauffer him to and fro, so that I have a vehicle to drive at my leisure. Tight as our money is and busy as Dune and Allan’s schedules have been with their classes, our band hasn’t really had enough opportunity to practice, barely keeping up to our once-a-week routine.

Me and Allan have at least been keeping our voices sharp with his father and uncle’s band. We’ll catch them twice a week and sing as they play covers so they can just focus on their instruments. Old hits from when they were our age, you know, electric guitars and lots of synthesizers; classic rock. His dad records it all and then usually has a semi-mastered rendering on disc for us in the morning. We get to laugh at the mistakes everyone makes, as well as the customary improvisation and ad lib. But mostly we try to improve our voices, usually listening to it in sequential blocks until we’re done with an entire evening.

Any time except Thursday I think. That’s when we carry out the one job we both still have, acting as couriers for his dad. We deliver hard copy and discs of photo shoots they do for a children’s talent agency half an hour south, but still in OC. For some reason that day we always try to find something different to listen to, since when I think about looking for something new in the folder I always picture the red desert passing outside the window.

Hmm, I seem to have deviated drastically from any important information I could have imparted with this…or maybe I was just too basic. Nah, that was just pointless, I should just use one of the million tricks you use when you can’t think of something to say in your headline. Like, I could talk about the video game I’m playing, or the book I’m reading, or the show I’m watching, but I just don’t feel right name-dropping. So I can’t really list what albums I’m listening to, or what movies I’m downloading at the moment. I could write a deeply cryptic message based off a corny inside joke that no one who actually checks my status would understand, but that’s about the lamest thing to do on one of these things. Almost as lame as spiteful messages to a loved or hated one in your banner that instigate an immature flame war.

The only thing left is to describe exactly what I’m doing. Which is currently passing around a pipe in a shopping center parking lot on Allan’s campus, smoking in his car before he has to return to class. Our friend Mistri is playing on the radio, a popular local channel operated by this university’s station. Her band recently assembled after she had been playing solo under its moniker for years, and it’s so encouraging to see someone we know making it, even if it just points out what we still need to accomplish. This bowl will be through before the song ends and I’ll be getting Allan back in time for the last two thirds of his class.

I will probably spend that time waiting for him, this glowing touch-screen keeping me occupied in another parking lot somewhere between here and his home. Then we’ll meet up with Nymh and embark upon a requisite stony adventure. That will end when she has to return home to be a mother again, and since it’s not a jam night, Allan and I will retire to his home to smoke more and watch old 2D sci-fi’s on the plasma screen downstairs.

Instead of going on about all of this for a few pages, I think I may just come back and post my favorite cheesy line from one of the movies instead.

«…One Year Ago…»

«Just like Old Mars»

11-13-2308

     It started when I woke up drenched in a hot sweat. My room seemed a sauna to my waking senses, heated and gaspy, but too dry. Eon beside me, who always slept with at least two comforters, had pushed them all off and clung to the old, stained shirt that belonged to her brother: what she called her blankie. Getting up and inspecting, I found all of the other rooms too shared the same broiled air, so I flipped the fans on and opened up my bedroom window. I realized what was happening when a scorching gust blew into my room.

     “Turn down the heat, Lane,” muttered the still sleeping lump in bed, throwing a pillow over her head.

     It may be the middle of November when we Earthlings would already be bundled up in scarves and hiding indoors from the rain, but on Mars that just means it’s wildfire season. The Winds of Hades rip north-west from the Tharsis Montes through the Daedalia Planum to plague the Olympus region. The desert’s heat mixed with a world mostly devoid of moisture combine to make perfect conditions for fast spreading fires that wipe out the already scarce dry brush. It’s on these days, without a cloud in the sky but the brown stain of ash, when I miss home the most.

     If I had been back on Earth, I’d have been ready to celebrate my father’s 52nd Birthday with my family. They were nothing extravagant, but our traditions included going out to a fine restaurant and retiring to his house to watch old horror or cheesy comedy on his big screen. Instead I walked along the rusty sands of the late afternoon beach, starred down like an anti-christ.

     The Martians already chastised anyone with a cigarette clutched in their fingers. But when its fire season the orange ember smoldered like a gun in your blood red hands. Even at the beach, where nothing would even catch on fire if you marinated it in gasoline, they leered and jeered until they’ve watched you douse the cigarette in a wet gutter and throw it in a trash can. After feeling quilted by every pair of eyes I passed to stop smoking before I started another blaze, I strolled down the pier. Like everyone in west Olympus County, where the sky wasn’t as choked by sepia hands, I partook in another beautiful Martian sunset.

     An oil pallet mixed of crimson, violet and indigo painted a deep sky while the bloody sun slowly made its retreat. Curling in from the right, a funnel of smoke billowed out to sea from north up the coast. The thick, sepia smudge of low-laying clouds stained the bottom of the sky like a sickly brown tub ring.

     What I was amazed by more than the view was the crowd of people gathered to watch it. Never had I seen Newport Beach so packed, and everyone was just out to take pictures. Families posed in front of the aftermath of cruel nature and created fond, pretty memories at the expense of millions in property and emotional damage–just 25 miles away. A gorgeous sight that touched me so much I had to leave before I became nauseated.

     A few minutes later I approached the front door of my home in Costa Mensa with inexplicable caution, pulling the key from my pocked as I ascended the stair. My hand slipped off the knob as I tried to open the entrance, fingers covered with red grit. I brushed the fallout on my pants as I stepped in. The acrid stench of burning leaves and old iron pervaded the air inside as much as it did outside, which struck me as slightly peculiar.

     Entering the quarters Eon and I shared, I painfully realized why: the windows had been left wide. My life as I had come to know it, rather the small number of possessions I had manifested in my lack of a proper social life, were coated in a film of scarlet rust. I had only been out a few hours, but by then wind-whipped trails and dunes already spread across the broad dresser along the window. To get to it, I climbed over the pile of suitcases and clothing that belonged to her, which even had an orange tint. I lifted my once white journal to reveal a perfect black silhouette remaining on the desk. I breathed life into a cloud of dust, which stretched its wings into the dim room and dispersed among its resting kin. Another step and I reached for the open window, but hesitated from shutting out the harsh world to stare at it a moment.

     Mars appeared as it had in the old days, in the vintage colonial photos that still hang in bars and hotel lobbies. From here the sky was all cinnabar with an eerie pink eye, barely staring through the wind-swept palm trees and swaying power lines. The ashes danced in the air as spirits released at last from their bondage to our material world, and inevitably returned to nature.

     It started when I woke up drenched in a hot sweat. My room seemed a sauna to my waking senses, heated and gaspy, but too dry. Eon beside me, who always slept with at least two comforters, had pushed them all off and clung to the old, stained shirt that belonged to her brother: what she called her blankie. Getting up and inspecting, I found all of the other rooms too shared the same broiled air, so I flipped the fans on and opened up my bedroom window. I realized what was happening when a scorching gust blew into my room.

     “Turn down the heat, Lane,” muttered the still sleeping lump in bed, throwing a pillow over her head.

     It may be the middle of November when we Earthlings would already be bundled up in scarves and hiding indoors from the rain, but on Mars that just means it’s wildfire season. The Winds of Hades rip north-west from the Tharsis Montes through the Daedalia Planum to plague the Olympus region. The desert’s heat mixed with a world mostly devoid of moisture combine to make perfect conditions for fast spreading fires that wipe out the already scarce dry brush. It’s on these days, without a cloud in the sky but the brown stain of ash, when I miss home the most.

     If I had been back on Earth, I’d have been ready to celebrate my father’s 52nd Birthday with my family. They were nothing extravagant, but our traditions included going out to a fine restaurant and retiring to his house to watch old horror or cheesy comedy on his big screen. Instead I walked along the rusty sands of the late afternoon beach, starred down like an anti-christ.

     The Martians already chastised anyone with a cigarette clutched in their fingers. But when its fire season the orange ember smoldered like a gun in your blood red hands. Even at the beach, where nothing would even catch on fire if you marinated it in gasoline, they leered and jeered until they’ve watched you douse the cigarette in a wet gutter and throw it in a trash can. After feeling quilted by every pair of eyes I passed to stop smoking before I started another blaze, I strolled down the pier. Like everyone in west Olympus County, where the sky wasn’t as choked by sepia hands, I partook in another beautiful Martian sunset.

     An oil pallet mixed of crimson, violet and indigo painted a deep sky while the bloody sun slowly made its retreat. Curling in from the right, a funnel of smoke billowed out to sea from north up the coast. The thick, sepia smudge of low-laying clouds stained the bottom of the sky like a sickly brown tub ring.

     What I was amazed by more than the view was the crowd of people gathered to watch it. Never had I seen Newport Beach so packed, and everyone was just out to take pictures. Families posed in front of the aftermath of cruel nature and created fond, pretty memories at the expense of millions in property and emotional damage–just 25 miles away. A gorgeous sight that touched me so much I had to leave before I became nauseated.

     A few minutes later I approached the front door of my home in Costa Mensa with inexplicable caution, pulling the key from my pocked as I ascended the stair. My hand slipped off the knob as I tried to open the entrance, fingers covered with red grit. I brushed the fallout on my pants as I stepped in. The acrid stench of burning leaves and old iron pervaded the air inside as much as it did outside, which struck me as slightly peculiar.

     Entering the quarters Eon and I shared, I painfully realized why: the windows had been left wide. My life as I had come to know it, rather the small number of possessions I had manifested in my lack of a proper social life, were coated in a film of scarlet rust. I had only been out a few hours, but by then wind-whipped trails and dunes already spread across the broad dresser along the window. To get to it, I climbed over the pile of suitcases and clothing that belonged to her, which even had an orange tint. I lifted my once white journal to reveal a perfect black silhouette remaining on the desk. I breathed life into a cloud of dust, which stretched its wings into the dim room and dispersed among its resting kin. Another step and I reached for the open window, but hesitated from shutting out the harsh world to stare at it a moment.

     Mars appeared as it had in the old days, in the vintage colonial photos that still hang in bars and hotel lobbies. From here the sky was all cinnabar with an eerie pink eye, barely staring through the wind-swept palm trees and swaying power lines. The ashes danced in the air as spirits released at last from their bondage to our material world, and inevitably returned to nature.

«Costa Mensa, Mars»

10-30-2308

     I finish walking the block back from the convenience store to return to my apartment. I put out my brand new cigarette and use my free hand to search for my key. Accessing the garage, I take a short cut by walking under the rest of the complex. The main courtyard and two stories of units skirting it are held aloft by great pillars, protecting residents from coastal flooding while creating an ample parking situation.

     My unit is in the back though, separate from the proper structure. Past a row of locking garages and up the only set of stairs, the new apartment rests on top of two other 2 bedroom homes. To one side a small group of Martian students and directly below a single Europan family. I keep them in mind as I walk softly up the steps to our place, glancing at the empty parking lot next door.

     I use the sliding door, since its open to the ocean wind blowing up in the early day, and slip off my shoes inside. My roommate, Tohm, is lounging on my big comfy couch with the tube of a vaporizer to his lips. While he holds his breath I set down our breakfast and cigarettes and then hand him his coffee while he exhales. Before I get a ‘thank you’ or an ‘I appreciate you getting breakfast’ or even ‘good morning’ Tohm takes a sip and nearly spits it out.

     “You messed up my drink again,” he exclaims wiping his lip, “it’s too damn sweet. I can’t drink this!”

     “You’re overreacting, you can still drink it,” I half-heartedly try to calm him. “And I got it the order right today, they screwed it up,” I blurt before shoving a bite of breakfast sandwich in my face.

     “No, I have to go back and fix it now,” he shouts standing up and grabbing his wallet and the cigarettes. He takes out a cig and drops it on the table, taking the pack with him as he storms out the sliding door. I chuckle to myself as I finish my breakfast, washing it down with the simple black coffee they couldn’t mess up.

     Snatching up the smoke he left me, I grab my shades and step back out on the balcony. It’s a warm weekday afternoon and the pink sun radiates nonchalantly overhead.  I sit down in the satellite chair and light up, slumping back into the soft pad and closing my eyes. The wind and a sporadic birdcall tug at my peace, the intermittent drag and puff of smoke the only unnatural interruption. It’s a relaxing day.

     Or at least, it is until they arrive. Out of nowhere three clamoring Broadsides descend  upon the empty parking lot my balcony over looks. I grumble as the oversized economy transports land and their engines begin to unwind. My roommate and I suspect it’s a sober living house next door, as not one of the 30-or-so residents but the obnoxious staff is allowed to drive and they all smoke more cigarettes than us. There are a lot of establishments like this all over Olympus County, especially right by the shore in Costa Mensa and Newport. Apparently Mars is a haven for recovering addicts and alcoholics from all of the inner worlds, contrary to everything I’ve ever learned about this place.

     Even louder than the now stagnant skippers are the patients they unceremoniously unload. Gabbing and chatting about the most inane bullshit, the two dozen yelling twenty-somethings slothly make their way to their dorms, only shutting up for two seconds to light a cig. At least, by the time they get to the other side of the facility near the entrance, I can barely hear the din.

     Now it’s the staff’s turn to start shouting about pick-ups, drop-offs, rebounds and fall-offs. It’s as if they’re attempting to carry on a conversation across the whole parking lot as they stock the vehicles and check the engine’s fluid levels. Between the clangs and thuds and their ear-piercing conversation, two-way communicators chirp like a pulley on a flag pole, incessantly banging away. They respond to their calls even louder, practically screaming at the poor voice at the other end.

     As I wonder when exactly it was that sober people became this loud, I hear a familiar stomping up my stair. My lanky Earthling roommate returns somewhat satisfied with his new drink. Taking a seat on the stool next to me he throws another cig at me.

     “I ‘ought to punch you in the nose,” he says half serious in his New Tros accent.

     “You ‘ought to just be the one who goes out for coffee the first time,” I snicker lighting my cigarette. He simply shakes his head, glaring at me as he lights his own.

«Caravans to Cuffed Hands»

09-19-2308

     It was supposed to be our last hurrah. It was supposed to be the last great adventure before the summer came crashing to an end. It was supposed to be a memorable experience for all.

«←→»

     When I regain consciousness I’m handcuffed to a chair in a foreign concrete corridor. I’m halfway through reciting my address to a grizzled uniform disinterestedly taking my words down on his requisite paperwork.

     “It was pretty sly of you trying to sneak by me wearing a different top,” the hardened old officer snarls sarcastically, “but you didn’t fool me for a second. You should thank your friends for bringing you back in so you could go to jail,” he finished with palpable scorn before looking back to his clipboard. At the mention of this I realize I wasn’t wearing half of my clothes anymore. Suddenly I’m wearing a collared shirt under a read Europan sweater. I begin to feel the gravity of the situation, my hands bound behind my back by a plastic band, seated in an unfamiliar place with the contents of my pockets strewn across a folding table. It’s only now that I start to wonder what happened to the past few hours, so I try to piece it together as I casually dispense personal information to the badge with a slur.

     We were going down to Sanctus Da Vinci for a two day festival-style concert so we could celebrate the end of summer. Next week my best Martian friend, Allan, would begin school at his new university. He somehow convinced our Saturnian friend and fellow bandmate, Dune, and myself to spend what little money we had left on tickets. At the time, we thought that was an awful price to pay.

     The night before we would set out, Matt and I made ourselves a part of a different adventure in the name of rock and roll. After visiting a bar, named after an Earth city renowned for its music scene, we tagged along with the friends whom we came to see, and the other two bands they just played with, to an after party. The caravan left Costa Mensa heading for the City of Olympus. A bustling suburb between NA and Fender that unwitingly awaited the trail of crawlers we joined.

     Led by our friends’ tour van, the party arrived at 2 AM and didn’t die until 4. It wasn’t your typical party; the loud music and alcohol is requisite. But this crowd seemed to be more concerned with having a good conversation than see how many beers they could chug. At some point, after the Uranian comedy duo was done playing on the wall-mounted  teli, Ganymedean techno began blasting and everyone began to dance. Whatever dismay I had suffered earlier in the eve had dissolved completely from my memory, maybe taken by the sweat now soaking my hair and clothes. Through some irony, the cops would put an end to the fun this evening, prompting our departure back to my home to catch what little rest we could before the real trip began.

     As to be expected, we woke up late. With no time to shower and properly prepare ourselves for the coming day, we rushed down 4 freeways to meet Dune where he was waiting at Allan’s house by himself. The Saturnian obviously had enough forethought the night before to know this was going to be a grueling journey, otherwise he would have answered our calls when we begged him come to the show.  Originally wanting to be parking in Sanctus Da Vinci at 2 PM, our show didn’t get on the road until 4. I kept reassuring them we’d be there in time for the first band, that it only took two hours to get there. I was wrong, but of course I was, I’d never been to Da Vinci before. Once I’d been to Oceanside with my only other Martian friend, Brick, the halfway point from OC to SDV, and was foolishly miscalculating our ETA by thinking it was much closer.

     An hour into the first set we were only checking into the hotel. It was at this exact moment that Allan realized he left his ID and his charge cards at the bar the night before. I slapped my forehead, Dune sighed and swiped his card, warning knee-breakings if he has to pay for damages to the room. After quickly dropping off our bags in a dinky hotel room, which looks like every dinky hotel room, we began running to find a bus.

     The first night of the show we didn’t even worry about chemical enhancement, we were just stoked to finally be there and listening to so much great music. The second day gave us some time to prepare before the music began to play. Since Allan didn’t have his ID he couldn’t gain access to the beer gardens to drink during the concert, we had to come up with a creative way to get fucked up. We never did come up with a better way, and didn’t want to risk entering the premises with substances illegal to carry, so we just drank in the car instead. A six pack and half a bottle of rum passed before we felt ready to let the event commence. The day’s motto was ‘We gotta get drunk, right?’, after all.

     The plan worked flawlessly at first, as most do. And as most plans involving alcohol do, it would slowly begin to unravel. Things really began to fall apart when Dune found a twenty dollar bill on the ground. This twenty would have to be spent, on booze and quickly, god damn it! The forgetful Martian waited outside impatiently as the two people who didn’t leave their ID’s at home got to enter the magical land of beer. It actually wasn’t that enchanted on the inside, discarded plastic cups in pools of strange colored liquids carpeted the way to the ticket stand. For 10 bucks you get seven 2oz samples and make you finish each before you can receive another, making it impossible to sneak any back out. This wasn’t arguable though, it just meant more beer for the two of us. More beer we’d have to finish quicker since we couldn’t it enjoy it slowly while watching the next band play, so we chugged and left the gardens a little more difficultly than we’d entered.

     At an indiscernible period of time before I left the beer garden a second time, I blacked out. Not to be confused with passing out, no I was still active as ever, the lights were definitely on but no one was home. My body continued to stumble aimlessly long enough to leave me with plenty of bruises when I woke up, but that the only part of the story I could decipher when ownership was returned to me. Everything else had to be supplied by the first hand accounts of my friends.

     I was told that on the way out to the car, the last time we needed to refuel, I was into my badass habits of jumping off or almost breaking everything between me and my destination–a typical sight when I’m not behind my own wheel. At least my body knew it was too drunk, it didn’t even take a sip of that last round of rum as it went around the back seat. The runaway train even knew well enough to insist it stay in the car, it couldn’t manage to chew what I had already bit off. But the powers of coercion work well when I’m not quite up to bat, and it would be dragged back in through the gates.

     Or at least they tried to. Some moments later Dune and Allan would realize they were a person short, walk out and find my body laying on my back somewhere down the street from the entrance. If I had been there I would have told them I had been given a warning and wasn’t allowed back in at all. If I had been there I wouldn’t have let them make me throw up and change my clothes. If I hadn’t checked out early I would’ve helped my body beg them to let both of us (me and my body, that is) stay behind.

     The next time Allan would lose sight of me, he wouldn’t find me until my hands were already bound in rings of some sort of silver-plated steel. I wouldn’t actually meet the officer until later in the evening, but in the meantime he was busy trying to get my body out of the concert and away from my friends in the most efficient manner possible.

     “Just tell us where you’re taking him,” the Martian pleaded in desperation, failing to reach any human emotion in the cop.

     “Don’t worry about him, go watch your band,” he would reply with a scorn I’d later learn is just his natural tone.

     Which brings me back to my present restrained self. I’m in complete control of my body now, though limited to the range of motion of a bobble-head doll at the moment. I’m sure if I tried to form a sentence the words would be there before the body could catch up, but instead I’m giving the officer my telephone number and former addresses so he can check my background, requiring more accuracy than I can muster.

     Last time that I come to Sanctus Da Vinci.

«Aftershocks»

08-01-2308

     I arrived home late in the afternoon yesterday, right about the time the commotion about the ‘Natural Disaster’ had completely died down. At this point the Martians either forgot or just stopped caring, either way returning to the more important matter of themselves. I was home, and crestfallen that it hadn’t collapsed.

     Nothing did though, there was no real damage done anywhere in Olympus or NA counties. A couple of bottles fell in a liquor store here, water main broke over there, no casualties or injuries to even speak of, but somehow it was still treated like an emergency for three hours. Fire and Medic vehicles ran about town looking for ways to look busy, and Police amused themselves by watching red and blue twinkle off the water trickling from the cracks. The one homeless person our town possessed had already found a new piece of cardboard and declared it was a quake that put him on the streets, 20 years after the fact now.

     Nothing was even messed up in my house it seemed. I could see a couple of the paintings hanging downstairs had rocked askew and a couple of the books fell over on the shelf, other than that nothing was amiss. No wait, now I saw there was only one candle stick on top of the entertainment unit. I found the marble piece that matched it behind the unit, crumbled into 4 pieces, which didn’t really bother me anyway, I got them for free cause they couldn’t hold a candle they way they were made. I found a third candlestick, this a carved wooden one, on the far side of the unit when I walked back from the trashcan in the kitchen, this one upset me. It was a strange piece of warped driftwood from Tethys, carved into a spiral and large enough for a tea candle to burn, but now it was reduced to several uneven pieces I’d have difficulty gluing back together.

     Upstairs I discovered for the first time ever, the picture frame on the outside of my door wasn’t hanging awry, and thought maybe the quake knocked it back in place. I couldn’t open the door though, no something was jamming it from behind, After struggling and trying to reach through the half foot crack at what i could only assume was large and heavy, I closed my door to try and go through my roommate’s room, but whatever it was must have been caught and now fell with a terrible ripping noise. The door now swung freely over the mirror that was now flat on the floor. It had taken a Japheth lamp with it, tearing the the rice paper and thin wicker shoots to shreds, exposing the ugly silver stand beneath. The mirror was fine, I moved on to my TV.

     I realized as, I saw it laying flat on its face that I couldn’t remember the last time I had used it to watch anything. Maybe a video game or two, but the player couldn’t read discs anymore, clogged by red dust a month after its warranty expired. I couldn’t watch any programs I’d recorded or any movies I had on disc. I wasn’t about to spend more money to make myself less productive either, so almost hopped the TV was busted, I’d be rid of it all together and could only blame Mars. It still worked perfectly though, durable bastard, I turned it off and looked for more quake victims.

     I found little more than empty bottles I had collected, once holding alcohol from all over the place, that luckily had landed on a pile of dirty laundry. I celebrated this victory over neatness and order. I had my workstation and instrument with me the night before so they had been safe in my car, the only other thing that I had worried about in my room was a green crystal wine glass from Kork, a gift of from my ex-girlfriend’s mother after I’d fallen in love with the stuff on our trip to Amalthea last summer. The emotional properties of the glass had been altered, but its aesthetic value remained, I was thrilled to see it intact.

     No the only thing I discovered had been horrible mutilated, but which was probably messed up before the quake, was my bank account. I was in the negative…in the very very negative, and would only find myself in a deeper hole when the tank of gas and dinner I ran on the card catch up to me. This morning when I discovered this it shook some sense into me. I need a new job, even if I’m in school and being provided for by my parents, the truth is the best support they can give me is feeble at best. I just hope I can stay in classes this time, finally figure this double life thing out.

«My Minifeed»

03-03-2308

     For the entire time I’ve shared the unit with my Jovian roommate we’ve complained about our occupations as wannabe net pirates. A wireless receiver, which can be found in practically anything from a texti to soda can, will only keep you connected if you’re within radius of a point. Meager is the minimum wage compared to cost of life in OC and my roomie knew as well as I did it couldn’t win the battle over food and electricity; and why should we really? The signal from a modem isn’t diminished by walls or floors, as one is intended to spread over a whole residence, and there are plenty of units in proximity with higher incomes, or handy relatives, who unwittingly donate a little bandwidth. The only problems you face with buccaneering some spheres are the measures people take to prevent hacking or leeching. You might think it simple since the obsolescence of the coaxial or the push away from fiber optics–you don’t have to splice your neighbors line anymore, rather you can just hop right into their feed.

     Although, its not as easy as I’m making it sound. Most people end up taking an unprotected signal versus tangle with password protection. Some people get too frustrated with a cramped jacuzzi they keep losing their place in. But if you’re really willing to go the extra step, and you can get through a password, be warned you’ll likely be faced with a myriad of firewalls, hack traps, or even bots programmed to infect intruders with crippling viri. Some are particularly destructive strains, capable of mortally wounding key hardware components. I’m sure the Jovian Pashan is as unwilling as I am to seek such an encounter, so we came to a consensus and decided it was time to go legit and invest in our own access point.

     I really shouldn‘t be trying to afford anything else though, what with being recently unemployed. I didn’t even save enough money when I was working at the bookstore, barely making it out of there every Friday with my paycheck intact. There are so many unread hardcovers and trades just collecting dust in the living room, which is also probably coated by a thin layer of neglect. Clothbound novelties on all manner of subject from prehistoric art to goddess literature and studies of shamanic cultures throughout the solar system. But I fancy I could read a few pages in the time saved from not taking 20 minutes just to check my mail with this weak signal. You don’t want to know how long it takes to get my minifeed. Archaics and old fashioned families usually take in a full cast from the teli, but anyone who’s young or just hep and living on the go needs it in a more readily accessible, swallowable shape. I take my cast on the fly, not even really gripping it’s implications till I’m half way to work.

     With Martian traffic though, it’s sometimes all you have to stay sane.

     For the entire time I’ve shared the unit with my Jovian roommate we’ve complained about our occupations as wannabe net pirates. A wireless receiver, which can be found in practically anything from a texti to soda can, will only keep you connected if you’re within radius of a point. Meager is the minimum wage compared to cost of life in OC and my roomie knew as well as I did it couldn’t win the battle over food and electricity; and why should we really? The signal from a modem isn’t diminished by walls or floors, as one is intended to spread over a whole residence, and there are plenty of units in proximity with higher incomes, or handy relatives, who unwittingly donate a little bandwidth. The only problems you face with buccaneering some spheres are the measures people take to prevent hacking or leeching. You might think it simple since the obsolescence of the coaxial or the push away from fiber optics–you don’t have to splice your neighbors line anymore, rather you can just hop right into their feed.

     Although, its not as easy as I’m making it sound. Most people end up taking an unprotected signal versus tangle with password protection. Some people get too frustrated with a cramped jacuzzi they keep losing their place in. But if you’re really willing to go the extra step, and you can get through a password, be warned you’ll likely be faced with a myriad of firewalls, hack traps, or even bots programmed to infect intruders with crippling viri. Some are particularly destructive strains, capable of mortally wounding key hardware components. I’m sure the Jovian Pashan is as unwilling as I am to seek such an encounter, so we came to a consensus and decided it was time to go legit and invest in our own access point.

     I really shouldn‘t be trying to afford anything else though, what with being recently unemployed. I didn’t even save enough money when I was working at the bookstore, barely making it out of there every Friday with my paycheck intact. There are so many unread hardcovers and trades just collecting dust in the living room, which is also probably coated by a thin layer of neglect. Clothbound novelties on all manner of subject from prehistoric art to goddess literature and studies of shamanic cultures throughout the solar system. But I fancy I could read a few pages in the time saved from not taking 20 minutes just to check my mail with this weak signal. You don’t want to know how long it takes to get my minifeed. Archaics and old fashioned families usually take in a full cast from the teli, but anyone who’s young or just hep and living on the go needs it in a more readily accessible, swallowable shape. I take my cast on the fly, not even really gripping it’s implications till I’m half way to work.

     With Martian traffic though, it’s sometimes all you have to stay sane.