«Observations on The Earth»

01-03-2309

     The Earth isn’t that shabby a place when you look at it. Or at least, it probably isn’t if you’ve just come from a place even more miserable.

     First, it is uncharacteristically hospitable. A vast array of diverse flora and fauna populate every possible inch of its surface, even the frigid bits. The excessive amount of liquid-water, taking up nearly two thirds of the rocky planet’s surface, is likely to blame for such abundance of life. A dense atmosphere cycling this H2O keeps most of the smooth land lush and vegetated, while lending erosion to geomorphology, drastically changing the surface of the planet over a short period of time. In short: water makes Earth an ever changing place of thriving multitude.

     Once you get used to there being so much grass and many, very large trees everywhere, there are still many wondrous sights to behold. Enormous metropolises like New Tros City and Menesopolis DT, that shape and govern the relatively advanced civilization. Each city on Earth houses their own cache of modern sky-scrappers and culture rich monuments, making them a must for visitors. Giant peaks that dominate the sky for miles around, reaching as high as a third the size of Olympus Mons. Vast oceans of blue crystal water, greater than those that beat on the white sand of Callisto. Majestic rivers valleys that bring life and nutrients together and support many civilizations. Our moon even has a Grand Canyon that stretches 446 km, a tenth of the Valles Marineris on Mars.

     The race of Earthlings are a beautiful sight themselves, if I may insist. Usually pale skinned with blonde or brown soft hair and handsome features. Eye color is vibrant and always varies but, through much contact with the people of Ganymede, tends to be blue. The people are mostly congenial and well mannered and very accommodating–caring so much for friend and kin they’re known for being nosey and protective. Other recognizable traits are charm, tenacity and cleverness; often making them apt for surviving most social climates. They possess neither pointy ears nor antennae, though make up for them by having 5 other keen senses. No gills, wings, or claws but are granted speed, agility and intelligence to facilitate a Darwinian sense of the word ‘fit‘. A meek people, but a resourceful one capable of anything.

     Luna is an enchanting moon, a larger satellite than is typical of a rocky planet of this size. The geosynchronous orbit keeps the same familiar side Earthward at all times, allowing the inhabitants below to grow accustomed to her face, and to create extravagant fantasies about the appearance of the other side and the inhabitants over there. The dark side, though, is very rugged and boring, heavy cratering typical of a satellite this size. Some nice side effects are the maria of lava they cause on the bright side, bleeding from decades of meteor strikes that go ‘through-and-through’. In other words, impacts sizeable enough to disturb the core of a planet create tectonic and volcanic activity on the opposite side because of simple physics.

     It’s thought that the catastrophic collision that brought Mars to a halt had punched open the hotspot that later created the Tharsis Bulge and Olympus Mons. The results are smooth, dark, mineral rich floodplains of new terrain that make aesthetic shapes upon the body’s surface, often mistaken as oceans of water by primitive astronomers then misnamed to suit. Luna is plentiful of these since it has acted as a shield for the Earth, intercepting much of the potentially harmful fallout from space.

     The settlers that came from the planet below have adapted to Luna’s harsher climate; a thinner atmosphere and less liquid water means people spend more time indoors or in enclosed crawlers and work vehicles. Tectonic inactivity means many settlements are localized to craters, the largest at Kepler, Copernicus and Tycho–the foremost being the moon’s capital city and governing center. Kepler City hosts the Earth’s Interstellar Spaceport, Selene; almost all lines going through the system make a stop here, and if you’ve ever tried to leave the Inner Worlds, you’ve likely had to transfer flights there. Copernicus is the bustling city of sin, also known as The Entertainment Capital of the World, that might single handedly supplement half of Luna’s fiduciary needs.

     As for the rest, like on most of the green Earth, an important farming industry powers the economy in the flat lands. Tourism to mountain resorts accommodates the life on the rockier, dark side. The Lunarians there lead long healthy lives in the cold weather and high altitudes, making it a popular place to travel to or live for a while. Just make sure to avoid religious zealots and military test sites. The moon is not as densely populated as Earth, but with her help, it’s expanding almost as quickly as Mars.

     I wouldn’t say I’m not proud to be from Earth. I should feel privileged to have been born on such a prosperous and nurturing world, a place that allowed me to be free to do and think as I pleased. Even if it has an ugly past, and perhaps made an enemy or two over the years, I guess I have some lasting respect for my homeland. Enough to at least not call myself a Martian after legally becoming a resident like everyone else. I like to think I try to honor my roots by continually proving I can do anything.

     I’m still an Earthling and I’ll die an Earthling–no matter what planet that may be on.

«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.