Published in Wilder Things Magazine Vol. 1
6 January 2021
Red. Red sand, smaller grains, dust sticks to everything, even the once silver surface of the small robot. Small but mighty listening to every sound, absorbing the rays of sunlight beaming down dutifully.
Everything turns red, scrubbing makes it worse now everything is crimson permanently, it will never return to what it was.
Rust always replaces the onset of shininess. Rust is red. Red as dust.
Swirling, the wind itself howls at the moon dipping up and down through the cavernous eerie structure.
A crescendo that has not a beginning nor an end but small interruptions.
Red. Stinging cheeks, turn red, slice up dry cheeks, chunks of skin flake off, blood pooling, turning brown, oxidizing but everyone knew it was once bright red and will remain so.
Silent amongst the endless all-consuming wails breaths are raspy the red dust coats lungs much like tar and will remain.
Scrubbing does not get rid of tar, no matter how much scrubbing is done. That is the nature of these sorts of things.
Dry, deserted, lonely with nothing but the silver robot and the red dust and the red air and the red wind for company.
No little green men. No little grey men. No men at all. Untouched by man and will remain so.
Take it all in.
Recognize the bright red lump against the massive black sky, feel the dirt ground up in fingernails, the dew of the grass, the air that sticks to the lungs in the best way.
It is only red and dusty from a distance the silver robot is content in its special red world far, far away and will remain so.
Take it all in.
BLOG IT BABY 