Monday, March 23, 2015

Jesus Wept Too


I think about the hands that pushed a compound into the fire to mold the steel that once laid beneath my neck. The kid that got a job right out of high school at a rope factory, that maybe placed his hands on the rope that ended up around my two brother's necks. Sometimes people don't know the evil they are doing when they do it.

But what about the hands that placed the base cardboard that would be rolled in tissue at the toilet paper factory? He didn't know that some of my life's most innocent and beautiful moments would be spent building rockets out of what he/she would only picture to be spent wiping some person's butt after eating at a Japanese Steakhouse.

Sometimes when you love and lose someone or something so much, it becomes easy to hate the very thing that brought you together in the first place. It has to be someone's fault. It can't just be my fault. Someone somewhere promised me something that they couldn't provide. Someone told me that everything will remain right?

That isn't the world we live in. The world we live in is cruel and cold. Sometimes, the people you believe have saved your lives lose theirs and there is nothing you can do about it. You just get to watch it fall apart, not knowing what to do with your hands while it crumbles.

The world tries it's best to wrap this darkness around your hope.

It fails.

It fails because God is in the darkest places. When you are cursing Him and shouting: When you are cringing at the very mention of His name. He weeps. Jesus wept.

Jesus wept. The shortest verse in the Bible. The least amount of words He has used to describe Himself. They are the most profound to me.

When you have lost your heart, your kid, your wife, your husband, or anything else that means true life to you, the last thing you need is a lousy explanation. You just want someone to cry too.

So Jesus wept. His friend died and that friend's family was pissed and sad and wanted more. They blamed Jesus. He fully intended to raise this man from the dead...I think. But instead of words, He wept. After all, His name is Emmanuel, which means "God with us." In that moment, the only thing He could do to be with them was weep. I think the writer of this Gospel thought long and hard about that and smiled at the character of God.

...

I wasn't able to speak very eloquently at either of my brother's funerals. For two times in my life, I had nothing to say at those moments.

I let it kill some of me. I let it kill some of the things I hold very dear to me. I let it make me forget about who gave them to me in the first place. I wasn't much until them. I forgot that He still weeps.

He wept when Will looked up at that strap. He wept when Joe took that rope out of his trunk. He went when I laid my head down on that steel made by some person just trying to provide for their family.

It is entirely possible that God is just as destroyed as I am about their sadness. I think He is.

Jesus wept too.




Sing.
Migrate.





Thanks for reading...Z

Sunday, March 15, 2015

Help


Mistake after mistake and they tell you to stop making mistakes. At least stop making the same ones over and over.

Failure after failure. For everything that goes well is another that sinks without you even noticing sometimes. Sometimes, the failure happens while you're sleeping under the sun on a pier, and this boat with all of the life and joy and happiness floats by slowly. This unforgiving boat stops for no one, so you have to get on when you can.

For the rest...? We keep moving. If you stop moving, you perish. People can move forward or backward, but they have to move. No one living gets to stay put: Life just isn't that simple.

You have to learn to live with the lot cast for you in your life. Good or bad, you are in your skin for now and you have to learn to live in it. It isn't easy, but nothing worth your time is.

I've been struggling to figure out what it means to be me in all places I have to be. To many people, I mean different things because that's what I have given everyone. Maybe it shouldn't be this way. Maybe I should just be the whole beautiful and ugly me all the time and let whoever wants to walk with me..walk.

The real question I have to solve is where I am going. I don't know if I'm doing better or worse at this point. I'm just turned sideways staring. Everything I have ever believed has been challenged this last 5 years. I have tried to grasp old thoughts that brought me comfort before, but they are just beyond my reach. Terrible thoughts filled their vacancy and I wanted to hold on to them, but they are exactly what they are...terrible and not true.

I won't stop walking. If I stop, I will fall in. I need to keep moving, so I move in the best direction I can. It may be the right direction and it may be the wrong one, but I see the sun on the outside of one of them, so I will follow that and try not to second guess and follow the one that is completely dark.

I get it now...the most common funeral verse. "Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me." I have to believe that I am seeing this valley and that there is a powerful and hopefully graceful and forgiving God shepherding me to where I can feel the sun.

This is faith I think. To really believe when everything tells you to turn around and leave it behind.

But doesn't faith live in the beauty of the misery of God's people when they mourn with hope? Isn't that sharing in the suffering of Christ? Somehow, I think my whole life I pictured this as growing up without a dad. It's far worse than that. A crucified, and undignified Jesus suffered and I though that sharing in that meant that I had to live without a catch with my dad? To walk with Jesus means true suffering for some people and I guess I never thought that would be me. Yet still others suffer much greater. Suffering isn't of God. What happens during your suffering is.

Meanwhile, I sit here with this wonderful life, filled with people that love me and want to be a part of my human experience.

So then I realize. This is a pity party and I am the guest of honor. I whine about what and who is not here because it hurts. I often forget the other side of the coin. Who is here? I am not on some planet alone. I am here. I am breathing. I am breathing in sync with many people, so I am full. Joy is found beyond sorrow and grief. Joy is found in the man crawling out of the mud covered in blood, but so happy to see help.

Help has always been here.




Sing.
Migrate.



Thanks for reading...Z

Monday, March 9, 2015

Love Just Like Jesus


Religion should never be used as a weapon. Not against gay people. Not against people who have had an abortion. Not against people that can't say no to drugs or alcohol. Religion is for people that understand how badly they need God.

In that case, I need God more than I need food.

It's not a matter of what you think is right or wrong. It's a matter of how you treat the people in front of you.

In the past five years, I've learned some things. People will love you as long as you fit the mold. If I say I love Jesus and am hurting, I'll get maximum support. If I say I'm gay and love Jesus, I'm a liar. If I say I'm an alcoholic and love Jesus, some will have sympathy, but reject God's love for me. This is the religion the world rejects. This is the state of American Christianity.

The question isn't what you do as a human being, it's what rules you have broken. It's the very thing, I believe, that Jesus would turn tables over.

I'm not going to fight over right and wrong. I'm not going to go into Biblical or humanitarian principles. I am only asking you to love everyone as much as you love yourself...just like Jesus did.


Sing.
Migrate.


Thanks for reading...Z

Sunday, March 8, 2015

When the Glass Shattered


We had two BB guns. A rifle and a handgun. We had too much time on our hands. So we did what kids do...we scoured other people's neighborhoods and randomly shot out car windows.

I drove a 70's Datsun painted with house paint, Smurf blue. The floor boards under the drivers side seat were gone and I could see the road as I drove over it and what splashed under the car, splashed onto my legs. None of us were a very good shot with the guns. In fact, Will got his "Willy One Thumb" nickname because I nearly blew off his thumb trying to shoot a target out of his hand. We would creep up to a car in the night and shoot it's window until it caused a spider effect or shattered altogether. Then we would drive off laughing. Once My truck stalled as I kicked in first gear to get out of there and we were left with several moments of anxious horror as we waited for the owner to come out. We got away and the owner didn't wake up. That night, we were arrested, kind of. We were pulled over and taken to jail but not officially arrested. Joe hid the gun under my work apron in plain sight...the only place they didn't search. Pure genius.

Weeks later, we were driving through the mall parking lot. We had to stop for an old man crossing the parking lot road. As we sat waiting, we heard a snap and a strange cracking sound and looked in horror at the car in the spot in front of us as it's window splintered and fell under it's own weight. Behind us was a single hand holding the pistol from the back mini seat of the truck. It was Joe. In broad daylight. In a mall parking lot. On a Saturday.

Later that week, Will and Joe would go out together to shoot windows. I was at work at the theater. They showed up with Will angry and holding his hand. They had found a prime window to demolish and Joe had convinced Will to let him shoot out the driver window from the passenger seat. Joe missed so badly that he shot Will right in the muscle of the hand web. I couldn't help but laugh because how did Will not know that was going to happen?




Sing.
Migrate.


Thanks for reading...Z

Saturday, March 7, 2015

Happy Birthday Little Brother


I don't know what to say to you on your birthday. The people left behind don't get the peace you get. The two of us...We have celebrated every birthday together.

It's your birthday Joe and I can't see you anywhere. Your mom sees you everywhere, but I only see you where we were. That space in time that we got to keep and no one else could touch. I won't write about times that were for just us, but I will tell about the time we slept on the pier.

We woke up with spiders on our faces. Literal, nasty spiders. We had fallen asleep while talking in the night about life and what real happiness meant to us. It meant different things. To Joe, it meant acceptance. To me it meant content. Both of us agreed we would rather die than end up nobodies.

You weren't ever a nobody. You were my best friend and brother. We went through some of the most amazing and terrible times standing side by side. You were the first person I called when something was wrong. You continue to be my little brother, even if you aren't here.

My eyes opened to the sun first. I squinted, then gained my bearings. I looked over and watched you snore. It was Thanksgiving and the morning was cool. I hit you and we both stood. I grabbed your hand for a moment and let go. I told you that I would see you at Thanksgiving. You said, "I'll tell mom?" Yeah, I'll be there.

Joe, Ive been rambling on trying to make the first birthday gone something other than hopeless. I've failed. You should be turning 36. You should be getting ready for our joint birthday party.

I left and as I pulled away, you sat there on the dock of a pier. I went to work, but didn't forget that one moment in time.

You stayed there on that pier.

Life is harsh and unforgiving. I miss you little brother. It's not getting better, but worse. I'll see you when I get a decent rocket to follow you with. I would have done everything different if it matters.

Happy birthday kid brother. May you see all of the beauty we never saw as kids.



Sing.
Migrate.



Thanks for reading...Z

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

People at a funeral- Part 1- Sarah Smiles


Two hours into the second worst day of his life, Tim talks and laughs at the jokes of people from all over the place. They all speak to him, even if he doesn't recognize them. He wears a nice suit he bought for job interviews. He got the first job he had applied for, so this was now recommissioned as his official mourning suit. His official "you just lost your father" suit.

...

Tim sat at a desk surrounded by off-white canvas walls, listening to fingers move like music over keyboards, and phones ring and handsets drop, over and over. When he started this job, these noises were the bane of his existence. He would here them when he fell asleep and well into his dreams. Now they are just the sounds of being at work. He would describe it to you like the smell of pencils when you walk into an elementary school.

He was researching his adoption information. His adopted mother had just died three years after his adopted father. Since he was an only adopted child, he was concerned about Christmas. Tim was a creature of extreme habit. Christmas was for family and egg nog and presents. Thanksgiving was for football. Easter was for Jesus and lilacs and pastel colors. Halloween was for taking out the screen in the door to hand out candy. He couldn't think of any family left for Christmas. He had to find his original family.

...

Sarah was lying on the bed on her side listening to Albert snore. This was a sound that meant nothing to her when they married, but now every breath he takes is misery to her. She feels bad for her thoughts, but he should just die already. She was eager to get back to planning for Christmas. This holiday was for family, and she wanted her 6 children to know how strong she was for continuing the tradition without their father.

The noise from his nose rose above the ceiling and back again. He would snort and stop for a moment, then resume. He was a really loud leaky faucet. Sarah was thinking about hiring someone to saw down a Christmas tree from the back yard for her since Albert was sick when she heard the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. She heard her husband of 35 years breathe one long exhale and then silence. She waited the customary 10 seconds to rejoice. There had been too many false alarms. Then she squealed in excitement and put her mirror under his nose. Clear glass. Hurray!

The phone rings. She gathers herself and answers, "Hello, this is Sarah, who am I speaking too?" "This is Tim, your son. Don't hang up. You gave me for adoption as a baby, and I'm not mad, I am just concerned about Christmas," he says. Sarah paused while he was speaking right before she would have removed the phone from her ear to hang up on him. She heard "Christmas" and returned to her intrigue. She says, "Why Tim, good to hear from you. What draws you to contact me now, and also talking about Christmas?" He replies, "Christmas is for families and I don't have one right now and I'd like to find mine before December 10th to give me time to prepare. "What happened to your family?" she says. "Dead. Dad died of cancer and mom just didn't wake up. It was really sad. Time heals all wounds though, so here I am moving on," he replies. Sarah smiles, sets the phone on her leg and looks over at her dead husband, then to the pictures of her kids (who have always hated Christmas) on the wall. She says, "Tim, come on over for tea, we have a lot of catching up to do."

...

So here he is. Standing in his repurposed mourning suit on Christmas day at his father's funeral. He sat in the front row closest to Sarah, right next to Bill, Kelly, Beth, Terry, Julie, and Fisher. The preacher spoke about feelings and whatever these guys say, and all of Tim's brothers and sisters exchanged glances and head-shakes at him.

Sarah told him a week earlier at tea that Albert was a Christmas fanatic. That's why they lived on a Christmas tree farm. In reality, Albert hated every holiday and wished himself dead when they arrived. But Tim loved his father because of the lie. He wished he had been able to meet him alive. He knew Albert would understand the order of things. At tea, Sarah told him that she had always wanted to meet him, but couldn't find him. She told him she had never stopped loving him. He didn't know her at all, but he knew that love meant following the order of things, so he loved her too. She didn't know love because she was incapable of feeling anything for anyone else.

Tim wept at his fathers funeral because he thought there was something there to weep for.

Sing.
Migrate.



Thanks for reading...Z

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

There Go My Heroes


Aging may be the most cruel part of the curse of mankind. As you get older, you get more wise and are actually better suited to handle the things that you messed up in your youth. But now you are too old to try again. It's a cruel joke that the things that wreck you make you better. It's seems like there should be a better way to grow up.

No one gets out of this without scars. No one.

It's sad because I don't think that was God's intention for us. I think He wanted beauty and joy and all of the wonderful things we want for our own children. Yet we messed up. It's a hard thing to explain without making people angry, but yes, two people did mess everything up for the rest of us.

But it was bound to happen. If not them...me.

For instance, tonight I watched my senior homecoming basketball game with my son, who is really starting to love basketball. I wanted him to see his dad doing something he was really good at. I rewound the tape...yes tape, and hit play. Immediately, I saw myself on the screen and so young. It was hard to watch at times. I was cocky on the court because I was really good. My son watched the game and the way I carried myself and told me "you were cocky." A twelve year old told me that. I was chirping at the other team and show boating. I haven't touched a basketball in at least 8 years and while I watched that game with my son, all I saw was what I should have done if I were smart at the time.

The video was bitter sweet nostalgia for me because I got to see both Will and Joe play on the court with me...so totally alive and young. Faces without fault. Bodies uncrushed.

Everyone has a hay day. These are the times that you relive to your kids for the rest of their lives. This was mine. I had most of my brothers and my friends right there on the same wooden floor. We laughed and had fun and had no idea that 18 years later, half of us would be dead.

I watched Joe, who got to play because he had convinced the principle to allow him to if he gave his jersey to a kid who forgot his own. He wrote a new number on his shirt made with tape and played the greatest game of his life. In the video, you could hear me shouting for Joe every time he scored or stole the ball. 18 years later and he is gone.

I watched Will block at least 10 shots and grab a dozen rebounds in that game. As he left the court while time was running down, I slapped him on the ass and laughed with him. 13 years later, I would look at him in his eyes, knowing something was wrong and let him go. I wouldn't see him alive again.

Life is cruel. Sometimes it seems that the sun shines so bright on us that we actually get bored with doing well. Other times, we are faced with the shadow of death. Both are extreme moments we all have. Most times we are just moving on without being noticed.

But when you lose a body part, you notice really quickly what that means...you are now crippled.

I would have never labeled us the Dead End Kids if I hadn't already realized that there was something wrong with all of us. We embraced the label because we knew we were born to live or die right here together. We had bad things happen to us and didn't have a lot of friends, but what we had in each other was enough. We wanted to break things. We wanted to make people really mad. We wanted to howl and shout and wail at he moon and stars without any answer. We just wanted to live fully and honestly. We lied to people about who we were because we were not impressive. We fished in the middle of the night when everyone was sleeping. We all dumped girls because they didn't like our brothers.

Tonight is bitter sweet. On my chest lay two small vials of both of their ashes and two enormous holes in my life that won't be filled because I won't allow it. Yet I got to see Joe last night in my dreams doing ridiculous things as always. Two nights in a row and I've got to spend my sleeping hours with him. This means a lot because I haven't seen him awake or asleep in 3 months. When Will died, I saw him every time I went to sleep. The dreams were weird and cruel, but I got to speak to him. Joe died and nothing has happened. It may seem small, but for me it's kind of everything. The last two nights have been spent watching him screw up. Two nights ago, he was pouring kerosine into the hot tub we both were sitting in. Last night he was trying to get his fog machine to work so he could give it to me. Underneath, I knew he was trying so hard because we both knew he wasn't going to need a fog machine anymore.

There go my heroes.

What I have left is enough. I have my wife and beautiful children. I have my brother Andy and my dear friend and brother Jeff. We have all battled together in the trenches in one way or another and have held each other up when the other was too weak.






Sing.
Migrate.


Thanks for reading...Z

Saturday, February 28, 2015

The Dead End...


You live and breathe and go about your day as if you were programmed to do so.

People are programmed to be the most efficient of their time, ultimately to make someone else more money. Lately I've been hearing all of these stories of what people have done to get more money...or to protect their money. It makes me sad. Those people make me sad because they missed out.

They missed playing in the snow as a kid, or they forgot. The missed watching the sway of the trees in the wind. They missed watching the helicopter seed drop so slowly to the ground in front of them. They missed the feeling of cold rain on your tongue on a hot day. Whatever beautiful thing this earth did that they missed or chose to forget is lost to them.

People do these terrible things and you want vengeance, not even knowing you already have it. They have to be them. Don't forget to be you.

I really miss my brothers tonight. I miss them being in this world. Some things serve as a reminder that there is so much beauty in the world and it is terrifying that some people would want to reject it. Maybe we should focus on other things...productive things. But maybe some times spent at random mean more than anything else.

These random times are the ones I miss most.

I miss the time Will and I got arrested together. I miss the time we took apart an entire car and didn't know how it went back together. I miss when Joe would lose a game and would always yell at us, "You're Screwing Me."  I miss those Thursday nights at the movies when we made a deal with our wives to leave us alone until 3AM every Thursday so we could have time together...as family. I miss driving all over the places we used to go and wishing we could watch our lives happen all over again.

We had so much fun. We got hurt along the way, but we were immortal in our minds. We shot out windows, threw people's trash cans, pretended to be bird catchers, went fishing and always put anything we caught into the video store drop box, hunted geese with blow guns, woke up in strange places, stole things we didn't want for fun, bought nasty coffee in the middle of the night and lied to the cashier, saying we were musicians in transit, and invented games that no one will ever get to play.

I really never wanted to believe there was a dead end. But somehow I knew it. We had spent intervals of time worrying about each other and working to keep each other alive. We had no desire for money and they died anyway. And left me. Still standing right here, in the same place they left me.

So here I am. Everywhere I look is still a dead end. But I have so much still. Hindsight would show you that they had so much to live for, but for different reasons, they didn't see that.

I do.

I'm not a good person and don't have any wisdom about life or death to give anymore, but I do have the memory of my brothers and the beauty of my wife and children. Maybe the focus should be on the beauty.

I would die for any one memory I had with them. So doesn't that make life beautiful? Isn't that a great reason to cease our love of money and love those in front of us? I don't know about you, but the times I've spent in beauty have made me look to the sky an weep.




Sing.
Migrate.




Thanks for reading...Z

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

The Descent

I played the piano while staring at her picture. The way her eyes looked back at me under the flash of lights, and that glimpse of her happiness. Her eyes spoke to me every time I sat down on that wooded stool. She whispered her dreams into my ears at night. I saw her everywhere I went. At the grocery store, I saw her pushing the cart with a kid in the seat, and a kid on the end holding on. She would be buying grapes and bananas. I would look at her and look away to avoid an awkward moment. She knew and I knew. People are always in tune to when they are being preyed upon.

I had worked as a steel worker in a factory where no one really has a first name. I was Jonesy. My real name was Gabriel Allen Jones. I am one of the guys who have a trademark behind their name. I wasn't just Jonesy for Jones, I was also "Loverboy," the name of the angel of love. Gabriel=angel and Jones=jonesing. As if I were Jonesing for drugs. Which I'm not, it's just an example.

I gave her the world when we met. Our first date, I took her to this house outside of Houston and we watched the fire works under the light of the moon in the bed of my F-150. She didn't need to know the fireworks were in celebration of the execution of Robert Miller, a wife killer.

A mother killer. My mother's killer.

I took her to wherever and made her whatever she wanted. I didn't want to know the details. I have never been a person to want to know exactly what is tormenting me. She would ask and I would look off in another direction. I was never a person to dwell on the details.


The detectives tried to tell me about my mom so I turned up my iPod and looked straight ahead.

...


So many things happened. I'm not the same guy. I haven't been Jonesy for a while. My wife left me because of my obsession with my mother's death. She took my kids and went across the country. I lost everything else pretty fast. I applied to a school of music and someone saw something in me.

In my audition, my fingers crossed over the keys like they were the next step in a scientific pattern. I refused my face an expression. I let my heart out because I didn't care anymore. My entire person danced with my anger and rage and sorrow. This was my last chance.

Letting everything out is likely to produce your greatest performance. The real problem is in finding that second beauty. I worked so hard in school but I found no inspiration beyond what I had given at the audition. I gave all of me at the audition and found myself empty after. After that, I could only copy the same chords of my sorrow from before. There was nothing before or after. I was just living in the vibrations of the strings of my one wonderful performance. The one time I was able to open another person's eyes and show them my heart.

I eventually left school before I lost my scholarship. I didn't much care. I didn't have anyone left to be ashamed of me. I just lived.

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I would play piano for the Weston hotel bar. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays I would teach the piano at a local music shop.


Sundays were church and then alcohol. Repeat and repeat and repeat.


One week before I was to give up, I found him. The killer of my mother.


We were at an AA meeting. I had just started AA because they found me passed out on the freeway without a car. He showed up to the meeting wasted and talking too much. At first, I accepted the distraction from the day old donuts and coffee smell in the moldy basement of a moldy church. But as he spoke, things became familiar. He told me that he had done some jail time for assault, and that he had hit his wife with a bat. I only saw my mom's smashed head.

He spoke about the woman's husband being blamed and going to death for it and I lost my mind. My head tilted to the side and stayed there, blazing into him. He looked at me funny. He asked me "You ok?" "Yeah, I'm ok'" I would reply. I wasn't ok. I instantly realized that I was somewhere else. I found myself later standing over a bloody body and brain fragments all over the room.


The police found me laying in a corner of a small room in a nearby factory a quarter mile from his body. His blood was all over me. I didn't remember anything.

...

My fingers passed over the keys like they were the next stroke of a painting. The guards looked at me and shook their heads. My peers looked at me in amazement. I was special.

In that place I played things live, that my mind wouldn't conceive of in public. I played my entire heart into the air for only murderers like me to hear.


Sing.
Migrate.




Thanks for reading...Z

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

The Man on Mars


Sam walked into a smaller room than the one he left...his little space, filled with stuffed animals and wrestling figurines. The television blared behind two closed doors in front of him. His hands are sweaty. He gets that way when he is unsure of the moment that he is in.

Sam gets confused sometimes during the day. He isn't always clear where he is or how he got there. He could be learning about mathematics, then black out, only to return to more mathematics without knowledge of his travels. The bell would ring nevertheless earlier than he had expected, and he knew he had gone somewhere else for a while.

...

Three years earlier when he was 10, his little brother had died of bone cancer and his older sister two years later drowned in a pool after taking too many pills. He was the only child left of a mom that drank too much, and a dad that was never home. In boredom, Sam watched television. Wonderful, beautiful, and hilarious stories of happiness and loss. He learned what it meant to be a man in a fictitious and colorful world.

Sam's real life lacked color. He always knew there was something more than what was in front of him, but never had gotten to see it. People would speak to him and he would nod and smile. People would ask him questions like: "What are you doing Saturday night?" He would say, "I'm gonna watch some TV, conquer, and eat pizza."

Sam never wanted a friend because he didn't understand friendship. Sam had never had a friend.

Sam stands staring at the noise that awaits him just two doors in front of him. He opens the first to another bedroom. This one is full of old storage and photo albums. The entire room smells like history. He opens the next door to find his mom in the bed with someone other than his dad. He wouldn't see his dad again. Sam stared for a moment to figure out what was happening. He stared because he was alone and she wasn't alone anymore.  Sam realized on this day that he was really alone. He was a kid living in a rat's nest, hoping to die before he had to see his mother die. So Sam left.

...

He went from state to state, picking up odd jobs and farm work until they couldn't afford him anymore. Sam was a vagrant, but entirely impressive to speak to.

So impressive that he impressed a person of great interest to him. That person was so impressed that he granted Sam a chance to change his life. What if Sam could ride the very first mission to Mars?

...

It was a strange time in America. People had grown tired of government lies and false hope. The elitists were trying to sway people back. The smart thing to do would be to put an astronaut on Mars first, they had earned it, but the strategic plan was to put a regular person up there and let him step foot on Mars for the first time. This would be a huge story and a testament to the everyday human. It would be the bastard son of a school secretary that would plant that flag on entirely foreign soil.

He went through the training. He was going to be the only human on the ship, controlled by mission control in Houston. He lost two dozen pounds from throwing up and eating prepared meal packs, similar to an MRE for soldiers.

...

The day came and he showed up with his mother at the launch pad. He put on the orange suit and stood before her with tears in his eyes. Neither of them knew if he would return or what he would return to. It would take four years to get back to earth. His mother looked at him and said "You deserve to see something that no one else has ever seen before." He smiled and dropped his head to his chest. "It's not easy leaving you mom," he says. "It's not easy for me to say goodbye either, but it is really easy to let you go," she replies. "There is nothing here for you, Out there, the entire world will look as small as the moon through your eyes," she says. He smiles and kisses her on the forehead, then walks into the rocket.

...

Two hours later, Sam is looking at the earth from outside of it. All of the blue makes him squint at first. He recovers and truly believes that there are not enough places in his brain to store all of the beauty he sees. The feeling of being so small overwhelms him. He is the only person in space right now, yet for the first time in his life, he doesn't feel alone. The grey earth and salted snow on the side of the roads he grew up with were a lie as to what existence really means. The television showed him pictures that he only knew to be false of something different. This night, there was a whole new life.

...

About a year later, he catches his first real glimpse at the Red Planet. At first, the red makes him squint. He recovers and begins to understand that every move he makes and every thought he thinks will be the first in human history to be done right here and right now, on Mars!

Days later, he orbits and lands on Mars. He gets out of the ship, pretending to be Neil Armstrong. He knows the entire world is watching. They will get the feed in a half an hour, live in their time. He thinks of the right thing to say. How do you outdo the "One small step" speech? He turns on the camera and opens the airlock and drops the stairs. As he steps down onto the red sand he says, "This is the future of America, but the history of the universe." His feet land and he feels the sand beneath him shift, then harden underneath. It was the feeling of never being stepped on. He grabs the flag and slams it down into the sand 30 feet from the ship and it occurred to him that he was on TV and some kid like him was watching and actually wishing he could be him...Sam.

Sam walks back to the ship and begins tearing out wires from the control panel and from the thrusting mechanism itself. He tears them out and sends them into the air where he can never find them. In several minutes, the radio is chirping with really smart people asking smart questions that only he knew the answer to. Sam refused to say. He tore out the radio and sent it into space. He bent over and looked into the camera and made a "blowing a kiss" gesture and drew a heart with his fingers on his chest. The camera went black moments later as his hand passed by the lens.

...

Only Sam's mom knew what that heart meant. It was a symbol of the only thing he left behind on that planet...her. He was the man on Mars now. She could see him every time she looked into the sky.

They would eventually return to Mars and find him laying on his bunk frozen. They would find his notes about what happened on Mars the last five years. And they would find his personal journals that would be published and become the single most important book of the century. Little Sam became legend.




Sing.
Migrate.



Thanks for reading...Z