A Lonely Planet of Blue Sand

On a devouring planet of blue sand a hungry spaceman embraces his end. I wrote this little science fiction/horror short story one day on a flash of inspiration. I was thinking about what it was like to be erased, and how it could happen. I struck me that it is the ultimate of coldness, to lose who you are to an unfeeling force. I wrote this right around the time that NASA landed on Mars and the pictures sent back were the loneliest of anything human that there is. I think it would make an interesting graphic novel.

The Planet of Blue Sand

I am number 287342. That is the number I sleep with, wake up to and go to work with. I have memories of being a name once, but I am not sure of it anymore. It was Jake, I think it was. If I concentrate, I can remember smiles, happy talk, green trees, and sparkling water. But they, like my other memories, are so far away, I don’t know if they are just a dream, or something that once happened to me. It might have been nice, but this is my life now, and I don’t think I am ever going back. Some of the men talk about returning to earth, but I don’t anymore. It’s better not to talk about those things, only sadness comes from thinking of things that won’t come to pass. It’s better to find satisfaction with where you are. I don’t remember the sun clearly, but I can look up to the weak, low, double stars that serve as our sun and feel their warmth. I don’t remember green grass or trees, but the blue sand blowing can be just as lovely.

            The barracks alarm sounds, and we are up. Every day is pretty much like the other. Pushing and shoving, jockeying for the little trickles of water we get to wash our face and brush out teeth with. Our breakfast, a quick meal bar, and then we are out. I think there was sand in my bar this morning. Ha! Maybe I’ll make a meal of sand one day. It is a good day topside, atmospheric oxygen is up, and the no mask sign is on. Still, I wear my mask. Some of the men take theirs off, but I have been here long enough not to trust the winds. A quick gust and it’s like the planet swallows the little bit of air that we have managed to push out of the generators. Still, given the circumstances, it is a pretty day, at least as pretty as any we get here. The binary suns are bright and clear and the blue sand glistens and sparkles. When we go out, a soft breeze gusts and swirls the sand. If I listen carefully, it is like the sand is speaking in a soft whisper as it rolls around on the ground. My old friend, 5638729, told me that he could hear his children calling him in the trickling grains, but he is not here to ask anymore. Not sure where he went. I miss him. I don’t know why he didn’t even say good-bye.

            As much sand as there is, it is not native to the planet. It is as intruder to the planet as we are. Our scientists have diligently dug down deep, far past the sand, down to the planet’s surface. They find wonderful alien fossils from the planet’s past. Giant reptiles, fearsome bird-like animals and things we don’t have words to describe. It must have been amazing; I wish I could have seen it. I wonder if the planet dreams and remembers her past too.

            We know that there were explorers who came before us. You can still see the evidence of where their unknown machines have terraformed the planet’s surface. Shaping it, grooving it, creating new sand to fill the planet to fit their desires. That’s where blue sand comes from, why there is so much. No one knows why they did it, or what the purpose was, but it seems as though they were successful in transforming the planet to their desires. But here is the thing, I am not so sure that they intended the sand to be here. I think something got out of their control; something went horribly wrong. After all, we find their fossils too.

            For whatever reason the sand is here, I think it’s beautiful. The sand is soft and silky, and glows in the night under the moon. It is an alien beauty, but beauty none the less. I am a clear minority in that regard. The other men think the sand is ugly, that it clogs our machines, makes our food gritty and fills our hair and eyes. I guess I have been here the longest, and the sand grows on you the longer you see it. The other men call me an old timer, and I suppose they are right.

            At night, I lay in my bunk, with the winds whispering in my ear, and the sand singing, and the planet feels like home. It blows, never ending, never still, filled with words hardly audible. With concentration, I can make out the calls of the old creatures of the planet, the unknown explorers, my long-lost friend and old memories of earth. I feel the blue sand in me, coursing through my body with every beat of my heart, whispering. It does not hurt; its silica edges are as exquisitely sharp as tiny razors but give no real pain. It reminds me of what life was like once. What it was like to feel. I sense its welcoming whispers in my body, reminding me of the Jake I was. Maybe I am really 287342, but I think I am still underneath it all, a bit of Jake. I am tired of being an alien on a strange planet. I long, with the last bit of me that remains human, to be loved, to belong. I hear the planet thrumming like a drum, the voices of giant beasts long past. The urgent invitation is welcome. The planet calls, I am her beloved child. I give myself to the sand, to the planet’s soft and silky embrace. I am not Jake, I am not 287342, I am the eternal  planet, I am blue sand.