Excerpt

2008-11-20T18:35:00.001-08:00

The news spread like court summonses: the world was ending. Bacteria were roaming the planet, petrifying everything. Air, animals, cotton. Just discovered. No antidote. Petrified to stone.

Ritmo watched the announcement on her TV watch. People were shown reacting poorly to the news. Korea: 60,000 people in a wrestling match. Finland: green grocers eating unwashed produce. Canada: the Prime Minister’s daughter, bathing in a fountain. Women hugged babies, men hugged women, strangers became friends.

Ritmo got a call on the miniature phone in her cheek. One time she had been eating Chinese food and the chewing dialed China. Imagine the Chinese person’s surprise! A telephone call! Imagine!

It was her boss, Albees. “Have you heard? About the petrification?”

“I saw it on my watch,” said Ritmo. “My watch is also a TV, if you can believe it.”

“Soon humanity will be no more,” said Albees. “But the good news is we have a plan and it involves the words ‘saving’ and ‘us all.’ Basically, you’ll be embarking on a 25-year space voyage to a mysterious planet. You leave tomorrow. Until then, avoid anyone who may appear stiff or even rock-like. Trust no one. Go home and lock your door and if anyone knocks, don’t answer, no matter how persuasive the person on the other side may be. If this individual has had any past sales experience they could be quite difficult to resist. You know they use reverse psychology don’t you?”

“Tomorrow then,” said Ritmo. “I’ll be there.” She smiled. End of the world or no, outer space was still the ultimate destination.

She immediately called her fiancée, Raul. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t ask me if I’m okay,” he growled. “A friend of mine was petrified just this morning. And if you thought it was hard getting anything done at the office before, well, let me tell you. Wait till you see how it is now! Man!

“At least we can petrify together,” he said. “You and me. They will make bricks from our petrified bodies and build a final monument to humanity -- an enormous heart. It will be visible from space and shoot fireworks, red and green.”

When Ritmo informed him that he would instead have to die alone, weeping, while clutching at her picture -- the one where she’s water skiing in the yellow one-piece -- he went silent.

“You always knew my astronaut job was a dangerous one,” she said. “It’s who I am. It’s not something I can leave behind, like my hair or nails. No, I was born for it.”

***

“A hole is opening in my chest,” began Ritmo. It was later that evening -- she and Raul lay in bed, naked, after a dinner of fish. These were their final moments together, their last chance to say all the things they had yet to say. “And that hole is filling with a pit,” she whispered, massaging his back. “The pit of love.”

“I’ll miss you,” said Raul. “25 years is a long time.” The injustice of it made him want to roar! Made him want to swing Ritmo around the room by her hair, just to break something, it didn’t matter what.

“But what happens if you get to this far away planet and it’s dangerous?” he asked. “Or worse yet, indifferent? What if you find that its native life forms communicate via some form of regurgitative dispesia? All you want is to be peaceful and unite our species in harmony, but they just keep gagging, aiming bile for your eyes? It’s possible you know! Anything in an infinite space is possible!”

He turned to face her. “Or say the other astronauts end up dying in a horrible way. They either go insane and murder each other in their sleep or they eviscerate themselves on a sharp corner. You’re left all alone on this planet -- in a cave maybe. You have no food, no water. The sky is a color that you didn’t even know was possible -- we’ll call this color ‘Parky.’ The sky is ‘Parky.’ Even the soil is bad for you. Terrible soil. The worst soil of your nightmares.”

“Don’t worry,” said Ritmo, patting his head. “The ship is equipped with a futuristic telephone. I’ll call you from space and let you know what’s happening. I’ll say, ‘Hello Raul, you must be out right now so I’ll just leave a message on the machine. I’m just here in space. How’s the job? OK, take it easy.”

She smiled. “Then I’ll add, ‘You must never forget me, even if you get in a car accident and have amnesia. Even if the remembering part of your brain has been shot away, or caved in with a hammer. Don’t let our love expire like eggs.”

Raul began to sob. “I’ll never forget,” he whined. “And to prove it I’ll buy glasses and tape two photographs of you inside the lenses. I’ll call them my ‘Remembering Spectacles.’ I’ll never remove them, even when I’m driving. I’ll have my name legally changed to: RitmoI’llLoveYouAlways. Boo hoo!”

They talked about what their life together could have been like. First, there would be marriage, and those early years would be good. But an ill-fated foray into the stock market would sour things a bit, Raul would start drinking. Soon they’d separate because Ritmo thought Raul didn’t love her anymore, but eventually they’d reconcile, because being single wasn’t that hot of a prospect, and it was better to be unhappy and together than unhappy and alone. They’d renew their vows in a small backyard ceremony -- future fashion dictating that they both be barefoot and that Robert Frost, summer salads, and ‘the Siberian problem’ be the required topics of conversation amongst guests. And finally, their death: in a helicopter, running out of fuel and crashing into a mountain.

After a period of quiet, Raul announced: “I’ve made up my mind. I’ll still be alive when you get back. Even if it means I must isolate myself in a roof, attic, or basement, and avoid all human contact. That way the impending epidemic will pass me by. And that way, there I will be, waiting upon your return, my arms held wide, insane from watching humankind devour itself.” Then he yelled and thrust his fists in the air. “I can’t wait, I wish that were tomorrow!”

They kissed, then they fell asleep still kissing -- recirculating one another’s air, denying their brains essential oxygen, making one another’s’ dreams nightmarish, deep rivers, pursuit. In the morning, when Ritmo left, Raul was still kissing in mid-air, his arm humped over the invisible shape of where she had been.

***

Message from the President:
“People of the world! In the cities. On the mountains. On farms. All of you. Except for the primitive types in the jungles, with your cannibalism and drug eating.

“A dark hour approaches. Already the stone inducing bacteria has begun its dictatorship of death. We will undoubtedly enter a period of history similar to that of the Dark Ages: implements of torture will become widespread, people will throw feces and urine out of windows, we will wage war against the insects of the earth, lead will turn into gold, women will wear dresses that absurdly accentuate their breasts and hips, cobble stoned streets, battering rams, moats and dragons, mystical wizards!

“Which reminds me of a time long ago. Some of you may have heard this before, but, you see, I was just a kid. A land called Morocco? I would not believe it. But some things never change. And that was when I chopped the cherry tree.

“But people of the world. All is not lost. Later today we will fire a rocket into outer space. The rocket will save us. However, it’s going to take 25 years. By the time the rocket returns, most of you will have been swallowed by the foulness of disease. But remember, even if you’re already frozen solid -- your face contorted in a kabuki mask of animal agony -- the cure will revert you back to health, or, at the very least, theoretically.

“Society has been great. We’ve amassed so much knowledge that we can’t remember all of it, and sometimes we repeat prior discoveries. You understand what this means? We’ve gone beyond inventing, and into the realm of re-inventing. Surely a very advanced behavior. If you could somehow rank all the species that have ever existed in the universe, we’d undoubtedly score in the top 80 or 90 percentile. Well, maybe lower, like 70. Okay, 60 at the very least. Maybe 50.

“But that’s all over now. As for me, I’ll be hiding miles beneath the surface of the Earth, in complete safety, so I can continue tugging at the balls of liberty so that all our hard work will not be forgotten. In summary: do not, I repeat, DO NOT try and find me. First of all, it’s impossible to do so -- there’s at least a hundred miles of underground tunnel. Second of all, you’d be shot. You’re the ones who have it good, remember that.”

***

Ritmo arrived at the space center late. “There was traffic,” she apologized. “People just don’t know how to drive anymore. Where’d they get their licenses!” Albees was waiting. Albees was eight feet tall, bossy, and wore gloves. He had an important job and got paid a large salary.

“We’re set up in the auditorium,” he said. “I assume you heard the President’s speech. If you ask me, it really put the spark of hope back into the stew, igniting it like a room full of helium. The President will have some final instruction for us later. After that…" Albees pointed a finger and shot it ceilingward, making a sound like he was some wild cappuccino machine.

They walked through various areas. It was all secret passage and façade, changing weekly as was popular. Plants were in various locations, fireplaces provided warmth, the ceiling was very low, sawdust covered the floors, and the walls were made of burlap and satanic diagrams. The building was empty except for the two of them. Most other people were out in the streets doing all kinds of interesting things in their final moments: driving at 100 mph, propositioning strangers, hang gliding and deep sea fishing.

If she’d had her chance, Ritmo would have gone to the ocean and drank salt water. Drink it like she had diabetes. Or she’d drink from a public fountain and put her lips on the spigot. It just didn’t matter anymore.

“I hope things went okay at home,” said Albees.

“I said my good-byes,” said Ritmo. “And you? How is your wife?”

Albees became downcast. “I’m not married.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ritmo. “I’ve never really paid attention when you’ve talked before. What is it that you do then? With your personal time?”

“Well, I have a father who’s ill,” said Albees. “He’s in a wheel chair. I make meals for him and make the bed. He’s not sick, just old. We like to watch super-television together. Super-television is like regular television, only it’s the futuristic version.

“I also work a lot. That’s what I do mostly. Always something to do at the office. That’s me -- smiling on the outside, crying on the inside. Send in the clowns.”

Ritmo feigned interest. “So what will you be doing once the rockets in space? In your last moments alive.”

Albees laughed. “There’s plenty I plan on doing. I’m going to start a gang. We’ll be called The Bay City Razors. You heard the President -- total lawlessness in the days to come. Obviously, this is a bad circumstance if you’re a loner or a longhair. Forget Jesus and peace -- animal law will rule. Arrowheads and troglodytes. Survival of the fittest!

“I’ll be a warrior and live in a tent. I’ll have a harem and conduct elaborate sex plays -- remakes of Romeo and Juliet, Cinderella -- each where I play the lead and in the end I do everyone.”

“At least you’re not going to stay indoors and let it all pass you by,” said Ritmo.

“I was going to do that at first. But then I was like, ‘No way.’”

They entered a hallway. How many times had Ritmo walked here? To a briefing, a debriefing, wearing briefs, no briefs, boxer shorts, short skirts. To the break room for birthday party cake. She listened to the noise of Albees’ plastic shoes and tried to memorize it all -- so she could dream about it later when she was billions of miles away in outer space.

“I’m going to miss it Albees,” said Ritmo. “All of this.”

“You’ll see it again,” he said. “You’ll get to the mysterious planet and you’ll come back. I just wish all the astronauts were as dedicated as you. Remember Mrs. Shabu Shabu House? Just minutes ago they found her shacked up in the back room of a Pakistani Laundry. Knee deep in literature. Didn’t want to go to space she said. Well…” Albees drew a finger across his throat. “As per the Presidents orders,” he confided.

“Word is she may have been involved in a plot to sabotage the mission. To stop the rocket.” Albees was sad. “Apparently there are certain people out there who want the world to end. Now, we all want books to end, movies to end, but this is different.

“The worst part is, these people, these world-enders, they look just like you and me. Why, for all I know, you could be the ringleader and I should strangle you right here and now. I should beat your head against this wall and shout profanities. Or perhaps I’m the one, sending Morse code via a device strapped to my thigh. In other words, it could be anyone.”

Albees handed Ritmo a note. “On this paper is a very important message. It has to do with what I just talked about. I want you to read it after you make it into space. One moment too soon or too late and everything will be lost.”

Ritmo quietly admired the quality of the paper. “This better not be one of those ‘I’ve always had a feeling like you were into me,’ letters.”

Albees blushed. “Ritmo, this is important. The world is at stake. Remember, read the note only after you’ve reached space.“ He seemed earnest enough, but he could have been practicing. That Nosferatu posture: “Look, I’m so serious.” But in reality: “I dream about you while laying in my twin-sized bed. I’ve never done this sort of thing before…” and so on.

Ritmo put the note in her pocket. “You have my word. Tell me though, who else is assigned to the mission?”

“Bonnie, Lemmy Caution, and Veronique Fortier,” said Albees.

This pleased Ritmo. Bonnie was her best friend. They could keep a conversation going for an hour at least. And Lemmy Caution and Veronique, they were okay too, minor personalities who provided a nice backdrop to more rewarding relationships.

They entered a hallway and Ritmo went to a window. Outside, the panels on the tarmac had yet to slide open and the rocket had yet to be raised on its mechanical ladder. The launch ramp was there of course, extending far out into the ocean on metal legs. At its base, sea lions could be seen loafing and mating.

There was something else -- people. They gathered at the distant fence. From where Ritmo was, these people were the size of mosquito babies, standing around, curiosity personified. In their midst she could just make out a band playing music -- Dixie music, judging by the flat wicker hats and arm garters.

Obviously the President’s speech had been heard. The rocket! It was like a lead weight of hope stuck to people’s upper lip. And there...could it be? Was it possible? Rimo squinted, looking beyond the fence, toward Space Center Boulevard. It was too far away to tell for sure, but it looked like a hump of sorts was approaching, a hump made of humanity, of men, women, and children, streaming towards her -- on roads, off roads, walking, running, driving, hitching.

“They’re here to see us off,” smiled Ritmo. She clasped her hands to her bosom.

“In more innocent times, maybe,” spat Albees. “Nowadays, people are full of their own ideas, only thinking about themselves. Used to be a man would do whatever you ordered him too. ‘Shape up Punchy,’ you’d say, ‘or else it’s the billy club for you.’ Now, I’m not so sure.”

Albees took her across the hallway, to a different window, “We’ve taken some precautions.” Army troops were spinning in formation and executing maneuvers out on the tarmac. Regiments and platoons marched in line and saluted their superiors. Fat helicopters hung barely in the air, taking target practice on birds. Jets flew down from the stratosphere in perfect formation.

Ritmo laughed. “I’m sure the Army won’t be necessary, Albees.” She absentmindedly rested her hand on his chest. “Please, I’ve had enough of windows. Their bedazzlement is splendid, yet methinks mine eyes have had enough. Besides, you’ve forgotten something.”

“Pardon?”

“Mrs. Shabu Shabu House. You’ve forgotten to tell me who her replacement is going to be.”

“Let’s not worry about that now,” said Albees. But he began moving around really weird. Like the fifty-fingered hand was tickling him. Like a white man at a funk concert.

Ritmo suddenly stared at him. “You’re hiding something from me. I’ve seen you act like this before.”

Albees knees began yo-yoing in a kind of sense-memory Flapper dance. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, sweaty and jittery.

Ritmo pursued him as he backed away. “This happens whenever you have a secret,” she growled.

“Be fair,” he pleaded.

Ritmo began her own gyrations, a furious tap dance. “I can do it too Albees,” she mocked, jitterbugging all over. “This replacement, it better not be who I suspect.”

Albees’ movement degenerated into a general seizure, and he fell to the floor and cried, “Chaka is the fifth astronaut. Maybe that makes you mad. Maybe it doesn’t. I can’t keep it from you anymore. The truth inside is tearing me apart.”

Ritmo slapped him. Then she pulled him off the ground, like lifting a bag of groceries, and slapped him harder. Albees left eye folded over, stared into his right -- he kissed himself.

Albees rubbed his face. “I’m sorry, but it’s Chaka. She’s the one.”

***

The auditorium was egg-shaped and revealed a celebratory atmosphere. Astronauts and other professionals were standing in the aisles talking about heroics and inflation. About how the economic realities of petrification would affect emerging fifth world economies. We’ll get through this, no need to panic, perseverance of the human spirit and such. Someone had turned a radio to a station that played space-age music and people were genteelly patting their knees or bugging their eyes to the noise.

Glasses of champagne were abundant. Hors d'oeuvres were distributed by robots. Albees looked at Ritmo with distaste, admiration, mouthed the words “Good luck,” then was gone, to the front row, where his cronies played dice games.

Ritmo said hello to some people and eventually someone asked her to sign an autograph. You’ve got the look! she wrote. A line began to form. “Ritmo sign mine,” they said. “Ritmo, over here for a picture!”

Thankfully a man approached, waving off the looky-loos and stare-y Larry’s. “This way,” he said and guided her by the elbow to a quiet corner. “These people, it’s like they’ve never seen someone famous before. I mean, famous people, they’re just like you and me, right? They still sleep and eat food don’t they?” Ritmo said thank you, and started to leave, but he stopped her. He looked worried. “Don’t they?”

Ritmo had seen this man around the astronaut office once or twice, but couldn’t recall his name. It started with a P. Pembley? Princeton? One side of his shaved scalp had a diorama depicting the Bay of Pigs fiasco, the other side lamented the damage it caused to JFK’s legacy. He’d often touch his head in an effort to bring peoples attention to the scenes depicted there.

“Everyone, even famous people, eat and sleep,” Ritmo assured him.

The man laughed. “I was joking,” he said, putting his arm around her. “You know, to some people it might seem like fate brought us together to have this conversation. But in reality, I had planned on getting you alone all along. You know all those people who wanted your autograph? Paid actors!”

The man was right! She could see the people he spoke of, over at the craft services truck.

“Method actors mostly,” the man mused. Then he grabbed Ritmo by the shoulders and said, “Take me with you. Hide me on the rocket. I know there are ways, loopholes, elements in the design that yield results unintended. I’ll give you whatever you want: money, furniture, or even...” he blushed and batted his eyelashes, “...my manliness.

“Earth just isn’t the same these days” he complained. “Nobody cares about workmanship anymore. Nobody cares about a job well done. I’m talking hand-made here. The old-fashioned way.”

He shrugged. “I figure I could live in some far away part of the rocket. I’d be invisible, you wouldn’t even know I was around, except for my mournful singing and harmonica playing late at night.” He wanted her to think he was a hometown kind of guy, a truck driving type with a radio show. Very slowly he started pumping his hips, gaining speed, grinding at the air. The gesture was epic, profound. Five, ten minutes he did it, forever maybe. “Take me with you,” he intoned, eyes closed.

Ritmo sympathized with this man. His charms were many -- here was a true gentleman. But being a gentleman didn’t cut it in the future. You also needed calves like melons and a tendency to exaggerate.

“I’m sorry,” said Ritmo. “You know how it is. Company policy. But maybe it won’t be as bad here on Earth as you think. Maybe love conquers all in a bloody showdown. Openness and charity, enforced by law. Really, I can’t do anything for you.”

The mans hips slowed to a wounded halt.

“You have just made a powerful enemy,” he said, ashamed that a stranger could hurt his feelings so. “Maybe the rocket doesn’t make it to the far away planet. Maybe it lands in the ocean instead. Maybe it will be me who puts you there. Mark my words!” Then he spun around twice, fell down, stepped in a pie, and disappeared into the crowd.

***

Ritmo found her friend Bonnie and the two kissed on the cheek. Veronique, aloof, and Lemmy Caution, grouse-like, were also there. They got a handshake and a hug, respectively. Everyone was wearing their astronaut tunics.

“Someone just asked me to sneak them onboard,” said Ritmo. “I don’t know his name. Paco? Punter? I told him no.”

Bonnie hugged her. “I understand, dear friend. It’s not your fault. You did the right thing.”

“I think he worked in accounting.”

The ramifications slowly wilted Bonnie’s porcupine hat. “A numbers man,” she spat. “Why can’t they leave well enough alone?”

Lemmy Caution and Veronique remained silent. Lemmy knew her place in the social order, and dare not speak out of turn. Veronique was blank and unreadable.

“And that’s not all,” said Ritmo, confiding in Bonne. “My most hated enemy has joined our mission.”

Bonnie already knew. She turned and nodded toward the balcony. It was darker there and shadowy. A figure stood. The ember of a cigarette burned.
“Chaka,” hissed Ritmo.

Further conversation was cut short as the lights suddenly went out. A eunuch cry of surprise and fright went up from the audience. It was black as a mushroom in there.

“Everybody, calm down,” came the voice of Albees. The acoustics in the place made it sound like he was hanging from a trapeze mere feet above your head. “Don’t be alarmed. I knew that was going to happen. We’re about to put the President through on the large screen which will illuminate any moment now. This screen is the newest and most advanced screen of its kind.

“And let me just add that I know you’ve all made sacrifices to be here. You are all changing history, and will never get recognition or compensation, but I, for one, thank you.” A cheer went up.

“Here’s the President.”

A hefty girth of electronic light was let loose from the forward wall of the auditorium. Everyone stood around in its fog.

The Presidents face appeared. He was surrounded by cans of peas, corn, and beans. Naked ore and minerals twinkled in the background.

“We, the government,” began the President, “have, for the past many years, been calculating potential damages to the state. Running simulations -- sometimes we do them via computer, sometimes we build to-scale models, sometimes we close our eyes and imagine.

“Because of this, we have contingency plans for any number of disasters. If the earth cracks open at the equator, we have a solution. If people devolve back to man-fish, we have a solution. And yes, if bacteria petrify the planet, we have a solution.

“For some time now we’ve been watching a mysterious planet. Why shouldn’t we? Who knows what’s going on there? I can’t even begin to guess. According to our data, this planet is the answer to not one, but several potentially damaging circumstances. Render this planet in acrylics: ease anorexia. Unbalance this planet from orbit: a British custodian will educate us in the proper use of prophylactics. Visit this planet: find the cure for petrifying bacteria.

“What exactly is the cure? This is something our calculations don’t reveal. Maybe it’s a talking crab. That I wouldn’t mind.

“However, the bacteria is only susceptible to the cure for the next 25 years, after which time the transformation into solid stone becomes utterly irreversible. Because it will take us all of 25 years just to reach the mysterious planet, in order to actually save the world the astronauts will need to return to Earth instantaneously once they’ve accomplished their task. We’ve easily solved this problem -- while en route the astronauts will build a time machine. This might seem both excessive and wildly overcomplicated. It is.”

Ritmo looked to the balcony where Chaka was, to where the cigarette still pulsed and waned. There was only ever one person she’d known who dared hack at the fibrous shell that surrounded times mysteries...

“Now, you astronauts -- each of you have been chosen for your experience and expertise. I don’t know your names or who any of you are, and frankly I find such things a bit uninteresting. But if you are seeing this message, then you are either the best, or at the very least, you’re probably pretty high up on the list.”

Suddenly, people started getting to their feet. A buzz of panic arose from the front of the auditorium.

“But you already know the score,” said the President. “I’m just the coach giving the big pep talk. I live for the team, standing in the dugout. I’ve heard all the pennant races broadcast on my novel sized radio, and so on.”

A man up front started screaming and not stopping.

“That sounds like Albees,” whispered Bonnie.

The lights in the auditorium came back on, paling the President’s image. The effect was not flattering to the Presidents complexion in any way. There were more screams, a hobo parade of voices, a human piano.

“So make sure you leave on time," continued the President. It was a one-way transmission, obviously. Pre-recorded probably. Hours before? Maybe even years.

“Astronauts, we’re counting on you. And should I petrify -- upon your return you must cure me first. Me first.” Then the screen went blank.

But hardly anyone noticed. Most were trying to see what was happening to Albees. People were demanding answers! In the future people just don’t stand for being mystified!

Veronique started to slide her way past Ritmo, “Someone needs help,“ she said, she could smell it in the air.

Ritmo placed a hand on Veronique’s chest, momentarily caught off guard by the firmity there. “I’m in charge here,” she said. “If there’s one thing Albees taught me, it’s that I’m in charge here.”

Ritmo addressed the astronauts in rapid succession, “Lemmy Caution, you’ve got string on your face. Very embarrassing. Veronique, stay low, if there’s enemy fire they’ll aim for your wide, child-bearing hips. Bonnie my friend, I’m going to see what is happening.”

Ritmo then leapt fifty, sixty feet at a time, jumping, climbing over backs, taking a human mountain, while Bonnie waved a kerchief goodbye.

A circle had formed near the front row. Ritmo pushed her way through. Some people were crying, others were reciting the Holy Scree, some punched themselves in the eyes.

Albees stood in the middle, making the most noise, his hands up in the air. He wasn’t paying attention to anyone but himself. Ritmo put her hand on his shoulder, and he suddenly grabbed Ritmo by the head, forcing her to look at his feet.

Now she understood. Albees was petrifying, from the heels up. It was more gruesome than a vasectomy she had once witnessed. His space shoes were sand already. His shins exhibited sedimentary striations, fossil records, and mineral deposits. His knees transformed into rock as she watched. He tried moving his legs. It was no use.

“Ritmo,” he managed to whisper. “I can feel my bones turning into dirt. It’s worse than any charley horse.

“There’s nothing you can do for me. I’m in a different place now, I think it’s heaven. Let me describe it: there is some kind of ivy, lots of arches and columns. You can’t look in any one direction without seeing a pond. Some ponds are filled with fish. Some ponds have algae in them. Some have ducks.

“There are neither mermaids nor cherubs. I do see some grapes, however they are more for show than actual consumption. The pain is unendurable, but I’m making peace with it now.”

Ritmo cried on his shoulder. Everyone pined for the parasites and diseases of old. Give me cancer any day.

It wasn’t long before the infection was complete. Albees’ waist had petrified, his chest, his head, even his hair. He could have adorned a football museum, catching the long-bomb.

Ritmo touched his face. The rock was warm. She dug in with her fingernail and managed to scrape some off. It was certainly sand, like from the beach.

Rocket by Daniel Morris

Excerpt