On Mars, he digs like he dug yesterday, and the day before. First, swiping away unrooted topsoil, triangulating downward until he finds the packed maroon chunks that are easier removed by hand.
His left glove snags on a sharpened edge of his hole and tears. Not deep enough to expose skin but enough to force a pause. A heavy sigh. He’d walk a bit further afield this time; far enough that he can’t see the other gold rushers bobbing against the dunes.
When he does look down again, he sees it. Something running thicker than water but
thinner than oil. He touches it and his glove comes back chartreuse.
Later, he’d tell the press that he thought of closing up the hole because of the danger. The possibility.
What he really did was bow his head. Cry into his second-hand face shield and whisper, maybe I’ve found my way out.
Salena Casha's work has appeared in over 100 publications in the last decade. Her most recent work can be found on HAD, Carmina Magazine, and Club Plum. She survives New England winters on good beer and black coffee. Subscribe to her substack at salenacasha.substack.com
This story was shortlisted in the November 24 Monthly Micro Competition.