More micro fiction

Far

When I first went to university, I thought that was far. I missed my parents terribly; but, gradually, I started calling less and less. Now I see them four or five times a year – Christmas, birthdays, Easter. The first time I left Sarah and Meghan in New York to train in Houston, I thought that was far. But leaving Earth – that’s different. From this scarred ochre surface, I can just make out a pale blue point of light in the dusty sky. Through my visor, I can see the sand-blown Polaroid, their faces almost worn completely away. Space: that’s far.

The Martian

After re-entry, I think I was born again, into a new body. Hurtling down to the Earth, bracing myself all the way, when we opened the capsule, the light pouring in seemed startling and alien. I barely recognised the calm blue water. Now I walk down high streets rippling with them. They look like me, but I don’t feel any connection. I was away for so long, you see. Almost three years: the first manned mission to Mars. I look through my telescope of a clear night until I find it, my eyes adjusting to the dim red light. Home.

Addiction

I’m addicted. They’ve got me hooked like a ravenous fish – weighed and packaged, too. I go in: I need my fix, need what they’re pushing. They’ve got a good set up, all right. An entire industrial operation. My fingers seem frenzied. I think they can see the twitch in my left eye. One heads out back to fetch more product. It smells good – they’re expecting me, I can tell. I go up to get my fix. ‘One grandé Americano with cream,’ I say. ‘No, wait!’ I say, my hands splayed menacingly on the counter. ‘And an extra shot of espresso.’