goodlit

An excerpt from the novel Last Call in the City of Bridges
We are on Mars, but we are no longer young. This is not
the place for youth. It is where the elderly are shuttled off to,
the assisted living ranches of outer space. We sit on Mars under
big glass domes and tilt our wrinkly heads toward the sky.
They have us lined up on an infinitely long porch, our bodies
connected to hundreds of computers, impossible machines
that shout “Beep!” and “Yip!” complete with nugget dials and
sensors that make us nervous. We cannot move. The machines
are too big, unruly, all hooked in intravenously through our
mouths, noses, ears, belly buttons, anuses, genitals.
We sway back and forth on the rocking chairs of our
destruction.
Some of us listen to music. We avoid the old crooners, the
Frank Sinatras and Dean Martins and Sammy Davis Juniors
and Peter Lawfords and Joey Bishops or anyone else associated
with the Rat Pack. We prefer gangster rap. We sit on our death
rockers and tentatively nod to “Juicy” by Notorious B.I.G. and
“California Love” by Tupac Shakur. We have forgotten which
one of these urban youths died first, but either way it’s a tragic
shame perfectly suited for a group of people whose hormones
first went ape shit during the 9/11 attacks.
We are shocked at how old we have become. Liver spots!
When we saw our grandparents’ hands as children it seemed
like a sick joke. Saggy skin. Pale complexions. Baldness. We look
like babies! And maybe that’s all aging is. The universe was
born and then it expanded. After a period of time it began to
rapidly compress. Maybe the aging process is the contraction
of the human spirit.
#GOODLitSwerveAutumn