Drops of red rain hit black pavement sounding like a loose snare drum. George watched the rain dance on a metal ledge outside his apartment’s window. The red was easily explained. Blood. The blood of Earth crying, weeping its woes.
The atmosphere was destroyed. Rain that ate through livestock.
Mars was imminent. A packed bag lay in the corner of the room. Last trip.
Then Earth could heal. Leave it for a few hundred years, they said.
“It was a good run,” George said and grabbed his bag.
He stopped. A piece of paper lay on a table along with a pen and pencil. He set the bag down. Such things were not allowed on Mars. A new paperless society, and all that.
George sat down, stretched back his shoulders and grabbed the pad and pen. The mighty pen. He wrote on top of the page:
“Whoever finds this,” then he stopped.
Would one day someone actually find this? By the time air would be breathable again, all of this would have disintegrated into dust and rubble.
George shrugged and continued:
“Know that what we did to the Earth was unforgivable.”
He put the pen down and grabbed the pencil. He twirled it between his fingers.
This would be it, his last statement, his last stamp.
He looked up at the yellowed stucco ceiling.
“It was a good run,” he repeated.
A deep breath. He hunched over the paper and started to draw.
A house, trees and a picket fence.
And the sun. A sun with two dashes for eyes and a curved line for a smile.
