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Mar. 26, 2010 The sun was setting like a silent and tranquil fire behind the mountain. The two men were out of work labourers, lumpen proletariat of the new century. They wore their work boots still for warmth, and had been hunting small game in the area all afternoon but came up with nothing. They were having a smoke now, and though it was snowy, it had begun to get warmer, and the melting of the river sides could be heard, loosening, its heart always flowing, alive, but now as if blood, more blood had been let to go to the outside capillaries. One man, the first, spoke, while the other, the second, was cleaning some dirt with a rag that had gotten on the barren of his gun. He cleaned the gun by holding its barren downwards onto a piece of wood: - He said to come out in the morning and see the prints. - What prints? - Well he said that that ain’t any prints from around the earth. - What do you mean? - He said he’d been there twenty years, and that that ain’t prints from around the earth. - Around the earth? - Yup. God d@mn. - God d@mn. So what did he say they were? - He didn’t say nuttin’. - Oh. - But nobody wanted to say nuttin’ about it. They was some strange prints. You shoulda seen em’ weird prints. They was Martian prints. - People from Mars? - Yup. I’m tellin’ you ain’t no other explanation. Martians. They were out there in the night. - You never know do you? - I ain’t goin back there. That guy he is still there but I ain’t going. There is Martians there.
Then the conversation was over. The men stared at the darkening sky, one convinced of the Martian visitation, the other just staring at the end of the great fire circle leaving behind the mountain. Close enough, the river could be heard, and the river sounded happy going further and further into the night, into the forest, into the good mystery of the dark.
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