Can We Build on Mars?

She grabbed the kitchen walls
when the tremor hit,

kept from falling
but bit her lip and frowned
as dust sifted down
from the attic overhead—

a static, steadfast mess,
the moving boxes lying just where
they’d been left two weeks before.

She gave up her chores
and clicked on the TV.

“Come to Mars,” the ad said.
But she already had—
with lofty goals and stars in her head.

She had packed and sailed away,
gone on solar winds,
skimmed the sky, and sent
not-so-pleasant regards—

goodbyes to him,

who once,
in love’s Indian summer first bloom,
had said,

“Someday we’ll go there,
away, far.

But I wonder—
can we build,
together,
a new life on Mars?”

They hadn’t.
She had—
or was trying;
slow progress,
untying the parcels of her past.

She cast a glance
to the stairs and stood,
brushed the dirt from her hair.
She knew she should
begin to climb.
She could—
step by step,
she would,
rung by rung.

She flung open the doors,
turned on the light,
saw the bundles all stacked.

She sat on the floor and,
despite a shake in her hands—
and without looking back—

began, slowly,
to unpack.

(10-16-2025, 02:32 PM)palifan Wrote:  Can We Build on Mars?

She grabbed the kitchen walls
when the tremor hit,

kept from falling
but bit her lip and frowned
as dust sifted down
from the attic overhead—

a static, steadfast mess,
the moving boxes lying just where
they’d been left two weeks before.

She gave up her chores
and clicked on the TV.

“Come to Mars,” the ad said.
But she already had—
with lofty goals and stars in her head.

She had packed and sailed away,
gone on solar winds,
skimmed the sky, and sent
not-so-pleasant regards—

goodbyes to him,

who once,
in love’s Indian summer first bloom,
had said,

“Someday we’ll go there,
away, far.

But I wonder—
can we build,
together,
a new life on Mars?”

They hadn’t.
She had—
or was trying;
slow progress,
untying the parcels of her past.

She cast a glance
to the stairs and stood,
brushed the dirt from her hair.
She knew she should
begin to climb.
She could—
step by step,
she would,
rung by rung.

She flung open the doors,
turned on the light,
saw the bundles all stacked.

She sat on the floor and,
despite a shake in her hands—
and without looking back—

began, slowly,
to unpack.

Frankly, this (being a telegraphic short story) needs a story editor, not workshopping as poetry.  It's a storyboard from, oh, "The Twilight Zone" except that it expends its surprise too early.

The only surprise - once the scene is set - is that this is not a metaphor of broken romance and starting to recover from it.  It's a telling, with minor and somewhat anachronistic details which harm the suspension of disbelief.   Dust - and it should be red - yes, but an attic?  In a dome or subterranean habitation?  That's what pushes toward metaphor in the middle.  And who ties boxes with string any more?  It's tape all the way.  Plus, even with solar sailing (which will make for a Pacific- or Columbus-length voyage) mass has to be lifted out of Earth's gravity well.  That costs.  So, not a lot of weight, or a lot of boxes.

Speaking of gravity, could allude to lightness on those stairs... and a heavy heart, or heavy heart relieved by the light gravity.

*ping*

OK, that's harsh.  The good thing is, you have a solid concept, theme, and progression.  There's less showing than might be, but the emotional arc - a little hammered-home but believable - is well established.    You did good there.

Mars needs women.  This one sounds like she'll do.