Friday Flash Fiction 8

SNOWBALL

By Gareth L Powell

Dressed in a simple black kimono, he looked out at the rocky sunlit moonscape. Around him, the air in the dome was full of birdsong and blossom. Already, he was beginning to think that coming here had been a mistake. With a sigh, he turned away from the view and walked to the centre of the dome, where café tables surrounded a large clear plastic cube. Inside the cube was a square of rocky ground the colour of ash, preserved in vacuum and scuffed with ridged footprints. A few American tourists milled around, taking photographs. He chose a table and ordered a glass of wine. As he sipped it, he tried to conjure up some sense of nostalgia or meaning. But he hadn't even been born at the time of the first moon landings, and the footprints here meant nothing to him. All he wanted was to be home, with his family.

He looked up at the fat white Earth.

"Strange to think," he said to himself, "that when Armstrong stood here, the planet was blue."