Exiles

by Mason Coile

We get along. Even if that’s not exactly the same thing as liking each other.

Sometimes there’s an advantage to being predictable. Saves everybody time.

Mars is quicksand studded with ankle-twisting stone.

Dunts

Never stop trying bad solutions, Mission Leader told us. That’s where the one good solution can come from.

I’m only paraphrasing Shay, but because I’m the one talking, her ideas are sticking to me. Discrediting me.

I’m the most tired I’ve ever felt, yet I still can’t sleep. I’ve tried all the mental games of trying to count back from a hundred or meditate or pulse-point my way to REM, but my brain always identifies them for the trickery they are and refuses to shut off.

“Didn’t your training include a component on how to manage the horror that comes with being so far from home?” “They didn’t call it ‘managing the horror,’ but yes.

but sleep comes first without my seeing it coming.

“Pareidolia.” “What’s that, Doc?” “The brain’s tendency to see recognizable things in the shapes of inanimate objects. Elvis in the clouds. The Virgin Mary in a piece of burnt toast.”

The only part that wants to resist this is the part of me that’s embarrassed to have believed anything else.