American Literary Magazine
White Dust Natalie Flynn The Martians weren’t familiar with snow. Upon waking to a flurry-filled sky, some stepped out, hesitant, to greet it. Others weren’t so bold; they peered from their windows, eyes alight with confusion and wonder. White dust danced in thick droves against the dawn. It tumbled like twisting galaxies and fell like tiny stars. It landed, feather light, on the packed red ground. On the roof of a little house in a sea of little houses, one martian opened their eyes. Cold specks landed softly on their forehead and melted there. They must have fallen asleep. And now… Drowsy, they pushed themself up on their elbows and looked around. The suburbs were veiled in white. Against the burnt red streets, it wasn’t natural. Neither was the chill in the air. When they let out a breath, they were surprised to find it bloom,
cloud-like before their eyes. Slowly, they lifted pale fingers to touch it; by the time they reached the cloud, it had already dissipated. White flakes filled the air where it had been. Strange… They watched for a long moment, fascinated. The dust seemed safe enough, whatever it was. They wondered what the neighbors would see if they looked up at them on the roof: a little dark blot in the whirlwind. That’s what it felt like. They let themself fall back, squinting against the soft barrage of flakes. Somewhere behind this curtain was the night’s familiar darkness. The universe. Something out there, they thought, must have happened. To cause this. They should be more alarmed. They should be inside, like the others, safe behind windows and walls. But in this moment, all they could think was, it’s beautiful.
46
