On the first day of each dodecahedral cycle, we assemble to honor those who saved us. We meet in the Valles Marineris, Mars Dome One. Each rank takes its place: the Grounders, the Bots, the Diggers, the Brains and the yet-to-be's. We tells how we came to be here. We tells about each wave of refugees -- from the Correspondents to the Vestiges. We tells so each generation can never forget. So each generation remembers. We tells how the Earth ended and mankind nearly destroyed itself in nuclear fire.
Our leader, Lupe' Tzinguini closed this Memorial Service with the words from twenty-first century literature. Words from the countless electronic books saved from destruction. Books found in the wreckage of spaceships that dot the surface or Mars.
And after the memorial, we all try to drive home at the same time resulting in an old-fashioned, earth-like traffic jam; the perfect remembrance.
Grounders, Bots, Diggers, Brains and yet-to-be's, we fret alike in our air-conditioned vehicles. As one we squirm on our lemetal seats and flick through the two thousand and thirty-six channels on Maradio to find nothing on.
After some time we abandon ourselves to the chaos and lean back against headrests, closing our eyes and hearing Lupe' Tzinguini's words in our head. Words from the great books of the past. Words from our Bible:
Evil Editor wondered one day, while feeding an author's life's work into a paper shredder, whether the slush pile might be put to productive use . . .
Opening: Dave F......Continuation: McKoala