Crowds gather on the Moon, angry and draped in flags. They can’t remember how they got there, but they’re sure they belong, and they’re certain of their rights and possessions. There’s nothing but rock, dust, and the remnants of past explorations – seventy or so craft, family photos, and neat little bags of crap – but ownership’s ownership, and the Moon’s no place for Earthly incursions. It being a vacuum, there is only silence, but in fishbowl helmet after fishbowl helmet, synchronised mouths spit bile about tiny capsules traversing the inky void and a whole planet stealing reflected light. The Moon’s drifting an imperial inch and a half away every year, but it’s still too close for the baying mob. There is no wind, but flags quiver like flayed skin.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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