A needle’s thread, beaten from pallid orange. Faster to take it by rover. Better to linger in staggered column. Let them be seen, sweat through the desolate tramp, perhaps be fought clear of dust clouds. Seething wind kicks up enough of that already. Enough to bespeckle, slowly consume the yellowed white of their non-stick.Nothing works right here.A Martian tragedy, told in eight-hundred-and-seventy-three words.---Cover art and publishing as...