PARTY TO NOWHERE: THE STORY OF AMERICA’S LAST ROCKET
A short story by Alex James Taylor

At the lowest point of the Chihuahuan Desert, find a launchpad shaped in a half-moon crescent. Through the butterfly basin and Romeo’s ain’t far behind. Sent by Rockwell but stuck in launch control, here remains the last American space explorer. It stands majestic yet so obsolete, a star shadow at its feet.

It’s a chartered flight through unchartered territory – America has long forgotten and time ceased to be. A decade, a century – emergency eclipsed. The nation’s lost its place and here stands its baffled face. The severed head of a fallen king, a cosmic anchor clinging on for dear life; and the baseball- capped masses wielded the knife. Take a look, it’s iconography on a launchpad scale – unique, yet familiar to all.

But inside the cabin, the launch party continues to swing. It’s a total sell-out on a constant feed. Oblivious to their plight, they continue to sing,
a story on repeat in 130 degree heat. Ultralounge, golden synth. A false optimism has settled in, set in motion on a Rockefeller spin. Waiting for the inevitable, all present willing and able. Totally agreeable and so irresistibly unstable. There’s a wellness centre and a TikTok suite, it’s an unhinged plan posing as a five star retreat. Absolutely state of the art, it’s a 230-foot husk with Michelin à la Carte.

In-flight entertainment is a lover’s tiff, or the rise and fall of an Elvis quiff. The band play Hawaiian hula, loop-the-loop from Lollapalooza – a four chord manoeuvre with a complimentary supernovae. Pheromone is a Lincoln continental aerial, plugged into a V12 Presidential. A tear-drop dancefloor caught in turbulence, it’s one small step for man, a Sinatra Waltz for your kind. When the going gets tough, sink into a double bluff – you know, even Casanova knew when enough was enough.

It’s located on the loneliest stretch of land you’d ever imagine, where spirituality is an upwards delusion wrapped as a forgone conclusion. It’s where the most faithful will always frequent – where religion’s evolved and they want you involved. A doctrine forged in Austin; “For the benefit of all” – once a mission statement, now a fallacy recall. Dogma for the believers, a mantra of eternal hope. I suppose it’s admirable really, that commitment to commence. It’s Icarus with sunstroke; chased the light and wound up broke.

The country’s got amnesia, sometimes you have to bite down on the hand that feeds ya. You’re checking your DM’s for a message from above, yet the clouds have parted and your provider’s gone. Are you prepared to maintain or to abjure your beliefs? Take in a viennetta dream sequence with a slice of relief. Mind’s eye, pumpkin pie. Space hoppers on Rockaway beach. Marlborough Gold, opium scent; sit back, relax, for a transcendental assent. Silent mode, you’ve blocked it out. You can’t get signal in a mindscape, nowt. Keep your eyes forward, kid, Shahdaroba means the future is much better than the past.

Balanced on a cliffhanger to the Twilight Zone, lovers carved in an ice cream cone. A crossroads in Robert Johnson vain, shaking hands on a deal that’s long been made. Interstellar pilgrims on constellation landing lights; that new world calling don’t look so bright. We’re swimming in the dark, dancing beneath the stars. Blood moon, the sands of Dune, a close encounter of the deferred kind. Dancefloor shadows are a desert temple dance, a projection of frozen emotion lost in a 4/4 trance. Limbs stretched out across the sands, worst case scenario, we’ll launch it ourselves.

In space everyone can see you dream. It’s written in the stars – the T&Cs of this lunar ponzi scheme. Groundhog day for generation 2k. Gruen transfer, you’ve lost track of what you came for: was it the Four Seasons or a local landscaping store? An around-the-bend cruise lost in the Styx. Get a grip, man, an old dog has all the best tricks.

The moon draws the outline of a vampire bite, and Orion’s Belt is the prize for this title fight. We’ve gone the full distance but the bell hasn’t rang, we’re into the encore but the fat lady ain’t sang. Belacqua skipped boarding, didn’t think it was worth the wait. Lord Lucan lost his footing, an expert in prolonging man’s fate. You say we have a problem, I say we’re the solution. Talk to us, Houston. Give us our day.

Come in Rockwell – Norman, it’s the problem we all live with. You’ve got a bunch of guys about to turn blue. For a while we couldn’t, but we’re breathing again. We’re breathing again.