The Boy stood atop the hill. A breeze swept around his legs and torso, causing goosebumps to appear on his bare arms. His T-shirt, which featured a picture of a space rocket lifting off from the ground, flapped in the wind like the flag of a victorious nation. Around his head were strapped a pair of swimming goggles. He pulled them down and fixed them over his eyes and started a countdown.
“10… 9… 8… 7… 6…”, he slowly spoke the words out and then quickly sped up, shouting, “5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Blast Off!”
Off down the hill, the Boy ran. He was racing against his own body, with legs trying to outrun pumping arms. Like a steam train, his hot breath punctured the cold air with every jerking movement. His nostrils flared as if he was a horse on an early morning run.
An image arose in his mind. It was of his father. He was a successful astronaut and pilot, who died when his rocket exploded as he was heading out of Earth’s orbit. The Boy had been only four years old at the time, and now four years on, he still cherished the few memories he had of him.
He often daydreamed about flying with him through the stratosphere and beyond, to the stars. How they would career past the moon at breakneck speed! How they would land on Mars, and then return home for dinner with his mother!
The picture drove him on. It was like high-grade rocket fuel, pushing his body to the physical limit. The movement of his legs began to blur with extra fervour and he pulled his arms out straight, as though they were wings of a jet. And then, his feet began to burn. The pain was excruciating, but he pushed on through, fixing the memory of his father at the forefront of his mind. He had one single purpose and one single goal.
Halfway down the hill, he started to feel himself begin to rise. Like a helicopter on take-off. His arms stiffened. His legs seized together, perpendicular to the ground and his feet were covered in flames. His T-shirt stuck to his body and gradually metamorphosed into metal. His hair styled itself into the head of a bullet.
As he continued to take off, the G-Force increased dramatically. Whether through fear or ecstatic joy, he screamed out. It echoed loudly throughout the valley. A trail of smoke appeared beneath his feet, and he could see the ground slowly disappearing from view. His town of doldrums and managed decline, slipped from his gaze as he looked towards the stars.
The place where his dreams were mocked and derided, today, had lost its son. Now, the past was the past and the present was the future.
Breaking free from Earth’s gravity, he rocketed towards Mars. Gazing into the distant light, he quickly passed the Moon, heading towards the blackness of outer space.
As Mars started to flood his vision, he began to twist around, with his feet facing the planet’s surface.
The rocket booster blasted again, but this time, it was to aid his landing. As he got closer to the ground, the engines increased in intensity.
The disturbed Martian dust puffed up like smoke. A grubby fog hanging in the atmosphere. He landed safely on the Mars-scape.
He quickly turned back to an eight-year-old boy. His body metamorphosed from metal to flesh. He had achieved his mission and reached the utopia.
As the dust settled, he could make out a figure amongst the dusty clouds. A Martian stood before him, in a pilot’s uniform. The Boy’s eyes widened as the stranger said,
“I’ve missed you, son”.
This is the first ever AngloFuturism story. It was first published in January 2025 in the Decadent Serpent. It combines the love a boy has for his lost past and integrates it with the raw technological energy of Futurism. This is the spirit of AngloFuturism. The old and new coming together to achieve something incredible.