Playground Pals

The landing was, to put it mildly, a bit of a jumble. Brian, the little Martian brain with the spectacular spectator tap shoes, felt himself tumble and spin, a whirlwind of Martian dust and cosmic curiosity. He’d expected a grand entrance, perhaps a spotlight, a dramatic flourish of his little rubber arms. Instead, it was a rather undignified *thud* onto something surprisingly soft and suspiciously green. He blinked his big, bulbous alien eyes, his jar wobbling precariously. Where was he? This certainly wasn’t the dusty, red expanse of Mars.

Around him, a symphony of joyous shouts and delighted squeals filled the air. It was a sound unlike anything Brian had ever heard from his quiet, jarred existence on Mars. He tentatively peeked over the edge of his jar. Below him, a vast expanse of vibrant green stretched out, dotted with colorful structures that looked like giant, joyful toys. And then he saw them. Small, bipedal creatures, their skin a dizzying array of shades, their hair like spun sunshine or midnight clouds. They were… children. Earth children.

One of them, a girl with hair the color of a ripe strawberry and eyes as blue as a clear Martian sky, was the first to spot him. She had been mid-swing on a glorious, soaring contraption, but her gaze caught the glint of Brian’s black and white spectator shoes. She stopped, her legs dangling in the air, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’. Her friends, a boisterous bunch, followed her gaze. The giggles started, not the nervous, uncertain giggles of his Martian friends, but warm, bubbling bursts of pure delight.