With the taste of expensive alcohol still simmering on his tongue, Ziggy rolls his skin-and-bones body out of bed, leaving behind an unsettling aroma of rotten cigarettes. From wall to wall lie men and women, exposed and without shame, after a long night of touching the stars. Ziggy scoffs at the pile of bodies laced with drugs and emptiness, wondering if the world can truly be saved, or if humans are simply hopeless. To him, it seems the only purpose they serve is to praise his holy being—to keep rock and roll alive. 

 

He walks over to his wardrobe and softly unravels his silk kimono, grabbing his favorite suit hidden amongst swarms of glitter and stripes. Staring intensely in the mirror, Ziggy buttons his gold and red jacket, and smooths the wrinkles from his skin-tight pants. The powder on his face creates a glowing, stark white shade, highlighted by the soft rouge on his clear-cut cheek bones. To complete his look, he leans into himself and intricately applies fresh red lipstick from one of the brand new boxes placed on his dresser every morning. For a second, Ziggy catches his eyes in the mirror. He recognizes something that he once saw in the face of a human. It appears dark and tragic, hiding deep within the pupil but afflicting the whole body. Ziggy snaps out of this momentary trance, only to realize his forehead is pressed up against the mirror as he stares into his own eyes. He quickly backs away. Making a final adjustment to his perfectly messy mane, he goes off to meet the band for rehearsal. He steps over piles of fans and rock and roll junkies, stopping at the door before leaving. Ziggy looks at their tightly closed eyes, blind to his self-inflicted beauty in the depth of their sleep. 

 

“What a pity,” he mutters, before exiting into the quiet world. 

                                        

*    *    *

    

Ziggy arrives at the concert venue, only two hours late—an improvement from last week’s four hours. The concert is set in a large white dome, big enough to fit what seems like half of the human race. The stage levitates in the air, elevating Ziggy and the band far above the crowd, but close enough so that they’ll be able to catch the shine of his suit.

 

From the ground below, Ziggy spots his bandmates practicing the setlist and lets out a sly giggle. Ziggy doesn’t rehearse—he doesn’t need to. He simply embodies music; notes and chords flow from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. As the heat in his body sizzles with hotter and higher intensity, the pressure becomes so great, exploding into one or three or five epic ballads that make the earth stand still. He rarely even answers to Ziggy anymore, but rather names along the lines of “The Messiah,” “The Rock and Roll Savior,” or better yet, “Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior.” The only people that refuse to call him any of the above are the Spiders themselves—Gilly, Henry, and Weird.

 

He grabs a jetpack from one of the designated bins and makes his way up to the stage. Rather than joining the band, he pulls out a cigarette and observes them from the distant corner. He focuses on Gilly, eyes closed, absorbed by the deliciously rich sounds of his guitar. His long blonde hair wildly stirs around his face, but it’s no match for his intense focus on the music. Gilly is the first one to spot Ziggy. They briefly lock eyes before Gilly lets out a dispirited smile and walks over.

 

“Morning Ziggy,” says Gilly begrudgingly, “Are you alive today?”

 

“Well I’m here, aren’t I?” he refutes.

 

“Seems like you had a long night is all. You might consider dialing it back for a while. Maybe resting a bit.”

 

“Mortals can’t tire me Gilly. Trust me, dear, the aliens of Mars are much better-suited for a ‘tiring’ party. That I do miss.”

 

Ziggy knows that Gilly tends to be right, which is why he ignores the pain in his chest as they speak in this very moment. Gilly is Ziggy’s most trusted confidant, and a great guitarist. They played music together for years, recruiting the rest of the band, Weird and Henry, during their many drunken adventures through grungy bars and empty auditoriums. Weird, their young bass player, is Ziggy’s greatest admirer, having always wondrously looked up to his musical gift. Henry, on the other hand, has always disapproved of Ziggy’s ways, and resentfully keeps quiet about it from the seat of his drums. Musically, these four are a perfect match. This fact unbreakably bound them together for a long time. Gilly thought to name the band the Spiders from Mars—extraterrestrials traveling wherever the wind takes them, like a migrating cluster of spiders. However, there was an unspoken change in their relationship when they—Ziggy—achieved fame.

 

After Ziggy heard the voice of a power unknown to mankind in his dreams, receiving the message that a savior was coming to protect a world with five remaining years of existence, Gilly knew things would change. Ziggy began to spread the word through his songs, bringing humans hope they thought they’d never taste again. Ziggy always believed he had some greater purpose. It seemed he was the chosen one, inviting Gilly and the rest along for the ride. When they began touring, the band became Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.

 

“So what do you think of the stage?,” Gilly asks, changing the subject. “I believe your exact request was: ‘I want to stand higher than the mortals who will owe their very existence to me.’”

 

Ziggy laughs. “I believe that was my request—and it seems quite fitting that they look up to me, don’t you think?” His face is serious now. Again, his chest pulses with discomfort. “Excuse me, Gilly. I must ‘rest,’ as you like to call it.” 

    

Ziggy abruptly turns around and walks quickly to his dressing room, where prepared lines of cocaine lie waiting on his table. He quickly snorts them and moves over to his fridge, gulping down whisky in a panic. He is too afraid to look in the mirror, fearing that he might see those wretched eyes again—eyes that are too bleak to deny. He overhears Weird and Henry talking outside, and cracks the door open to get a better listen. 

 

“It’s been a year, Weird. No one is coming to save the world. I don’t care what Ziggy says. He’s delusional.”

 

“At least he’s given these kids an ounce of hope,” he replies. Weird will say anything to defend Ziggy, even though he knows Henry is right.

 

“It’s false hope. They’re going to get impatient, and when they do, we’re all fucked. Just wait.”

 

Ziggy busts out of his room in a blind rage, unstable from the mix of substances flowing through his veins.

 

“Do you have something to say to me Henry, dear? Why so quiet all of a sudden?”

 

“Oh, Ziggy— ”

 

“Don’t! You would be nowhere without me—show some respect won’t you?”

 

“I’m sorry, but, Ziggy, it’s been a year,” Henry quietly remarks.

 

“Who needs some spaceman to save the earth? I am the savior! These kids never saw—they never heard beauty before me. Without me, humans would be nothing more than worthless specks on a dying planet. I’ve given them something to live for, whether the world is ending or not.” The weight of Ziggy’s words take a toll on his body, and he leans back against the wall. 

 

Weird chimes in. “You don’t look so good Ziggy. Why don’t you lie down?”

 

“Lie down?” Ziggy laughs maniacally. “Oh friends. I am alien. I am invincible. I don’t need to lie down. Lie down, ha! Don’t bother coming to the concert; I can do it on my own. They only come for me anyway.”

 

Ziggy returns to his dressing room, and without hesitation, looks straight in the mirror. “Lie down,” he mutters to his reflection, as if the two of them understand something the others don’t. His head remains still as he begins laughing hysterically, at his words, at his lonely eyes. At the dying world.

                             

*   *   *

 

It’s an hour before the concert when Ziggy hears a knock on his dressing room door. At this point, he had calmed down, experiencing only the groggy after-effect of insanity. Ziggy opens the door to find Henry shyly standing outside. 

 

“Hi Ziggy,” Henry says awkwardly.

 

“Hello,” replies Ziggy coldly, failing to invite him in. Henry is tall and skinny, towering above Ziggy, but in this moment, Ziggy feels so much larger than him.

 

“I’ve come to apologize. I want to play in the show tonight—I really do.” Henry is convincing, because he fears this show might be their last. For the past few months, he’s witnessed the troubling state of Ziggy, now fearing that his fate is quickly approaching.

 

“It’s just that, I haven’t recognized you lately. The others feel the same, especially Gilly.” Henry is careful not to offend him and quickly adds, “Don’t you miss when it was just about the music and the fun of it? I just want to make sure you haven’t lost that part of yourself. You know, the part of yourself that plays for love of the music. Man, remember how great that felt?”

 

Ziggy thinks back to the days when he and Gilly played for no one, laughing and singing into the microphone together. They’d firmly press their faces against one another as they shouted lyrics at the few drunken viewers in the crowd. They knew they were good, and that was all that mattered. He remembers the night he spotted Weird playing at a bar with his silly college band, “E.T. Posse.” He was far superior to any of his other bandmates, and had a certain inviting aura to him. He approached the small, lazy-eyed boy, uncomfortable in his own strangeness, determined to give him a much-needed confidence boost. That’s when he decided to call him Weird—so he’d embrace his oddities—and it stuck ever since. As for Henry, Ziggy had never seen anyone play so passionately, taking out all the demons of his past on an undeserving drum set. Ziggy loved it, and knew he belonged in the band.

 

To Henry’s surprise, Ziggy seems flustered and immediately says, “Fine play tonight. Play tonight. That’s alright. Just go.” 

 

He shuts the door and turns around, feeling the doorknob press into the curve of his back. Ziggy then notices a strange sensation on his face. His hand slowly rises and brushes his cheekbone. It’s wet. He looks in the mirror and sees that his perfectly applied makeup is smeared, showing skin beneath the white powder he so carefully put on that morning. Ziggy’s expression twists into something confused and terrified, then angry.

 

“You,” he shakily stutters, “You’ve become weak. Spineless!” He now yells at his reflection with full force. “This is simply unacceptable,” he repeats frantically as he paces around the room. “It’s pathetic. Humiliating!” He looks up at the ceiling, addressing the higher power that talked to him in his dreams.

 

“What do you want?” He violently chucks a whisky bottle at the mirror, and the pieces fall to the ground with a loud crash. “Is this what you want? My sanity?” After collapsing on the floor in surrender, he picks up a piece of shattered glass. For a while, he stares at the disturbingly jagged lightening bolt made by the mascara that runs down his face.

 

Suddenly, he comes to a realization. “Oh, I see. So this is a challenge?” he says, again looking upwards. “You’re doubting my worth now? Well, just wait my friend. I’ll show you how worthy I am.”

 

Someone knocks on the door and shouts, “Twenty minutes, Ziggy.” 

 

Ziggy gets up, takes a deep breath, and exits his dressing room, fully prepared for battle.

 

*   *   * 

 

Ten minutes till showtime. Ziggy approaches his bandmates who stand behind the stark white curtain that hides them from the crowd. They seem relieved, unsure if he would even bother showing up.

 

“Ziggy,” says Gilly, letting out a deep breath, “Glad you could make it.” 

 

Ziggy doesn’t acknowledge him, or anyone for that matter. He simply stares straight ahead, with a distant look in his eye. His mind is fixated on greater things, or, more specifically, on reclaiming his own greatness. 

 

After a long period of bewildering silence Ziggy says, “Alright lads. Let’s do this.” In this moment, Ziggy looks like the leader they always knew—confident, sturdy, proud—a leader they once trusted. So, the Spiders walk out on stage, one by one. Ziggy waits to make his entrance, building the tension among the crowd, wanting them to want him so bad that they fall to their knees. 

 

He slowly counts down before entering. “And, 3. 2. 1.” Guided by the booming cries of the crowd, he begins to move. His presence incites total chaos, as people climb on top of one another in an effort to form a human ladder to the floating stage. Ziggy smirks at his puppeteering abilities, watching as the fans below reach out for him in desperation. He turns around and gives Henry a confirming nod.

 

“Here we go,” whispers Henry. With a forceful bang of his drums, the music begins.

 

*   *   *

 

When Ziggy performs, he enters a state of total ecstasy. He feels himself dancing around the euphoric colors of the solar system, holding the universe in the palm of his hand, witnessing a cosmic explosion of light. When he strums his guitar, it creates a sound that forces men and women into a vicious boogie from which only he can release them. 

 

Ziggy begins the first song, “Moonage Daydream,” with magical chords that soar beyond the limits of Bm7, D, and E. The audience joins him on a fantastically grand trip, leaving the dying earth behind and soaring into the lavish depths of space. Lustful rapture overtakes them as they simultaneously sway to the beat, infatuated by the taste of freedom and bliss. Every cry of the guitar, shout of the drums, and whisper of the bass speaks to the crowd in a language outsiders could never understand. The music comes to a sudden stop and the crowd goes still. With total silence, Ziggy boldly states the first line.

 

“I’m an alligator.” 

 

The audience goes wild. He lets it simmer, before continuing. 

 

“I’m a mama-papa coming for you.” The music starts again.

 

“I’m a space invader, 

I’ll be a rock n’ rollin’ bitch for you-u-u.” 

 

The stadium lights up in the haze of a moonage daydream, and Ziggy finishes the song among a frenzy of wild shouts and applause. He breathes in as if he had injected his spindly arm with an ample dose of heroin. “Rock and roll will never die!” he screams with a diabolical laugh. 

 

And it was then that he feels a familiar pain in his chest. A pain that is ever-so human. A pain that buckles his knees and brings his delicate body to the ground. 

 

He hears the screams of fans shouting, “Ziggy! Ziggy!”, unable to disambiguate a tone of love or vengeance. Now, all Ziggy can think about are Henry’s words, “They’re going to get impatient,” repeating in his head, over and over again.

 

The Spiders frantically run towards him, crouching down over his body. He listens to Gilly’s faint pleas, “Can we get a doctor? A doctor?”, then pushes his bandmates away, weakly insisting that he feels fine. He tries to get up, stumbling toward the microphone in a primitive wobble. It takes only a few seconds before he again collapses, this time in a forward motion.

 

He plummets into a pit of screaming fans, arms stretched to grab his frail body. He looks up at the shrinking faces of his bandmates, leaning over the stage in shock. He feels love for them, regret, and other emotions he cannot fully grasp. Finally, the audience catches him. They catch him, only to tear him apart. They rip his shining gold and red suit to pieces and stretch his limbs as far as they can reach, until finally, he bursts into speckles of sparkling dust, suspended above the crowd like raining spiders. The band watches with stunned expressions, as their friend and leader travels across the stadium in waves of light, as if this was his plan all along. 

 

The crowd, engulfed by silence and beauty, stare up at Ziggy’s suspended remains. The staggering wonder in their eyes suggests, maybe, he truly did save them. As his ashes float down and softly decorate their bodies, everyone slowly exits the dome, as if snapped out of a trance. Together, they enter the world soon to be destroyed, not daring to make a sound.