CHLOE MORSE

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The Fall of Ziggy Stardust

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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. He leans into himself as he intricately applies fresh red lipstick from one of the brand new boxes placed on his dresser every morning, matching the color of his spiked up hair. The powder on his face creates a glowing, stark white shade, highlighted by the soft rouge on his clear-cut cheek bones. For a second, Ziggy catches his eyes in the mirror. He recognizes something that he once saw in the face of a human. It is something 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. Making a final adjustment to his perfectly messy mane, he goes off to meet the band to prepare for the long day ahead. Stepping over piles of fans and rock and roll junkies, he stops at the door and scans them before leaving. Their eyes remain closed, 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 tonight’s 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 fizzles 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.

 

After making his way up to the stage, he pulls out a cigarette and observes his band from the distant corner. 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, but there was an unspoken change in their relationship after they—Ziggy—achieved fame. They recruited the rest of the band, Weird and Henry, during their many drunken adventures through grungy bars and modestly-empty auditoriums. Gilly thought to name the band the Spiders from Mars—extraterrestrials traveling wherever the wind takes them, like a migrating cluster of spiders. 

 

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. 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.

 

Gilly changes the subject, knowing arguing with Ziggy is useless. 

 

“So what do you think of the stage?,” he asks. “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 walks 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,” replies Weird. 

 

“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 door 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 Jesus. 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 is an hour before the show. 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, emotionless and cold, failing to invite him in. Henry was tall and skinny, towering above Ziggy. But at this moment, Ziggy felt so much larger than him.

 

“I’ve come to apologize. I want to play in the show tonight—I really do.” Henry is convincing, and it’s because he fears this show might be their last. For the past few months, he’s witnessed the troubling state of Ziggy. It was not until today that he suspects his fate is quickly approaching.

 

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

 

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. He thinks back to the days when he and Gilly played for no one, laughing and singing into one microphone together, firmly pressing their faces against one another. They knew they were good, and that’s all that mattered. 

 

Ziggy feels a strange sensation on his face. His hand slowly rises and brushes his cheekbone. It’s wet. He looks in the mirror and notices that his perfectly applied makeup is smeared, showing his skin beneath the white powder. Ziggy’s face twists into something confused and terrified. Then, he feels anger. Anger that the universe let this happen to him. Then,  determination, ready to take back this lack of control over himself. He stomps out of his dressing room, not bothering to fix his makeup.

 

*   *   * 

 

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

 

The drum beat kicks in and he begins composing magical chords that sore beyond the limits of Bm7, D, and E. Together, the music is aggressive and powerful, fueled by pure feeling. It comes to a sudden stop and the crowd goes still. With no music, Ziggy boldly says the first line of “Moonage Daydream.”

 

“I’m an alligator.” 

 

The crowd goes wild. 

He continues. 

 

“I’m a mama-papa coming for you,

    I’m a space invader,

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

 

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 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. 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, and flies off the levitating stage. 

 

He falls into a pit of screaming fans, arms stretched to grab his sinking body. And finally, they catch 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 in awe, 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.