Afternoonshine

Diamonds sparkle on the creek. How to describe it, the dance of sunlight on the water? Why does it evoke this strange longing?

Perhaps it is because in that moment when the sunlight catches it, the droplet flames silver, for all its permanence like a human being in the spotlight for a fleeting moment in an evanescent lifetime, saying I was here, I lived, I glistened, I shone. 

Age

Skin like parched earth, crackled, paper-thin. Hair like spun silver.

A full set of teeth, of which he is incredibly proud. A full set of teeth, not her own.

Rows of little plastic boxes, each full of pills.

The smell of ointment, of disinfectant, and of urine.

He cannot say what he wants to say.

She cannot remember.

All of it does not matter - the skin, the hair, the teeth, the never-ending boxes of medicine, the smell, the memories slipping away.

All that matters is that he cannot do maths. And she cannot manage the kitchen.

I am useless, they say, this man who wrote until he was 90, this woman who cooked until she was 80.

That is their greatest burden, these humans who worked themselves to the bone for nearly a century, that they have none left to bear. 

Breathe.

Deep breaths, now.

We used to rule the world. We shaped the very rocks, we bent metal to our will. But all that changed, a long time ago.

We were so busy conquering the world that we didn't notice the changes. They were slow at first, warning signs that told us of our doom. We didn't heed them, the signs, we dismissed the oracles, ridiculed the harbingers of the end. Until it was too late.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

In the beginning, the world was beautiful. We could go where we would, the air was sweet, the water was clear, and we lived in harmony with the others.

We prospered, we multiplied. We filled the planet, we numbered in the billions.

Breathe.

That was the trouble. We breathed in. And out. Every breath we let out was poison. Toxic waste streaming out of our colonies. Soiling the air. Destroying the earth. The rocks turned red. The oceans became acid.

All the while, we breathed.

The others died first. Some choked on the fumes and died. Some burned. Some froze. It all happened quickly, in the end.   And quietly. You'd expect some sort of sound at the apocalypse, screams, thunder, fury. The apocalypse is silent and carries the stench of corpses.

Still we breathed.

We left our homes, we burrowed underground. We fed off the dead ones, we closed ourselves off from the poison in the air.

We breathed in and we breathed out.

And we waited.

We are everywhere, under your feet, in your animals, your skin, your mouths, your innards. We gave you your air, we gave you everything that feeds and clothes and shelters you.

You think you rule the world.

But it happens again. We can read them, the signs that tell of your doom. You don't heed them, the signs, you dismiss the oracles, ridicule the harbingers of the end. It is too late now. For you, but not for us, never for us.

We breathe in. And we breathe out.

Ambition

A shimmering mirage, the vision magicked up by the boundless optimism of youth, glittering cruelly, just there, reach out and you'll touch it, just a bit further, oh no it's receding, there, that speck in the distance, run run before it vanishes, you'll never reach it, you've failed, you've failed. 

Scheherazade

When I tell you a story, your eyes light up, they sparkle, they shine. You laugh out loud and you tremble with fear and you recoil in disgust and you cry real tears of sorrow. You're the heroine and the villain and the jester and the sidekick. When I tell you a story, we're not us, we're better and we're worse and we're newer and we're older and we're sillier and we're wiser and we're one.