Part Two, First – Something's Different Today
Railways and River Cobbles
A reminder of the cobbles lining the alpine stream of her childhood, the sparrow's feathers were a palette of greys and browns. He, the little bird, hopped from the clean steel of the rail onto the sun-baked wood of the sleeper. She watched from the bench on the railway platform while waiting. Jealousy was the wrong word, but envy was not. “I could fly anywhere” she thought. The daily commute to her awful job killed her; a job she loathed to the brink of suicide.
Curving around the track, it came into view. Its front plate was almost a face, a subdued smile of apology. Before the train could get too close the sparrow fluttered into the cerulean expanse. Daydreams never lasted. Every day they escaped her, whipped away by the inevitable squall of the punctual locomotive steaming into the station. The presence of the railway carriage in her view was a violent affront to her sanity. Ornate, burgundy, trimmed with gold paint and driving the letters SEA (South Eastern Aleraran) down her dry throat.
Finding a secluded seat provided a modicum of relief. But, fending off the creeping gloom was not possible. Wrinkles carved during a life of woe defined her mother's face as it entered her mind's eye; police at the door delicately presenting the gift of a broken heart. "How could I do that to her…" her conundrum was confounded by the impossibility of both life and death. “As long as I get my loose ends tied up then maybe it wouldn't cause everybody too much bother?” her thoughtful monologue managed to emulate a disagreeing dialogue. Gas oven would be adequate in the end.
She looked up to see a young man take the seat opposite her, but felt no resentment as a result of her privacy having been invaded. He smiled, without imposing. “That is the most beautiful smile!” joy spilled out in her words, positively uncharacteristic.
Luminescent pleasure snuggled around the core of her mind.
“Work? It's not that bad, really it isn't.”
Borders and Bigotry
A cockroach in the kitchen proves an offensive invasion; the gall of shit eating vermin to present itself at your dinner table. Urgh. Unclean. Unevolved. Paramount, though: unwelcome. The perfect analogy for the foreigners flooding over the border, mused a resentful immigration officer. With a ratcheting thump his stamp printed off centre on a blank page in the man's passport. Sticky black ink marred the point of impact. Date of entry, point of entry and the visa's date of expiry.
“Thank you, sir.”
Professional pleasantries made it easy to hide his hatred. The traveller turned and took but one step away before the officer sneered through the pinpricks of his little eye sockets and down the line of his skinny nose. Stubby ears, hardly elongated at all, he noted. Short stature, so lacking in elegance. His accent, absolutely vile. He loathed him for his race. Fuck them and fuck their children for what they are.
"Next. Please."
Another “cockroach” came forward and his mind swelled with venom; but before it could burst, the revulsion escaped as a wisp of cirrus in the height of summer. His mind's malice was eclipsed by the rise of a glowing joy, a spot of pure light radiating through every notion.
“No matter who you are, you love your children. We're all the same in the important ways.”
Iron Oxide and the Fear of Death
“...Loving wife & mother”, the finale to the tarnished plaque screwed, rustily, to the park bench upon which he sat. The symbol “&” had been used to save money at the engravers. He leaned forward. Movement brought a painful grunt that he typically endeavoured to stifle, the young need not be reminded of the hardship stalking their future. The succession of moments constituted a war of one. A war of one against the onslaught of inevitability. Tired and old, he wanted nobody to witness his final capitulation.
Failing eyes strained through the morning glare. Since retirement, the routine of feeding the squirrels every morning had played a part in keeping at bay his awful fear of death. As a particularly plump representative of the species snatched a chunk of bread from the old man's hand he realised, it had grown ineffective. Rusty red, alive and glutinous, the bushy tail disappeared into the shrubbery with a bound. Jealousy was the wrong word, but envy was not. To be young again, looking forward … not back.
All of a sudden, he reeled back in his seat and grinned, toothless and naive. In an instant his mind had been scrubbed clean of the fear and in its place was anticipation. For the first time in fifty years he was optimistic about tomorrow's sunrise.
“Why be afraid of death, life is yet to live?”
Part One, Second – Thirteen Hours Earlier
Telepathy united the desires of one god, one commander and one nation—funneled through fate into a final conflict. Today was ordained, blessed by the flushing burst of a tangerine twilight. Eight feet tall and gangly, K-Zu-Ziro stalked a narrow rooftop ridge a hundred feet high. On reaching the edge, its elongated limbs bent to an acute degree and became devoutly static, producing a nightmarish silhouette in the sinking sun. It had become a living gargoyle, a grim decoration atop the last free palace in all the world.
The genderless horror fixed its bug eyes on the unfolding victory below. An unfathomable swarm of rodentine soldiers washed through the city streets in a torrent of genocide. The rotund little fuzzballs were members of the Divine Army of the Empire of Hostoland. A final slaughter for a final kingdom. Citizens, not soldiers, remained to face the rat people who worshiped the Black Tree God. Average Hostians peaked at three feet tall, but the speed with which they climbed their victim's bodies it barely seemed a disadvantage. Shredding a throat between gnashing incisors was less demanding than cracking into some of the tougher nut species found on Althanas. Typically well groomed, the invading Hostians found the blood matting their fur an irritation, and the strings of elvish fat between their teeth positively unbearable.
K-Zu-Ziro leaned from the building and stepped into a deadly plummet only to ascend with a deafening buzz. The creature's wings had been restored and it hovered, menacing, before an ornate tribute to king and queen set in stained glass. A bubbling spout of acid sprayed from the over-sized insect's mouth. The goop sliced through the glass, critically undermining its integrity. The window shattered into a rainbow of falling shards.
Chilling screams sang above the din of war as the anxious evening air flooded the royal hall. A bumbling swirl of royal finery came hastily at the lithe bug; the prince was all trim and tassels, sword and sash. The Child of the Black Tree God ducked a swing of the royal blade before snapping the assailant's head off with a deft snap of its pincer. The boy's parents, king and queen, died locking their hands in a whisper “It'll be okay.”
Tapestries flanked the long hall, telling the grand history of the last free family of Althanas. Humanoid endeavours were alien to K-Zu-Ziro; it did not glance sideways to appreciate the magnitude of today's victory as part of time immemorial. Single minded, the commander of the Divine Army of the Empire of Hostoland made for the relic set atop an altar at the room's terminus.
Clasping the relic revealed its secrets. Translucent rock encased the bleached skull of a horned bovine. Sharp appendages extended out of the rock to form makeshift handles. Flipping the rock over it was possible to see the cavity where the animal's brain once was—a crystalline formation was in its place. The segmented structure held the warmth and glow of an impossible flame. K-Zu-Ziro parted its slobbering mandibles and began to break the rock down with industrious pace. The relic crumbled and failed under the assault of the scissoring jaws.
This kingdom, through its precious artifact, had been a sanctuary of pure minds. With the relic destroyed, the spell was shattered. Mahia T-Zu-Hosto, parent to K-Zu-Ziro and living god to the Hostians, was finally able to slip its influence into every sentient mind on the entire planet. The future for itself, its species and its adopted children, the Hostians, was secured. Truth be told, T-Zu-Hosto had captured freedom itself. In turn, it offered reparations. Liberty was exchanged for unwavering contentedness, in a deal the Black Tree God felt was fairly reasonable. All souls were at ease with their place in the universe. For the first time, tranquility reigned.
“Work? It's not that bad, really it isn't.”
“No matter who you are, you love your children. We're all the same in the important ways.”
“Why be afraid of death, life is yet to live?”
Submit Thread for Judgment
