Decommissioned

It was the great mystery of mankind. Why are we here? What is our purpose? What is the meaning of life?

But I know the answer. The meaning of life is death. We were born to die, after enduring the hardships of a lifetime. A human existence is a web of losses, regrets, sorrows, betrayals, disappointments. And then demise.

In death, those sufferings become our crosses to bear. We each endure our own private Hell, our failures our own torments. But regardless of how and what we suffer, it all has one singular reason. One purpose.

We only find out on the day we are conscripted. When our suffering has been endured so long, has become so much a part of us that the only suffering left to give would be to take it from us. Our afflictions mould us, that we might be perfected for selection. Plucked, when we are ripe enough, from the tree of the gods. Harvested to be thrust into battle, as soldiers of our vaunted gods.

I fought their war for eight hundred years. Eight hundred and thirty-five, to be exact. I felt nothing. That is how they had made me. I knew no remorse or loss as my battalion fell around me, struck down by a god made flesh, or torn apart by a towering colossi or leviathan. I watched souls rendered by succubae and men broken by madness. I knew no regret as I abandoned these allies to win volleys against my enemies.

My victories were many, my accomplishments great. But I knew no personal gain nor no pride, for the weapons of warfare were not of flesh, but divinely powerful for the destruction of fortresses. And we were those weapons.

I cannot speak for what made me, among the countless, stand strongest. Perhaps in the torment of Hell, I had suffered the most. Perhaps in life, I had suffered the least. But our celestial Lord chose me to lead the final battle against the strongholds of the unworthy, and we did not prove wanting. Those fortresses fell one after another. I discovered that day that the gods could die like any man, and for a moment – a single fleeting moment – I knew pleasure as I beheaded the last of the usurpers and presented that macabre prize to our master. A momentary lapse that I regretted immediately.

Our war had been over for no more than a day when my Lieutenant approached me in my chamber. The room was kept bare, the decay plain to see in the brimstone walls. A single shield hung as decoration, a memorial of the many battles since past. A reminder. There was no pageantry in Hell, even for the head of our Lord’s legions.

“Congratulations, General.”

My Lieutenant was a being not unlike me. For this reason I had assigned him the position. There are no ages in the afterlife, and so none showed on his face. Eons of suffering left him haggard, with holes where once there may have been eyes. Physically, he was strong, and built. Through our suffering, they made sure to keep our bodies able. Honed. Ripe. His face bore no expression, and I fancied that looking at him might in fact be like looking in a mirror. Eras had gone by since I had last seen my own face.

“Congratulations sounds a lot like pride, Lieutenant” I reprimanded him.

“Apologies, General. It is just that…”

I held a hand, silencing him. He was compliant, as he should be.

“I understand, Lieutenant. It is an unusual time for us. The false gods are dead. And now there is…” I had to spit the word from my mouth. “Peace.”

“Yes,” he confessed. He drew his own sword from his back, eyeing the hellfire that crackled along the ebon blade. I felt no threat at his action. There is no dying in Hell, only the endless existence of battle and killing. And yet…

“Do you feel lost, Lieutenant?” I asked him. “With no war left for us to win?”

The look of surprise on his chiselled face was palpable. He studied me for a moment with those dark pits of eyes, and my patience was quickly worn.

“What is it?” I demanded, “What do you know?”

“Have not you heard, General?” he asked, moving to a stark stone table where he laid down his weapon one final time. “We are to be decommissioned. The war is over, we won. We are no longer a requirement.”

For centuries I had been trained to know no pain. No feelings. To view myself and my battalion as the tools of a god, of our divine Lord. And for the second time in that day I experienced an emotion.

Decommissioned.

A death after death. An end to our suffering, to the constant torment of existence, to the ceaseless rigour of warfare. For me and my battalion and for all our Lord’s armies, a finality. No more war. Peace.

For the first time since my death, I found a smile upon my face. The shock was evident in my Lieutenant’s features, but I did not forestall my emotion.

“Sir?”

“Pick up your sword, Lieutenant. We have another war to fight. We have one last god to kill.”

Under the Blinking Light

The lights were dim here this night, like in the last lifetime. A serenity could be found in this place like in no other, the only sounds were the flapping of the boat sails over the dock, the only light from the stars above them and the single blinking light marking the edge of the bay, absorbed in the darkness of his eyes, reflected by the glitter in his.

They had come here as they always did to let the dawn take them, to witter it away with the worthless conversation. They both knew that it was for nothing; she told him where she worked, where she lived, where she had grown up. He told her about his family, his friends and past lovers. They took turns to listen with the kind of intent that only exists when something is truly new, a real first time, and yet to each of them this was a game they knew only so well. The words felt almost recited, the smiles practiced yet no less genuine for it.

Under that blinking light, his mind traced that uncanny curl on the left side of her smile, and with a finger she reached across and followed a contour in his right thigh, a scar, an unfamiliar one. And then they kissed, an embrace they'd each waited a lifetime for, the golden kiss that they'd have wanted for their first kiss, when they were young and free. Yet nothing stopped them from savouring this kiss like that first kiss all the same. He was in no rush, and she could think of no better place to be than here in his arms. He felt her heart beating against his chest, she felt his muscles tense, one arm in her hair and the other at her waist. Still the light blinked, counting the moments.

Like every first kiss, there was a second, and a third. To them, time stood still, a gift in this moment, a gift that would hold with it a price that could be paid another day, as it was paid every time before it. With his lips still against hers, she felt his tear glide against her cheek. She had held hers back until now, and together they cried as the chill crept in on the sea wind. They shared whispered sentiments, declarations of love that they truly meant as much on this last first meeting as on the first.

Inevitably this night would end like them all, when there were no more stories to tell and no more sentiments to share, when there were no more tears to shed and when they'd laid everything bare. When the light was no longer dim, and the seagulls broke the serenity. And just as she did last time, she would stand first. And he would hesitate under that blinking light that marked the edge of the bay, but still he would follow. And she would return then to her husband, and he to his wife.

And as always they would both walk away from this night hoping, praying, maybe in the next lifetime. Maybe.

In Thy Tender Care

The first I heard of the King’s plan was from an Eastern magi one silent night, him garbed in fine apparel and telling of strange tales. Of the nature of the plan, he was unsure, but he told me in no uncertain terms that returning to the King was ill-advised. A visitor in a dream had warned him, he said, just two days back somewhere over the plains.

After consideration, it seemed wise to ignore the magi’s tidings. From his speakings and claims he seemed quite mad, and so I travelled twelve days and twelve nights heedless of the wind and weather, to bring myself to kneel before the King.

Certainly as the magi had told it, for all his finery the Great King was raging, and mad with a fear. He spoke of a threat that would decay the earthly realms, and take them away. Fortunately, I was deemed mighty enough to help him defend his kingdom, if I would bear a ruthless sword and a hard heart he said, and take the charge of slaying the young.

The decree seemed senseless at first, but greater prophecies had been told before, and greater still would be, and the King was known to be merciless to those whom opposed him. And so I parted without a word, and traversed the mount and crag on that calm, bright night.

The odyssey took me to a little town nearby, where my foul undertaking was to be done. I waited on the fall of night, to conceal my worldly sin, and whilst mortals slept I stole the dark streets alone.

The Great King’s ordain was a terrible one, and the first mother Rachel, a finer lady I had not seen, wept and lamented with despair the loss of her first and only son, whom I sorely deprived of life. After her, eleven more lives I passed to death that night, and I bore my remorse amid the sorrowing and sighing, the bleeding and dying that I brought on my hands in the Great King’s name.

It was then, after the twelfth had been slain, that I heard what one could only describe as a sweet singing on high. For a moment, I might have sworn the stars sang together, a radiant light streamed from heaven afar. And in their chorus was a choir of drums, of pipes and harp and violin. I took pause from my macabre task, for no longer could my lips stay silent and I too sang then with a joyful tongue.

I knew no such words, but yet sang of a beacon with royal beauty bright, of a newborn King free from the taint of wickedness. I sang of an odyssey to the south, of a father’s warning dream. I knew then, in my joyous strains, of the Great King’s folly, and the deaths of the innocents stopped at once.

Like the wise magi before me, I did not return to the King, nor did I speak of the child that fled his impious wrath. Instead I began upon a passage of mine, to cleanse and be cleansed, my own soul now to purify with the new dawn of redeeming grace.

White Blank Page

He looked down at the paper, and where others might have seen just a white blank page, he saw a myriad of possibilities. Where others might have seen a scrap from a pad, he saw a plethora of dreams. This page could say anything, he thought, with just a touch.

From his mind sprang the idea of a towering castle, he could write of how it was supported by a great army of warrior knights, an army vaster than any known to man. The army fought valiantly against the only force that could match it, to protect their Lords and Ladies from the dragon blight that swirled the skies, filling the clouds with billowing fire, crimsons and mangos and golds. Down below, the gates were battered by trolls and ogres, giants and goblins. But they were met by warlocks, magic crackled in great oaken staffs and lightening crashed down from the skies at their very whim.

From his mind sprang the idea of a great crusade through the stars, he could write of entire fleets of a dozen alien races, coming together for the mass exodus of the universe. United under a single banner, spaceships of all shapes and sizes, warping with colossal jump-drives from planet to planet, collecting more, swelling their numbers, bringing sentience to the skies. They were armed and armoured with lasers and turrets and shield generators, but every Admiral hoped never to use them, for this was a time of great peace throughout the cosmos.

From his mind sprang the great world of the Gods, he could write of how they sat amongst the clouds on massive thrones of solid gold and looked down over everything they had created, and everything they would create. They debated the course of time over immense meals fit only for the deities, a thousand different cultures all laid out before the great creators in their omniscient globes, as they bent reality at their very whim, shaping the stars simply because they could. The only threat in the world of the Gods was their own machinations, but as simply as it came to be it was undone, and dispute and quarrel was something left to Man down below, and his compatriots across the stars.

From his mind sprang unimaginable places where the elephants were yellow and the llamas delightful, and where the people moved only by skipping.

But when he picked up the pen, and placed it to the paper, he didn’t write any of these wonderful things, for something else stood alone in his mind. So instead, he wrote your name.

Eating Forks

The pigeon was trying to eat a fork. Try as it might, though, he couldn’t quite fathom how it was to be done. He’d tried all sorts to make it pallatable. He’d tried pecking, he’d tried shaking, he’d broken the plastic down into tiny pieces. Still, he continued to try though, unswayed in his task.

The other pigeons scoffed, of course, and returned to their crumbs. But he wouldn’t be perturbed, he was going to eat the fork. They didn’t understand, they couldn’t understand. Only he had found the human book, with the page titled Eating Habits. “In most cultures, it is customary to eat forks”, it read. Soon he too would be eating as humans ate, and the other pigeons wouldn’t scoff any more, they’d be in awe. They’d apologise, and tell him how right he’d been, and they too would be eating forks.

Of course, the pigeon wasn’t to know, he couldn’t have known, that before the page he’d found had gotten torn, it had read something quite different. He wasn’t to know, he couldn’t have known, that it once said “In most cultures, it is customary to eat using knives and forks.”

Out of the Bubble

“I’m here to see the residents,” Jenson stated, flat as if he had been asking for a bus-ticket. The receptionist started, obviously unused to visitors in this part of the facility, but nonetheless she was accommodating and saw to it that the proprietor was summoned promptly. Jenson took the momentary delay to glance around at the entrance-way, its pristine walls and polished floors. Like every swanky private hospital he’d been to, the building looked untouched, unlived in, modern and high-tech. The doors opened with a whoosh as the proprietor entered the scene, his arm already extended in a well-practiced shake. Jenson met the open hand and flashed an obligatory smile.

“Jenson Stag, I’m here for the inspection.. Five yearly, I imagine you’ve been contacted.”

“Oh absolutely,” the proprietor said, shaking firmly. A large man, his suit didn’t quite seem to fit him, and Jenson reminded himself that he likely wasn’t used to guests on his facility, his days were mostly spent dealing with the residents. “Laslow Snare, proprietor of this facility, but please, my friends call me Las.”

“Certainly Las,” Jenson noted that he really wasn’t a friend of this man, but he would follow the requested convention all the same, “so perhaps I could get a look at-…”

“Ah, the creatures, you’re here to see the creatures!” Las cut in, and Jenson furrowed his brow slightly.

“Residents”, he corrected, “Yes, if you could.”

With no further word said, the larger man lead his guest towards one of the winding corridors off the main entrance. Perhaps correcting him had been considered offensive, Jenson pondered, no doubt they had their own jargon within the facility.

The main chambers were larger than the inspector had anticipated, trailing on for hundreds of feet. The walkway that the men stood on, as white and polished as the entranceway had been, was flanked by glass windows on either side, behind which were the hundreds, literally hundreds, of flexiglass incubation bubbles. From this distance, Jenson could see only the brief outlines of the residents inside, moving idly in their tiny containments.

“There are more than I’d expected,” he admitted, to which the proprietor grinned broadly, apparently this was a subject of personal pride for him.

“Well yes, I’ve worked.. that is, we’ve all worked very hard to keep things running as is over the years, and the numbers really only demonstrate just how successful we’ve been at keeping that status quo. Things have been ticking along-“

“Yes yes,” Jenson cut in, he’d heard the marketing spiel before, albeit in a slightly wordier manner. Apparently Mr. Snare had a competent Marketing assistant for the public releases. “I’m interested to see the residents myself, actually.”

“Well, of course..” there seemed to be a moment’s pause as the proprietor considered the request, “That isn’t a problem. Might I just remind you not to touch the incubation bubbles lest you accidentally open one, that would be a catastrophe.”

Jenson simply nodded, having read the company notes he was aware of the features on a standard incubation bubble. Without any further warnings, Las lead the way into the main incubation area. It was as sterile within as the outside had been, though the air was thinner and movement space between incubation bubbles was limited. Each bubble was spaced just two foot from its neighbour. Jenson looked into the bubble, examining his first resident.

The inhabitants of the incubation bubbles were small caterpillar-like beings, tiny heads on small wriggling bodies. They lacked arms and any real means of mobility, and fed from a small tube inserted into the bottom of the bubble. The bubble itself completely enclosed the small being, a flawless seal, opened only from the outside by the security release. The bubble itself, Jenson noted, was no more than three-foot long, and slightly less wide.

“That’s not a lot of movement room,” he said aloud.

“Not a lot is required,” Las replied, “as you can see, they are not especially mobile creatures.”

“And they are comfortable in there?”

“Absolutely.” At this, Las seemed certain. “Why would they not be? Their needs are provided with absolute regulation, no single creature goes without. It's a happy existence for them, and  besides, there isn’t really an alternative.”

Jenson was surprised. He turned abruptly to look at the proprietor, his eyebrows raised, but Las was quick to explain.

“We haven’t analysed the air,” he put in, bluntly. “All the food and waters have been checked and monitored, but our equipment simply isn’t up to the task of checking thoroughly what effect the chemical components of the air will have on the creatures. Preliminary tests showed drastic and startling changes, the creatures went into a state of shock. And so we’ve ensured that each incubation bubble is kept air-tight and fed only safe and secure gases.”

Jenson looked back to the small caterpillar being, crawling ever so slowly in the smallest of circles behind the flexiglass.

“You haven’t let one out? To find out how they cope outside their bubble, after the shock?”

“Oh no,” replied the proprietor, and it was his turn to look incredulous. “Understand this, Jenson. Our breeders here care and love each of the.. residents, as if it were their own. To even consider endangering one of them is like suggesting manslaughter to them. Would you willingly destroy the lives of one of these creatures?”

“But how do you know it would destroy them to release them from their bubbles?” Jenson replied in earnest.

“How do you know it would not? Is that a risk you’re willing to take? Because we’re not. These creatures are important to us, invaluable. No no, much better to keep them in the bubbles where we know for sure that they are safe and secure. Comfortable living for everyone.”

“Comfortable, yes. Are they happy?” he spared a glance at the being, pressing itself against the glass, “They’re so confined, their lives are so limited..”

“At least they are alive.” Las put in with finality. He turned towards the exit, content that his point had been made. Jenson couldn’t help but watch the little resident for a moment longer as it crawled towards its feeding tube. That was its life, crawling and feeding and sleeping, stuck in a bubble it might not want to be in, because nobody dared find out what they could be outside of them.

It was probably this very thought that made him do it. This very idea that was the reason he hit the security release on the incubation bubble closest to their exit. Laslow tried to intervene, but he had walked too far from his guest in his hurry to move along, and before he could prevent it the flexiglass shell had slid apart.

Laslow screamed for the guards as the little caterpillar-like being began to gasp and choke, and its body convulsed in an obvious state of shock. Jenson could only look on in fascination, the proprietor yelling for the security team that had obviously not been in position to intervene. But soon Laslow was watching in fascination too, as the little caterpillar-like being, inhaling the natural air for the first time, didn’t roll over and die. The convulsions began to calm, and it didn’t struggle to live, didn’t struggle to exist outside of the bubble now parting around it. In fact, for a moment Jenson was convinced that it was gasping for the air, sucking it in hungrily. And then it’s back parted in two, right down the middle.

From the centre of the being’s spine, enormous wings sprouted, not unlike those of a butterfly. Colourful and patterned, they spread out widely, lifting the being up into the air, no longer in pain and now totally free of the captivity below. For a moment, it hovered in the air, fluttering above its entrapped brethren, before soaring off towards the exit.

“Perhaps you might consider letting them out of their bubbles?” suggested Jenson.

Given Time

For the small girl, it was her favourite thing in the world to skip so merrily up that path, the long winding walkway towards the place where the small boy lived. She remembered the first time she’d done it, before she’d known the small boy at all. She’d seen the path, all winding and colourful, and thought to herself that it was the most skippable path in all the world, and so she skipped along it, happy in the sun, not knowing at all where it might take her.

The path took her to the little house, and from within the house she heard happiness and laughter, so she snuck along outside the house, thinking sneaky thoughts so that the happy people inside didn’t know she was there. The path was gravelly, but there were stone slabs that she could hop along silently, and she thought perhaps this was the sneakiest driveway in all the world. Eventually, she’d found the window, and through it she’d seen the small boy.

The small boy was so cheerful in his little house, and he sang to his music and played his games, and the small girl watched him for the longest while, thinking that perhaps he was the loveliest boy in all the world. And then all her sneaky thoughts must have disappeared because he saw her at his window and the small girl had to quickly run away.

The second time she visited the house with the skippable path and the sneaky slabs, and looked in the small boy’s window, he wasn't there. But instead she did find a box. The box was plain, dark and mysterious, but on top there was some writing which the small girl was too young to read. It was the small boy’s writing, and she imagined all the warnings it might give, and she decided it was the most interesting box in all the world. The small girl simply had to open it, and she did, and inside was the first time she found the small boy’s Time. She took some then, because she wanted it so much.

Every day thereafter the small girl skipped merrily up that path, and thought sneaky thoughts across the slabs, so that she could get to the small boy’s window. The small boy was never there any more, but his interesting box with the mysterious writing always was, and each day there was more Time in the box, and so each day she took a little more.

It didn’t take long before the small girl began to feel terrible, though. She wanted the Time, ever so much, and she took it without pause, but as each day passed she more and more wondered if the small boy was missing the Time that she took from him. So one day she skipped merrily up the path, and snuck sneakily along the stone slabs, and she stood by the window which was the nicest in all the world, but this time she didn't take Time from the box, but brought all of the Time back with her, and this time she thought patient thoughts, as she waited and waited for the small boy.

The small boy eventually came to his room, as cheerful and happy as she had seen him the very first time, before he had an interesting box. She didn't say anything, for sometimes she was the shiest girl in the world, but she offered back the Time she had taken. The small boy smiled and shook his head, and he pointed to the writing on the top of the interesting box. She shrugged her shoulders slightly, to tell him that she couldn't read yet, and so he read it out loud to her.

“For The Small Girl.”