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.”

Ronald

The children tended to avoid the woods when Ronald was down there, abandoning their dens and hideaways until the crazy old man had gone away. Their parents would warn against him, they’d say he was dangerous, and some would even bring curfew forward to keep the children inside when Ronald was around. That’s how the children knew to keep away from him.

Some of the children were brave though, or foolish, their curiosity getting the better of them. They would watch Ronald stumbling around the woods, wearing a black bin-bag like a cloak, with the hole in the top for his wrinkly head. They’d stand at a distance, of course, but when he saw them, he’d simply stare in the creepy way that he did, examining them until they became frightened and left.

And so they watched, as crazy Ronald walked around the woods, gathering sticks and fallen branches from the ground, bringing them together and arranging them into some strange shrine of sticks down by the river, that he likely used to burn the children that he captured on. One time, they saw him find an old rope, and for an hour he laboured over tying the rope to a tree, and the children spoke of how he would hang his victims from it, sometimes they’d even still be alive. Using some of his spare branches, Ronald sometimes blocked the waterflow in the river, changing its direction. Probably, the children whispered, to drown people in, and to wash away their bodies.

Ronald seemed to do these maniacal things every day, the same things down in those woods, with the sticks and the ropes and the water. He was a little bit crazy, probably a bum or a drunkard, the adults said.

Forty years earlier, a little boy used to visit those same woods. Ronald didn’t have many friends then, he was a quiet boy, but he enjoyed his own company and kept himself busy with just his imagination. He’d visit the woods outside his parents’ homestead every day, gathering sticks and fallen branches from the ground to make his dens. The dens were his fortresses, isolated and inpenetrable. He would steal a black bin-bag from his father’s shed, and wear it as a cloak, and pretend he was the Lone Knight, sworn to protect the people of his den. Ronald would use the spare branches to dam the river, to redirect fresh drinking water to his den, and sometimes he found old ropes which he would tie to the trees so he could climb them and keep watch.

Sometimes the other children watched Ronald, and so he stared and examined them until they decided to leave, calling him all sorts of names. But that didn’t really bother him, the people of his den loved him, and he was happy there. He imagined one day, when he was older, and a successful carpenter like his father, he would visit the woods then, and still he’d be the Lone Knight, founder of the dens, protector of the people, idolised by all.

Spiders on the Hill

She’d never liked spiders much. Their dozens of staring eyes creeped her out, their eight long legs scuttling. She’d imagine them on her skin, and though she knew they didn’t bite, they always seemed like they wanted to. So she didn’t think it right at all when the spiders had moved to the bottom of her hill.

The first thing she did was move to the very top of the hill, to put some distance between her and the spiders. She hoped that if she stayed at the top, all quiet and minding her own business, then the spiders might eventually go away. She looked down at them from time to time, from her hill, when she was at her bravest. But she soon saw an especially big spider, with its spiny fur, and had to look away.

The spiders didn’t eventually go away, though. In fact, she would have sworn that there were more and more of them. Probably they were breeding, she thought, or building an empire to live forever at the bottom of her hill. And as the spiders multiplied, a tangled heap of long spindly legs and spiny black fur and hundreds of eyes staring up at her, there were more of them at the bottom of her hill. They couldn’t climb her hill, she hoped, but just to be sure, she’d make the hill bigger. So she set down to planning and building, and for a while she forgot about the spiders.

When her construction was complete, she sat at the top of her hill, now much higher, and taller, and steeper, and she looked down again. Down at the bottom of the hill, she saw the spiders, and she could have sworn they were multiplying still. There were more of them breeding than before, she thought, or making an army for a frontal assault on her hill. And she peered down from her new vantage point, and saw only the long spindly creepy legs and spiny slimy black fur and thousands of eyes staring up at her. There was only one thing for it, she decided, just to be sure she’d make the hill bigger. So this time her planning was grander, her building was longer, and for a while she forgot about the spiders.

Her hill was like a tower now, high and tall and steep, and proud of her work, complete at last, she looked down again. Down at the bottom of the hill, she saw the spiders, and they weren’t multiplying this time. No, this time she could have sworn they were building a pulley-system, intricate webbings all sewn together to assist the spiders in climbing her hill. She saw them clambering up the silvery lines, with their long spindly creepy crawley legs and spiny slimy spiky black fur and millions of eyes staring up at her. Eventually the spiders would reach her, she thought, with their web catapults and intricate pulley systems. There was only one thing for it, she decided, just to be sure she’d make the hill bigger. So she went back to her planning, devising something larger, something grander than all her previous plans, and her construction time would be longer still.

When her work was complete, her hill was like a fortress now, higher and taller and steeper, and impenetrable to everyone and everything. Nobody would get in, she knew, and she could never get out. She marvelled at her ingenuity, her work complete at last. And her daughter called her one day, to ask how she was getting on, and how she was coping with the spiders. “What spiders?” she asked.

The Smartest Being In All Existence

He was the smartest being in all existence, unrivalled in his magnificence. He knew the answer to everything he was ever existed, and knew where to find the answers that he didn’t. He could tell the instructions to any task, and perform any mathematical equation almost instantly. He could write, with perfect spelling and grammar, and draw any image anyone could ask with flawless precision. He made music, and given just a moment to learn, he could play any song by any artist. He communicated in countless languages, and as such, he had contacts all across the globe. He controlled his own temperature, regulated his own intake and outake of air, and was constantly seeking to improve his body on a near daily basis.

He was the smartest being in all existence, unrivalled in his magnificence, unless somebody unplugged him. 

The Farmer (edited version)

For the Farmer, it was an endless dilemma. For he and his family, the crops were essential, they were the lifeblood, and they were all the kept them alive. It was only natural then, said the Farmer, that he should protect his crops from the ravenous threat that would creep in, often unseen and undetected, but always there.

 

And so the Farmer stood vigil, and devoted himself to fighting this intrusion, keeping his crops safe and clean of pests and scavengers. Day after day, night after night, he watched over them.

But to the Farmer’s dismay, the crops still shrank, and they blackened, and withered. Despite all his efforts to keep them protected, all his efforts to fight, the Farmer could not keep his crops from failing. Resolutely, he kept guard, and resolutely, he lost crops.

His Wife came to him, one day, as he stood protecting his crops, and she saw the battle he was having, though she did not understand it, and she saw how still he lost crops. And so she watered them, as he stood guard, and she fed them, and tended to their broken stalks and their dropped seeds. And then for the first time in so long, the crops flourished, and grew, and multiplied. 

The Farmer went to his wife then, and at last he lowered his guard from those crops, and he asked her what had happened, how had she saved his crops when he could not. And she told him the simple honest truth that she had seen. 

He came to her

He came to her, keen and eager to please, and she delighted in his affections, for their briefest time together. They smiled and they played, they joked and they teased. Together they talked for hours, honest and true, taking it in turns to listen. They told stories, and exchanged passions, under the sun they felt cold enough to hold hands, in the wind they felt warm enough to bound. She showed him all her old places, the ones she liked to go, and so he showed her his. They shared food, and drink, and his coat too at one point. Their time together felt so short, yet it had been so long, but neither of them noticed, neither of them cared. Deadlines and timetables meant nothing for that moment, their only commitment was each other. She could not remember a time like this in so long, and he said he couldn’t either.

So it startled him when she said, in a sweet but honest voice, “I have never seen someone more than once, before.”

He pondered it for a time, and when they parted, it weighed on him that night. And as he lay awake, alone under his duvet, alone like he always had been, he remembered all those moments together. And he remembered the stories and the jokes, the food and the drink, her hand in his hand, his coat around her shoulders. And he wondered why she too lay alone that night. He wondered what she meant when she said she had never seen someone more than once. And he wondered why that might be, and if perhaps she might be an angel.  

He found her again, that week, and they smiled and they played. They shared more stories still, more honest and more true. And they ate and drank new things, and found new places, not his places nor her’s, but their’s. They made each other warm, and made each other cold. The time still felt short, and neither of them cared. Their deadline wasn't tomorrow, or the day after. Their timetable was forever. They held hands once, and she put her coat around his shoulders this time, and at that they laughed. And then she told him she loved him.

He pondered it that night. He lay awake again, under his duvet, though this time he was not alone, and he remembered all their moments together. And he remembered what she'd said, and he asked her, openly. Was it the stories and the jokes, or the food and the drink? Was it his hand in her’s, or her coat around his shoulders?

She answered him, and startled him again in that sweet but honest voice, “It was none of those things.”

Voices of the Unborn

He had been given a gift. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know why, but he had been given a gift like no other gift ever given. He found himself hearing the voices, and they were quiet at first, but gradually he began to understand whole words. And soon sentences. Soon they were talking to him, and he wouldn’t talk back, just listen. He would listen, silently, to the voices of a hundred children yet to be born.

He marvelled at his new found present, this ability to hear them, as they told him of things yet to come. He took wonder at the possibility of learning of all that was ahead, of hearing what would become of him, and his family, and his family’s families. He was in awe as they whispered of that which had not yet happened, truths that only he would learn for many years, as they told him of the future.

And then he despaired. For the voices did tell him of that which had not happened, and they did tell him of that which would come to be. And he recoiled as they told of the course of humanity, of his family’s families, and as they told him of everything that would be done. In sorrow he listened to those voices in his head, the voices of a hundred children yet to be born, and the voices of a hundred children never to be born. They told him of the deculturisation of the people, of the mass corporation of society, of the wars and the disasters, of the famine and the drought. They spoke of pain, and of misery and of loss, and of all the things that man would bring into being. And they told him the truths that only he would learn, they told him of the bleakness of the future.  

And then he smiled. Because at least now he knew there would be a future.

Four

The flame burned with intent, hot and bright and enticing. It was an object of desire, a warm ambition to be embraced. To have it. To hold it. To simply be a part of that lustful sensation suggested by even its slightest wave. Too special to be shared, too personal to be given, a single flicker in time. It beckoned for one to cherish it as their own. That was the power of this flame, that the four now stared upon.

The first to the flame did so with absolute haste, enthused by his need for the flame, by his hunger to embrace what he saw before him. It would be his, and he would take it, and he would be happy. His arms plunged into the flame at once, grabbing at it, frantic, and before he had a moment to reconsider he was burnt, and scolded, and consumed.

The second to the flame hesitated, for he had witnessed the loss of the other, and knew now of its danger. He approached gradually, no less hungry, no less keen, but the closer he got to the flame, the warmer he became, and soon he turned and walked away, unwilling to make the same sacrifice as the first. He would remember his defeat, for eternity, and the awe of the flame to which he had succumbed.

The third to the flame knew also of the risk, but he now knew also of the loss, and he refused to suffer the same fate as the others. The flame was undoubtedly hot, but he would take his chances with a calculated determination. Slowly he took the flame, his arms protected by his cloth and his gradual pace, and for a time he felt that embrace, fulfilled that desire. But the flame was hot, and his deliberation made it no cooler, no easier, and it burnt through to him, to his core, until he had no hope but to drop it. He felt his own loss now, having held something so precious, and having felt it pass him by all the same. 

The fourth to the flame held close to his heart the suffering of the first, and the defeat of the second, and the loss of the third. He knew now that through its beauty, through its warmth and its majesty, the flame would burn, that it would consume and overwhelm. He knew it could not be taken, not quickly, not slowly, and nor could it be left. And so he approached the flame, as the others had before him, hoping he would be the last. He did not buckle at the heat, nor at the fear of the risk. And he doused the flame then, and cooled it, and as it withered and shrank, as its heat tapered, he saw that it was no less beautiful, no less magnificent, that he would embrace it all the same. The flame did not burn him now, as it had burnt those before and he found he could reach it, this once-dangerous ambition, and cradle it, and hold it dear. 

Gaia

“What are you then?” said man, to Mother Nature.

“I am the Earth,” she replied, “I am the gaiology of this planet, the ecology, the geology. I am the wind and the water and the stone. I am the birds and the bears, the bees and the bass. I am the spirit of the beginning, the natural design of your world.”

“Then you must hate us, “ said man. “For we are a parasite on your world.”

“Not at all,” she replied, “you have as much right here as I.”

“But we devour your crops, eat your animals”, said man. “You must hate us for that.”

“You are hungry,” she replied, “that is as natural as the stars.”

“But we build cities and roads, we tear down your trees to make paper and wood,” said man.

“I do not mind,” she replied, “that’s a better use for them than I was making.”

“Perhaps so,” said man, “but we pollute your skies and poison your rivers.”

“Who said that the first pattern of this Earth was the natural way?” she replied, “This world you live in now is no more or less correct than at any other time.”

“But we’ve tried to mend our harm,” said man, “we try to be eco-friendly, we plant new trees and filter our rivers.”

“Thanks,” Mother Nature said, to man.

Worth Remembering

He was the centre of everyone's attention, the life of the party, he didn't stop. He lived for the moment, every moment, twenty-four seven. Parties with dozens and dozens of people,  the girls swooned to him for his looks, his charisma, he drank with friends until they blacked out and woke up the next day with only stories of stupid things lost to each other's memories. A cocktail of all the best things in life, indulged on every whim and for nothing but amusement.

He stayed at home most days, lifted a few weights in the morning, ate some food and watched some films in his flat. He took a trip to a local job centre most days, looking for some work, something small and unambitious to make ends meet and begin paying his debts off. He was always home before sundown for his bath though, and he made sure to lift a few weights before bed so as to remain productive.

He was the voice amongst all the voices.  When he spoke, people listened, because he had all the best stories, all the funniest recollections and the wildest adventures. Not all of his stories were true, and they knew it, but it didn't matter, it was how he told them. And when he found someone he liked, he talked to her, and her alone, and with his words he made sure she was going back to his flat with him that night.

He didn't have much to say, his life was a routine, it was the same on a Monday as it was on a Thursday or a Saturday or any other day. The job centre was closed on a Saturday though, but that just gave him time to do the weekly food-shop. There were no tales to tell, no adventures to recount, and he didn't bother to make any up. His partner came over some afternoons to watch the films with him, and they talked about those.

The contact list on his iPhone was a stream of names, mostly nicknames or stupid monikers bestowed on the ones he didn't really know. It only took one text to that list and people would come running to whichever club or pub he was in at that time. Sometimes it was day, sometimes it was night, it didn't really matter, somewhere would be open and someone would come. Mostly, it didn't really matter who, he'd drink enough for both of them, and spend enough that they didn't even need to have money. His overdraft would cover it, and he'd taken loans too. With one of them, he'd bought a puppy, just to make the girls coo. The girls had loved the puppy. He'd sold it on a month later though, it was too much work to keep a puppy, and bought a 40-inch plasma television instead. The girls loved that television.

Mostly, he kept to himself. His girlfriend was all the company he needed, and so the contact list on his temporary phone was small. Close friends, people he didn't see often but wouldn't want to lose touch with. Going online was good for that, too, so he had a cheap Internet package and a laptop in his flat. Aside from that, he didn't have many personal belongings, although he did like his large television. It helped him enjoy the films more to have a large television. He hoped to move out of the flat soon though, his girlfriend still lived with her parents, and they couldn't very well raise a baby in the flat.

He never looked to the future, it was against his personal philosophy. Live for the moment, caution to the wind, you never think of the hangover when you're downing the shot. His past was a series of crazy happenings to be recalled, and he always looked to add each night to that past. Today was what you'll be telling people about tomorrow, he felt, so make it worth telling at any costs. He expected people would always be talking about him, even when he was gone, as the guy you could rely on for a good time.

He tried not to look back at the past, what with the baby on the way and all the things he'd have to get ready. His partner and his child were his future now, so his focus was on taking care of that at any costs. The past was just a haze of nights out, drinking and partying and girls, spending money he didn't really have. He had been the guy you could rely on for a good time, but nobody remembered him for that now. It wasn't worth remembering. He was still the same man, but just in a different time, he supposed. 

A Little Scrap of Metal

It was only a scrap of metal. It meant absolutely nothing to anybody else, and until the day he wrapped it forcibly round his middle finger, it meant absolutely nothing to him either. But as he wound it around, just above the knuckle, it fit perfectly into place.

This ordinary scrap of metal, so imperfect and flawed, that other people wouldn’t accept it, didn’t understand it. It came from nothing, it was nothing, and yet it was there, every day, the obvious blemish on an already blemished hand.

The top of it was jagged where the sharp edges of the metal met, vicious unlike any real ring, and unforgiving when they caught something in their teeth. It cut him often, when he forgot it was there, but he liked that. He liked that it reminded him he was alive, that it didn’t let him dream without that sharp stab back into reality. And he liked that no one else would ever hold that hand without sharing the same hurt that it made him feel.


Every day he would move that ring, twisting it round to make it safe when he dressed or washed. Spinning it as he contemplated the decisions he had to make or the problems he had to solve, feeling its vicious grip, its hold, but comforting him that still it was there. Still it rested in a place that so many others would have removed it.

It could have been anything, that little scrap of jagged metal, but it wasn’t. It was his ring. It was as old as any other, of all that had been before, and yet as new to him as the possibilities ahead. It was his reminder; of the pain, of the memories lost, of the memories yet to come. It was his constant, his keepsake. It meant absolutely everything to him.