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.