last edited 4 years ago
17-05-83. monday.
The silver-wreathed city of frosted glass slumbered within a valley.
Ensconced in an alcove of frigid winters and scathing summers, the gardeners tended to their gilded plants whose intricate gossamer roots networked through frozen soil. Ocean-blue leaves delicately captured the little light which deigned to remain on them, framing the slight snowdrops which blossomed and glowed with a steady warmth, to beam a thousand hues back into the silent shadows.
Towers of glass and gold ensnared and harnessed the watery rays, spinning them into luminescent silk. These fiery strands of sunlight, woven gently through the walls, were lifelines to every plant in the botanical garden: of the great bronze oaks which held the soil together, of the silver willows which sung their laments into the wind, of the snowdrops which glittered prismatic like stars, even as the world faded around them.
And people loved the biting cold, for its stasis would trap hold the universe in place as they took their time– all the time in the world– to tend, ever so gently, ever so carefully, to their flowerbeds.
18-05-83. tuesday.
The winter of 2061 had been one of the c
It was the longest and coldest winter on record, and the citizens rejoiced in it: the optimal conditions would persist, and they could construct infrastructure based on the assumption.
Thus seeds of diamond and gold were sown, transient trinkets whose brittle blooms would withstand not even the touch of a human hand, before the disruption crumbled it into dust.
Some believed summer would bring its challenges, raging fiercer and hotter than ever before to match the winter's cold grim intensity. But that was no doubt surely farcical nonsense, for the winter itself marked their own success: through years of entrapping catching capturing and refining its rays, they had at last stolen an infinitesimal portion of the sun's burns victory aaaaaaaargh sting.
No doubt my writing habit has grown far more disciplined, which is how it should have always been. It is heartening to see that these efforts have paid off. Surely this productive streak will continue tomorrow.
19-05-83. wednesday.
But
20-05-83. thursday.
It mattered not; they were happy here, each with their cold celestial frozen meadows to tend to, leaving no mark trace of time's passage but for the bell whose toll signalled heralded the sunrise. Indeed they loathed the bell: its chime would steal away a little more of their eternal winter, as the wildfires of a distant far future drew near.
Yet all this was but a fleeting vision of times an era which would by far succeed them, which they had no reason
The author's pen trembled.
no cause
He scratched the words out again, striking branching lines through the immaculate penmanship.
not the need for
No, no, no. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The flimsy yellowed paper tore beneath the wrath of a fountain pen, and he winced.
no
"This isn't healthy, you know." She perched casually upon the nearby table, scanning the scribbled lines of a carefully constructed elegy.
"This is just the first draft, it doesn't matter if it's alright, it doesn't matter if it's healthy, it just needs to be done, I just need to work hard enough..."
"Look at yourself." Her gaze sharpened. "You're in a dark room, writing by firelight because the windows are caked with grime and there's barely any light outside anyway. You haven't talked to anyone for months. You're trying to write an elegy to a race which will never see it. Tell me any of what you're doing is logical!"
"At this point it's the only thing that matters. Tell me what else I could do."
"You could enjoy this. Enjoy all of it. Realise that you have total, unbridled freedom to do whatever you want, and you don't need to spend it killing yourself over writing a book. Let this memorial rest in peace, and find something else to live for."
At this he turned, throwing down the pen to strike the window before him. Dust billowed from the glass in plumes to settle into the sediment already coating the abandoned furniture, much like the feather-light snow of a summer evening: a neglected bed, a dining table, a content fireplace, a forgotten telephone. A lone worn teddy bear, positioned carefully on a desk.
And still ash clung stubborn to the window's outer surface.
"Tell me, then. Tell me what's worth living for."
no excuse
"Suit yourself."
no reason to delay. They would be long gone on the day of its arrival, and the flames which devoured the fragile leaves like paper
21-05-83. friday.
would be none of their concern.
Their purpose would live on beyond them, and their legacy would remain even as they themselves fell away.
But those around them could admire their gardens, and in some sense
that was enough to them.
that sufficed
that was their purpose
it was enough
it was their duty
they had to do it
that was all they needed.
So they clung to their futile
22-05-83. saturday
endeavours, hoping that they'd someday be read acknowledged
23-05-83. sun
in hopes that
31-05-83. monday, I think?
so that
wednesday
such that
friday
such that they
tuesday
would be noticed, and so their legacy may stand— that they may matter, that something they did may matter, that in their frantic struggle to hold on to some piece of this existence they'd manage to leave a mark behind, even be it a frenzied clawing at a cliff's edge, that they'd be remembered in some form or another and their life could retain some form of purpose, some form of meaning.
They must have known it all was for naught— why shouldn't they? The bell's daily siren reminder alarm alarm toll siphoned away the nights they had left, the number of sunsets they had left, the number of glittering snowdrop stars remaining to litter the glassy fields. They created and designed and innovated in the full knowledge that everything they'd done would someday be washed out by overexposure to the light, ignited, set ablaze, and it would all be fire burning bright and none of it would matter any more.
They had to know it
and still they inspired and breathed and lived.
How did they live?
a monday
"You're burning yourself out. You would've thought the missile had done a good enough job of that already."
He barely glanced up from the paper. "I'd be burning myself out if I didn't do the one thing I need to do."
"But you aren't doing it. You haven't been doing it for... I don't know how long."
"Shut up."
"Face it. There's no one left to read your little allegory of the human condition. You're doing this for yourself and only yourself."
"I'm doing this for the sake of whoever needs it!"
"Which is you. You're the only person left in this world. They've all been dead for years."
"You don't know that. You don't know there aren't others out there worth contacting, there aren't others to talk to, there's no life out there just waiting to be found..."
"Look. The missile struck, the missiles struck, they've all been riddled with gunshots and bathed in radiation. There was a globally maintained double-digit counter of the living. You watched it tick down to fifty, to ten, to five, to one. It's time to move on."
He glanced past the teddy bear which obscured the window frame before him, squinted through the dirt blanketing its outer surface— from this angle, he could almost see the silver summer sky.
"Suit yourself, then."
He tore a sheaf of paper from the notepad, tossing the crumpled sheets into the glowing embers.
Maybe there was a reason he'd never cleaned the window.
some monday
but they were somehow able to stay optimistic, stay cheerful, stay lively, stay productive, laugh in the face of the impending sunrise while simultaneously and tragically doing absolutely nothing about it.
Perhaps it was their grandchildren who would suffer or their descendants but it didn't matter because in the end it wasn't the final ultimate impact of their lives which would matter in the grand scheme of things but the connections they forged and the relationships they made that really would affect them and their lives.
No, no, no.
Perhaps someday their descendants would be worse off for it, but that was of little consequence: in the end, their own work would be forgotten regardless. It was the connections they forged, the relationships they nurtured, the seeds they so patiently sowed and the blossoms they admired together which gave them the purpose they so desired.
Their work was but a channel for them to
???
to define the true value of their garden world existence
???
to achieve all they really wanted to
???
to delay the inevitable
???
to see the wall of a bunker through their windows and pretend it was a sky
???
to find their meaning.
???
He found himself lying on the spartan bed in the corner of the house, atop a frayed and tattered duvet.
He found her sitting beside him in silent observation.
He asked her how long he had slept for. She did not reply.
He asked her how long it had been since he'd last written. She did not reply.
He watched her in silence. She watched him back, gaze fixed, smile forced.
He snatched the teddy bear from the floor and ripped it sharply in twain. Her head dropped to the floor.
He glanced at her it for several moments, before discarding her its remains.
The fire roared gaily in its hearth.
No more companion. No companion necessary.
He was the last author. He was humanity's last hope. It was and had always been his duty to document humanity's growth and efforts and futile struggles, to carve out some semblance of a narrative from a gardener's logbook. And to do anything less, to lose even a second in his sanctified mission, would invalidate even this meagre purpose.
His work would be the last thing to ever matter.
Even so.
They crafted their flowers from meshwork and filigree, shaping each dainty petal as if it mattered, ascribing to the task at hand love and care and somehow a twisted sense of purpose.
Even so.
A bell's chime echoed, sonorous, through the silver-wreathed frosted-glass city.
Even so.
Still, what was there to fear?
Even so.
The harvest was bountiful, the winter long and cold.
Even so.
And life was better than ever.
A short story written with the prompt better than ever in mind.
Actually, does this even count as prose? I'm not entirely certain. It's more experimental than anything.
