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.
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 for the prompt a new leaf.
The pursuers hesitated as she bolted into my office, glass door sliding shut behind her.
A tangle of knotted voices, dense and crushing, congealed against the mist which coated the panes’ exterior. Muffled shouts, raised fists, barely restrained aggression electrifying the humid night air outside: all insulated by a transparent divider, a barrier none dared breach.
But my focus was now on the broken girl in a small grey skirt, leaning against the table, shaking like a leaf, gaze resolute. Raindrops and blood marred her attire.
So fragile. Stark against birch countertop, cream walls, chrome fixtures, windows painted with clear blue skies.
Rows of potted succulents gazed upon them. Her eyes darted, seeking an anchor, settling on the most recent additions: five splashes of green on white.
“Hide or seek?” I took a seat opposite her, knowing the answer, hoping I was wrong.
“E-explain,” her voice wavered and she coughed. Crimson seeped between her fingertips.
She declined the cup of tea I offered.
“Are you here to take refuge, or for our services?”
She opened her mouth, coughed again, tensed and turned away. Posture rigid, features stoic. “The latter. I kn- know what you do.”
“What do you know about us?” Already my hands directed themselves about the desk drawers, withdrawing and assembling apparatus.
“Y-you give your clients second chances.”
The tremor in her voice. She knew.
“As to why, if I may?” A connection here, a switch there.
“Said the wrong things, upset the wrong people, m- made the wrong mistakes. Nothing left for me here. B- better than to-”
“Then you are familiar with the terms. Two years in our service here, regain what you’ve lost, help us recoup the costs. After which you’re free to go.”
“I- I am, yes. Aware.”
“Your name?”
“Claire.”
A cable into its socket. A pen, several leaves of paper, thrust towards her. A slew of diagnostic tests. It’s been a while.
“The pen,” Claire asked.
“Leave yourself a note, it’s all you’ll get.”
Had the gravity of her decision only just hit her?
“Fifteen minutes. Think carefully about what you write.”
Claire hesitated before raising the pen: words halting, tremulous, till the desperation overtook and with her hand scribbled platitudes of frantic frenzy, filling the page with inkwells of sentiment before it could all be drained dry.
I left her be.
Instead I pushed the door open. Glass slid aside to expose the vultures who circled still, hungry, lurking.
“She wronged you?”
Murmurs. Assent.
“Then go away. There’s nothing left for you here.”
“You’re saying she’s already gone,” a hiss.
At length they dispersed alongside the wisps of fog which cool air left in their stead, subsiding into a dark alleyway’s shadows and crevices.
A lone wind-borne leaf skated along the fissured tarmac outside, crumpled and cracked.
Hearing the door ease shut once more, the girl signed the letter with a neat flourish. She bisected it, and again, and again.
She offered me the square of paper. One of our hands was shaking.
“Take a seat on the bench.”
She complied.
“Have this.”
She swallowed the pill.
“Water.”
She drank.
“Anything left to say?”
She opened her mouth, desperate thoughts awakening at last behind wide eyes.
And then they weren’t.
“Claire made her choice, and she had her reasons.”
The white-robed child clutched the letter like a lifeline, wide eyes darting, observing. “And how do I know I can trust you?”
Perceptive. “You could leave. And what then?”
“I look for traces of my old life, see what my previous self left behind.”
“She burned what little she had, so not very much.”
She twitched visibly.
“Surely I didn’t come all this way and write myself this letter just to disappear. Why even scatter these ashes before setting myself ablaze?”
My gaze met the sixth potted cactus on the wooden shelf, blooming verdant, vibrant.
“You of all people know that wildfires clear forests for regrowth.”
“That’s knowledge I don’t have anymore.”
“Don’t you? The specific memories are lost, unless you were to wilfully trigger them, a course of action I really don’t advise. But you should recall general skills, retain general expertise.”
Skills which become an indelible reminder of who you are. Expertise you’ll never quite let go of, no matter how hard you try.
“So I won’t be debilitated. I just serve my time, while looking for t-this missing piece of me.”
“For two years.”
“Two years, and I’m free.”
“One-year anniversary, Chloe,” I nodded as she passed by.
“Whose?” A joke laced with the smile of someone who counted the hours.
“How does it feel?”
“Conflicted. The medical research we’ve done is certainly a fascinating and noble science— but it isn’t one for me.” Indeed she preferred the concrete and rigorous to the abstract, flourishing especially under specific conditions and constraints.
More than once I’d watched her tend to our trophy case of succulents, adjusting and inspecting, occasionally prising a paper square from the pebbles and chancing guilty glances through its author’s and recipient’s last words.
“Any recent flashbacks or breakdowns?”
“A bad one last week, but they’ve mostly subsided. I’m learning to ignore the memories. But what about you? Your two-year stint ends soon?”
“It’s my last day,” I lied.
A recollection flickered, a sensation wrenched deep within me.
I pushed it aside.
So if you’re reading this, Chloe, I’m truly sorry. It– you– we had something good. We had a good dynamic there. And I’m… I’m sorry. I’m weak. I’m stupid. I’m scared. I’m getting attached, and I can’t– I can’t get attached to anything. It brings me back to that first night, when my two years were up. When you ran into the room and I found my hands shaking and I realised I wasn’t ready to leave after all.
And, above all that… the day I first walked into the office. Before working here.
I’m a coward, and you’re a stronger person than I ever could be.
She’ll be waking up soon. Say hi to her for me.
Yours sincerely,Alicia
The boy peered through the glass door. The sky was clear.
The girl stood before the counter, filling a kettle. She pressed a button and the panel silently slid aside.
“Sit,” she stated.
He sat.
She offered him a cup of tea, which he wordlessly declined.
“Do you know what we–”
"They won’t leave me. They were such close friends, but one mistake after another and… we’ve put ourselves through every type of pain, we’ve hurt and maimed so many, just– just– cut it all off! Please!"
The last word ended in a sort of inarticulate scream.
She studied him closely, an impassive observer to his free-flowing tears.
Purely on impulse she reached out to touch him; he stumbled back at once, hand clutching the weapon in his pocket, gaze wary.
She shrank back, cursing herself.
“Those who love you-”
“All gone. I’ve failed them all, hurt them because they tried to catch me.”
“Your aspirations-”
“Died with the first life I took.”
“You-”
“Don’t try to say it’s okay, don’t try to tell me why I’m broken! I know I’m broken! Why do you think I’m here?”
Déjà vu? Hadn’t she had this conversation before?
Oh, right.
That familiar ache.
“Because… you fight?”
“If nothing else.”
She recoiled as he stared her down. Cornered, trapped, surrounded.
A recollection flickered, a sensation wrenched deep within her.
She used it.
“Because you charge, and you’re caught in a headwind, and the others only see your desperation? The stress and panic and pain which you endure just to wrench yourself out of these spirals? When you need a… a paradigm shift. To open that torn, scarred journal and, well, turn over a new leaf.”
She’d dealt in plants once, her predecessor had said, and she was not so naïve as not to know what that meant. Certainly enough to leave her a wraith, hood masking ringed and bloodshot eyes with long dark grey dress obscuring the self-hatred on her arms, a ghost of who Chloe was now.
“I’m… I’m not going to take that from you. But of course you know it’s all cycles. Spirals of spirals. I mean, the owner before me… she never quite got over her fear of connection with her reliance on it, thought she was ready till she wasn’t. It’s the third time she’s reset herself. I checked her records.”
Chloe’s gaze found the last of seven cacti upon a shelf, an addition from two years prior– midway through her own term.
“Y-you know, you’ll be stuck here for two years regardless. Store policy. So… consider staying here a while before you…?”
She was sipping at nothing, she realised, another mindless ritual she’d gained here. Often she found the brewing had greater effect than the tea itself.
“…I’ll consider it,” he eventually replied.
She concealed her smile. “Tea?”
A tacit nod.
She refilled the glass teapot with water from the kettle, and colour leached from dried leaves to bloom forth.
