Status: Updates Aug. 10 - Aug. 14
At the Edge
You're the Only One That Knows Me
Ironically, the deserts were the safest oases to occupy. They were more frequent now. All along the coastlines dusty sand spilled into a sudden sea of green before dropping down in a dizzying spin towards crashing waves and spiked rocks. If anyone dared venture across the vast expanses of rattlesnake dens and shriveling cacti, they would surely jump off the cliffs in pure, astonishing awe of nature stubbornly holding to her blue paradises.
Animals had rediscovered their kingdom. Mice overthrew the drying fields with armies while cockroaches ran the casinos. Spot and Rufus were hunting with the packs and Fluffy curled with the lions at night. Human population was in a trench and dirt was spinning a design over it in layers. Atlanta sank and Florida was an underwater resort. Global warming looked like a ski resort next to the burning barrages of gases that penetrated the snowy caps and disintegrated the north and south poles.
Man could no longer send their crying prayers to the heavens—they hadn’t tried for years—or fill the air with sobs of a forsaking god.
The Egyptians broke open tombs for shade—until the earthquakes stole structure and air.
The rains of the Sahara became events of crazed dances and ecstatic screams—until wild dogs joined, their yelps of victory and a meal well-earned destroying any semblance of generous returns to Faith that the two-legged cattle, terrified in their final moments, could offered.
It felt like the planet was suffering the brunt of a war between opposites. The sun spat her fires during the day while the moon acted as an icy beacon when the stars returned to view. Grasses dried while ices melted, but both gave their useless bodies up to the unrelenting oceans and lakes threatening to drown any evidence of a life lived. Even the fish boiled in their territory.
Nobody left took note of first encounters anymore. New faces were either annoying mouths to feed and put up with, or another piece of fascination to keep them from going insane.
Arthur and Mary didn’t remember how they met.
The only thing that mattered to them was the destination. The only thing their company provided to each other was a soft cushion, a barrier against the walls of loneliness and madness that pressed in on them. They didn’t talk. They let their lips crack during the day and turn blue at night. There were no discussions of why, no philosophical wonderings of how leading to laughs they hadn’t felt in years. Sometimes there was his fissured skin on hers as he offered her a boost over a high rock, or her arm stopping him from tripping over a dip in the ground, but it never went further, it never lingered. It never told stories.
Writers of safe years spoke of fantastical tales. Gruesome horror tales of the undead, the might of a god ripping earth and tearing concrete, intelligent life or sickness ruling the humans like slaves. They would scream, run, and fight. Heroes would rise out of ashes or God would descend from his cloudy palace.
In the end, nobody cared how the world died. Just as nobody cared when it would begin its spin once more. You met who you met and immediately accepted their death of nutrient deprivation seven days later. You no longer struggled against the crushing maw of an overgrown, overaggressive canine or convulsed against the rushing poison delivered by hollow fangs. You festered while you walked, decomposed while you crawled. Your eyes burned blindly against the sunlight before they could ever glimpse the peaceful blue swallowing everything whole.
The only thing that mattered when the world crumbled was how long it took for you to follow its lead.
Animals had rediscovered their kingdom. Mice overthrew the drying fields with armies while cockroaches ran the casinos. Spot and Rufus were hunting with the packs and Fluffy curled with the lions at night. Human population was in a trench and dirt was spinning a design over it in layers. Atlanta sank and Florida was an underwater resort. Global warming looked like a ski resort next to the burning barrages of gases that penetrated the snowy caps and disintegrated the north and south poles.
Man could no longer send their crying prayers to the heavens—they hadn’t tried for years—or fill the air with sobs of a forsaking god.
The Egyptians broke open tombs for shade—until the earthquakes stole structure and air.
The rains of the Sahara became events of crazed dances and ecstatic screams—until wild dogs joined, their yelps of victory and a meal well-earned destroying any semblance of generous returns to Faith that the two-legged cattle, terrified in their final moments, could offered.
It felt like the planet was suffering the brunt of a war between opposites. The sun spat her fires during the day while the moon acted as an icy beacon when the stars returned to view. Grasses dried while ices melted, but both gave their useless bodies up to the unrelenting oceans and lakes threatening to drown any evidence of a life lived. Even the fish boiled in their territory.
Nobody left took note of first encounters anymore. New faces were either annoying mouths to feed and put up with, or another piece of fascination to keep them from going insane.
Arthur and Mary didn’t remember how they met.
The only thing that mattered to them was the destination. The only thing their company provided to each other was a soft cushion, a barrier against the walls of loneliness and madness that pressed in on them. They didn’t talk. They let their lips crack during the day and turn blue at night. There were no discussions of why, no philosophical wonderings of how leading to laughs they hadn’t felt in years. Sometimes there was his fissured skin on hers as he offered her a boost over a high rock, or her arm stopping him from tripping over a dip in the ground, but it never went further, it never lingered. It never told stories.
Writers of safe years spoke of fantastical tales. Gruesome horror tales of the undead, the might of a god ripping earth and tearing concrete, intelligent life or sickness ruling the humans like slaves. They would scream, run, and fight. Heroes would rise out of ashes or God would descend from his cloudy palace.
In the end, nobody cared how the world died. Just as nobody cared when it would begin its spin once more. You met who you met and immediately accepted their death of nutrient deprivation seven days later. You no longer struggled against the crushing maw of an overgrown, overaggressive canine or convulsed against the rushing poison delivered by hollow fangs. You festered while you walked, decomposed while you crawled. Your eyes burned blindly against the sunlight before they could ever glimpse the peaceful blue swallowing everything whole.
The only thing that mattered when the world crumbled was how long it took for you to follow its lead.