Post by ceruleanwalker on Aug 20, 2014 21:14:58 GMT
This short something I did as a little something when I heard there was a short story competition with the theme 'Apocalypse'. The contest had closed when I heard about it, but I still wanted to see what I could come up with, wondering who would be there when the stars go out, and what it takes to reignite them.
The chronicler. (re-edited, thank you all for your suggestions)
It ended with a bang. There was not enough time for the whimper. Centuries had piled on top of millennia like snow on the mountainside, building up until all was needed was the weight of that very last second for the world to shift. In one moment it was all gone. In breath winter tundra’s, emerald forests and Stoic Mountain’s were swept away, as if they never were.
My boots crunch upon the now tepid ash as I walk across what remains of this world’s fractured skin, the sky burns crimson above me as the molten blood of this planet circles in constant freefall.
Bending down I shift the rubble through my worn gloves, in it I can see… everything. An entire species returned to the dust from which they were formed. If you had asked another such as myself they would have said that they were nothing more than bags of walking liquid with delusions of grandeur. But I am not they - I am me.
I knew them all and I remember their names; those who approached death at a sprint, the ones who fought with tooth and nail and the few who bowed to eternity as he offered his hand. Beyond the pain, the joy, the sheer magnificence of existence they would come to me in the garden of stars. They would sit uneasily never fully understanding how they came to be there and I would offer them a smile and say, ‘Tell me your story’. What tales they would tell; the boy who never grew up, the woman who went to war, the child who found his way home and the fool who tricked the devil. Such stories of adventures, nightmares and Sunday afternoons in the arms of another of true love and lust in disguise, betrayal and redemption, weddings and funerals and promises of forevermore beneath the canopy of that blue sky.
Never again will I hear their stories.
Rising to my feet I let the ground drop away from me, up and up I rise, past the barrier of fumes and molten rock until the blackness of void is my only company, my eyes never leaving the scarred remnants of the world as the dead light of the former star trickles through the cracks.
I should leave like the others. They didn’t stick around that long, hardly looking back to see the sky turn red they fled to the stars; hoping to find new storms to command, new suns to ferry, new stone to carve commandments. But I cannot leave yet.
Don’t be mistaken, I am not alone in my observations. Time watches me lazily as her centuries play with the dead world, gradually decaying its orbit and devouring any life that still remains on the fractured earth. The years do not approach me as they do their work; Time holds no sway on the endless. Where is the challenge for her, I wonder. What does time matter to microbes and stone? Their stories, if they have any, are for them alone. Every few hundred years she tries to address me: ‘You should leave,’ she says ‘Why torture yourself by watching?’, but I ignore her... millennia spent in silence, my eyes unblinking.
Before long there is nothing left of this place as what little remains is consumed by the failing sun. I felt Time’s hand upon my shoulder, beckoning me to follow her to places where eternity still had meaning. ‘Come with me, please.’ I tenderly remove her hand squeezing it gently before releasing her, my eyes never leaving the dying star. I hear her sigh as she drifts away into oblivion, to where I do not know; personally I am surprised she waited this long… Sentiment, I suppose.
I being selfish I know, but I will not leave yet. My eyes now rest upon the pinpoint that was once a sun. Its golden light had allowed this world to form; it sheltered all who asked, giving us meaning and life. Still it tries to push back the dark, still it tries to shine.
Light is long dead and yet she is still so kind.
Slowly I drift to the flickering ball of white, reaching out my hand for her; she tumbles gratefully onto my gloved palm. Lightly I stroke her weary forehead, my fingers trailing plasma. My voice is croaky with lack of use, but I find the words. ‘There, there child, it’s alright. Now is the time to sleep. Well done and Thank you.’
Without eyes she closes, without lips she smiles, without breath… she dies.
Tears prickle behind my eyes as I stand in the nothingness unseeing. What do I do now? Find a new purpose on another world? I can hardly remember my purpose… I only recall my name.
Turning away from the null space I take the first tentative steps towards unknown stars, perhaps I will find meaning or maybe an ending…
CRACK. I freeze in place; my sudden stop disturbs the dormant atoms. That sound, so small but in this empty place the crackle fills up creation. Like a chuckle in a mausoleum.
CRACK. Turning slowly I gaze over the carrion of planets trying to locate its source.
CRACK. There. Gliding past the dead matter that pockets this place like tombstones I find what I seek. It is flickering light no larger than a strand of golden hair, lightning free from the bottle - a spark of life.
Curiously I watch as the streak of light strikes a dead molecule, immediately ricocheting off to strike another and then another. With each strike, the nothingness comes alive with a CRACK which is then swallowed into darkness.
Here at the end of all things, life still tries. For the longest time I watch as the brilliance zips between the gasses and stones, desperately trying to ignite a spark. I have only ever watched. While my brothers and sisters had commanded the storms, shook the roots of the mountains and roused magma from within the earth,
I have only ever watched. But perhaps, just once, I will stretch out my hand and ignite this spark - kindle this flame into an inferno, feed it on the carrion of stardust and form a new sun.
In time new worlds may form, new people will dream before the ocean of stars. What stories may they tell me? They wouldn’t be as before… but there is a chance they may be better.
Reaching out my hand I capture the struggling bolt of light between my thumb and forefinger, smiling as it attempts to sting me. ‘I am the chronicler,’ I whisper stilling the band of light, ‘never to interfere, only to watch…’ Raising my free hand I gather the dormant gases in my palm; the band of light quirks its head quizzically as my smile broadens.
Light in my right hand, decay in my left; I bring them together. ‘Except this once!’
This is the way the world begins, not with a cry, but with laughter.
The chronicler. (re-edited, thank you all for your suggestions)
It ended with a bang. There was not enough time for the whimper. Centuries had piled on top of millennia like snow on the mountainside, building up until all was needed was the weight of that very last second for the world to shift. In one moment it was all gone. In breath winter tundra’s, emerald forests and Stoic Mountain’s were swept away, as if they never were.
My boots crunch upon the now tepid ash as I walk across what remains of this world’s fractured skin, the sky burns crimson above me as the molten blood of this planet circles in constant freefall.
Bending down I shift the rubble through my worn gloves, in it I can see… everything. An entire species returned to the dust from which they were formed. If you had asked another such as myself they would have said that they were nothing more than bags of walking liquid with delusions of grandeur. But I am not they - I am me.
I knew them all and I remember their names; those who approached death at a sprint, the ones who fought with tooth and nail and the few who bowed to eternity as he offered his hand. Beyond the pain, the joy, the sheer magnificence of existence they would come to me in the garden of stars. They would sit uneasily never fully understanding how they came to be there and I would offer them a smile and say, ‘Tell me your story’. What tales they would tell; the boy who never grew up, the woman who went to war, the child who found his way home and the fool who tricked the devil. Such stories of adventures, nightmares and Sunday afternoons in the arms of another of true love and lust in disguise, betrayal and redemption, weddings and funerals and promises of forevermore beneath the canopy of that blue sky.
Never again will I hear their stories.
Rising to my feet I let the ground drop away from me, up and up I rise, past the barrier of fumes and molten rock until the blackness of void is my only company, my eyes never leaving the scarred remnants of the world as the dead light of the former star trickles through the cracks.
I should leave like the others. They didn’t stick around that long, hardly looking back to see the sky turn red they fled to the stars; hoping to find new storms to command, new suns to ferry, new stone to carve commandments. But I cannot leave yet.
Don’t be mistaken, I am not alone in my observations. Time watches me lazily as her centuries play with the dead world, gradually decaying its orbit and devouring any life that still remains on the fractured earth. The years do not approach me as they do their work; Time holds no sway on the endless. Where is the challenge for her, I wonder. What does time matter to microbes and stone? Their stories, if they have any, are for them alone. Every few hundred years she tries to address me: ‘You should leave,’ she says ‘Why torture yourself by watching?’, but I ignore her... millennia spent in silence, my eyes unblinking.
Before long there is nothing left of this place as what little remains is consumed by the failing sun. I felt Time’s hand upon my shoulder, beckoning me to follow her to places where eternity still had meaning. ‘Come with me, please.’ I tenderly remove her hand squeezing it gently before releasing her, my eyes never leaving the dying star. I hear her sigh as she drifts away into oblivion, to where I do not know; personally I am surprised she waited this long… Sentiment, I suppose.
I being selfish I know, but I will not leave yet. My eyes now rest upon the pinpoint that was once a sun. Its golden light had allowed this world to form; it sheltered all who asked, giving us meaning and life. Still it tries to push back the dark, still it tries to shine.
Light is long dead and yet she is still so kind.
Slowly I drift to the flickering ball of white, reaching out my hand for her; she tumbles gratefully onto my gloved palm. Lightly I stroke her weary forehead, my fingers trailing plasma. My voice is croaky with lack of use, but I find the words. ‘There, there child, it’s alright. Now is the time to sleep. Well done and Thank you.’
Without eyes she closes, without lips she smiles, without breath… she dies.
Tears prickle behind my eyes as I stand in the nothingness unseeing. What do I do now? Find a new purpose on another world? I can hardly remember my purpose… I only recall my name.
Turning away from the null space I take the first tentative steps towards unknown stars, perhaps I will find meaning or maybe an ending…
CRACK. I freeze in place; my sudden stop disturbs the dormant atoms. That sound, so small but in this empty place the crackle fills up creation. Like a chuckle in a mausoleum.
CRACK. Turning slowly I gaze over the carrion of planets trying to locate its source.
CRACK. There. Gliding past the dead matter that pockets this place like tombstones I find what I seek. It is flickering light no larger than a strand of golden hair, lightning free from the bottle - a spark of life.
Curiously I watch as the streak of light strikes a dead molecule, immediately ricocheting off to strike another and then another. With each strike, the nothingness comes alive with a CRACK which is then swallowed into darkness.
Here at the end of all things, life still tries. For the longest time I watch as the brilliance zips between the gasses and stones, desperately trying to ignite a spark. I have only ever watched. While my brothers and sisters had commanded the storms, shook the roots of the mountains and roused magma from within the earth,
I have only ever watched. But perhaps, just once, I will stretch out my hand and ignite this spark - kindle this flame into an inferno, feed it on the carrion of stardust and form a new sun.
In time new worlds may form, new people will dream before the ocean of stars. What stories may they tell me? They wouldn’t be as before… but there is a chance they may be better.
Reaching out my hand I capture the struggling bolt of light between my thumb and forefinger, smiling as it attempts to sting me. ‘I am the chronicler,’ I whisper stilling the band of light, ‘never to interfere, only to watch…’ Raising my free hand I gather the dormant gases in my palm; the band of light quirks its head quizzically as my smile broadens.
Light in my right hand, decay in my left; I bring them together. ‘Except this once!’
This is the way the world begins, not with a cry, but with laughter.