The world recovers. The most violent years of the Trouble are long passed--stories you hear from gramps about great-grampa. You dream about the wonders of the thinking machines, but are glad you can breathe safe and drink the water without worrying about whether you have enough pills. Your clutch is on good terms with all the neighboring clutches, so you can assume everybody will be safe when you come home tonight. Right now, theres nothing to keep you from enjoying the scent of soil in your nostrils while you creep along, eyes keen and bright, watching for any movement. Great-grampas rifle sits with satisfying weight in your hands, magazine half full of precious .22 cartridges youre eager to turn into meat. The green light of the sun through the canopy brings the comforting weight of primate instinct-- ...but as you turn an unfamiliar corner your forebrain wrestles back control of your awareness: here are the signs of long gone men. The forgotten relics of the time gone past. The lingering fragments of the Age of Casual Miracles, here to be touched and longed for. Stones. Graven stones marking the final resting places of the ones who strode in the time of magic. Their bodies have turned to soil, but these hard objects outlive their fleeting existence, and maddeningly connect you to some infuriatingly uncertain thread of their lives. Fortunately, youve stubbornly--frivolously--insisted on learning to make words of their marks where others were content to only forget and smell the soil. You concentrate hard, and with effort draw the name of this vanished forerunner from the stone: Aiden. Just say no to novelty baby names.
Posted on: Tue, 25 Nov 2014 03:21:09 +0000
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