They attacked with banging guns and booming rockets, an unnecessary commotion, striking as though we were leaves on an autumn tree awaiting winter winds. Perhaps we were in our russet way?
Fall, some called it, the time when one generation made room for the next. Whether or not the giant oak wished it, all it had nurtured, its beloved children, were expunged.
We fell tumbling to the ground in swamped screams. They heard us though. Everyone heard us. And like the tree that bore us, our country, we’d be reborn. For leaves die in silence but their rustling echoes forever.
Author's Note: A Drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.
"I'm a kangaroo," he said.
I looked at him strange and replied, "No, sir, you're a man. A troubled man, but a man nonetheless."
He didn't like that.
Reaching into his frontpack, he hauled out a young baby dressed all in brown, passed me it, then hopped off the roof without another word.
They called me a hero, the cop who'd saved baby Joey. I wasn't. I'd made a grown man feel stupid enough to jump, that's all. If he'd wanted to be a kangaroo, I should've let him. His kid could've at least visited him in the zoo.
I’d dreamt of gold and glass and colour and light and beauty and women with smiles on their faces and love in their hearts. The city I stood in was none of those things.
Was a lie a lie to everyone or just the person who’d envisioned it? Was it wrong to have thought only the best and ignored the unashamed truths? I supposed I’d never know as I wiped the detritus from my shoes and tears from my eyes.
Another city another day would become my motto. I lived it. I hated it. Those imperfect dreams, they haunted me.
Golden light filtered through the aquamarine water casting opaque, rippling shadows across the seabed like clouds in a clear blue sky. The sun’s rays were never the same, always beautiful, a living, moving tapestry that rolled across the coral and kelp in endless cycles of underwater perfection. Turtles dove for it, sharks hunted for it, yet she of the periwinkle skin and lavender eyes wanted nothing more than escape. That’s what she told them when they caught her in their net, hauled her into the light, although all they heard was mindless bubbling. Dreams aren’t always worth a held breath.
I waited with trepidation for the dandelion seeds to take flight, I always had. There was something about them, something intangible almost like ghosts holding parasols with a license to roam both day and night. Ethereal in their opalescent beauty, the seeds appeared from mass, golden deaths to haunt the fields, roadsides and gardens for scant days each year. I imagined them drifting off into a pale nowhere that I alone would one day find. It saddened me that I didn’t. I’ve dreamed of that place where the dandelion seeds lie for so many years. One day, I’ll find them.
I feel Her. Lady Death stands at my shoulder sheltering this shivering form with a swept up cape. Cosseted by Her darkness, cold but comfortable, I wait to the ticking of my pocket watch. I hear Her. Her breath grazes my neck like that first Autumn frost. Beautiful in its own way. She moves closer, whispers in my ear, then all is night. I touch Her.
Peace sweeps over me like celestial night the sky. Awash in sparkling obsidian, I revel in this eternity as I would an iced tea in Summer. I am Hers now and She is mine.
This bar by the beach doesn’t lessen the heat, it amplifies it. I no longer drip with perspiration, but something else, something feral. There’s a cool breeze blowing off the ocean, a beer in my hand, condensation taking a slow tour of the glass, but every second I’m sitting here, I’m getting hotter. Why? This isn’t me, I don’t get sweaty and nervous and out of breath. Then again, I’ve never sat next to you before. I’ve never been this close to a woman so hot I could fry an egg on her skin. This heat, it’s getting to me.
When the rain turned black, the city streets running deep in oil slick madness, society went mad. A faceless, obsidian death took a hold of mankind and didn’t relent.
The regression to beasts was quick, one day men and women strode in style, the next they slithered like midnight eels. I witnessed it all locked within my penthouse apartment praying to God to go unnoticed.
When the birds came with buckets of water, mops and brushes, I suspected it me who was mad. The seagull who landed on my balcony wrapped in a green, plastic mac and matching cap agreed.
They came as a plague to sweep Earth clean of every man, woman, and child. The Andromedans loved to wage war in their shining armour and elaborate weapons. They lived to conquer.
They’d succeed without even trying, a few blasts here, a large bomb there, and the amassed wealth of millennia would vanish in one evening, wiped from the annals of history. They’d take everything that was a world, all for their own.
The last laugh was on us. On Earth, we’d already beaten them to the punch. Humanity had destroyed itself without them. The Andromedans took nothing but dust.
Aliens had skewed our world, everything was out of kilter. Children played in the streets kicking and missing at footballs, drivers turned into the wrong roads and had to reverse out again and all for another species’ entertainment.
I watched it unfurl from my tenth-floor apartment aware of the situation, yet apart. I’d sit on the balcony, newspaper spread across my lap, taco in hand and Bud at my side. Thusly, the one untouched human observed his fellow man.
They found me grinning, food and drink plastered across my face where I’d missed my mouth. And dead, very dead.