They differ to us substantially. The most apparent of these is their appearance. We stand upon two legs, make our way through a tactile world with two hands and regard all through two eyes. In a more direct description, we are paired. This pairing navigates beyond the physical into the realms of belief. It is believed we should live our lives in pairs, couples, if you will, and so we do. We are a species who thrive in plural. A species must thrive if it wishes to endure.
They exist in the singular. They are derived from a singular entity, one that split to spawn many. Wherever possible, they refrain from interaction and keep to themselves. They live alone, talk alone and enjoy doing so. Physically, we are comparable, but they do not see it this way. They look through two eyes, but act as though looking through none. They have two legs, but refuse to use them unless necessary. Their paired arms and hands are now conjoined with so much technology, they have become indistinguishable from the greater whole.
Their name? They have many names and many subsets. They dislike being classified as many and prefer singular — as is their way — identification. My colleagues term them vermin, but the correct and almost forgotten genus is human. They are a strange lot, yet as I scientist I find them intriguing. Though I suspect I shall not for much longer.
Eloise stood away from the others as detached as if she’d been in Rome. Whilst her so-called friends paraded before the boys like so much fresh meat, Eloise waved them away. Whilst the others coerced and cajoled, fluttered eyes and waggled worse, she looked off into some unknown secret. I likened her to heaven, distant, yet a goal worth waiting for. Wait, I did. Wait, I would. Always.
It was not that I was exempt from fear. No, it was not this at all. Neither was it that fear had such a hold as to addle my mind, to disturb and disrupt. Not one bit. I had faced my fears and throttled them. Now, as I stood before the Devil, it was his turn to fear, for exempt from fear he’d find he was not. We would see whose eyes blinked first. I knew for sure, it would not be mine.
In hallowed halls we found them cowering like the frightened mice they were. Dark shapes with white-flecked collars, the clergy crumbled as our ravaged world burned.
“Where’s your God now!” bellowed one unruly bystander.
I would never forget their reply.
As one, they stood and said, “He’s already here.”
50 Word Stories – Closed
We loved each other, you and I. Days stood completed not when dusk dispersed in merging shadows, but when we commanded. Time had no meaning. The outside world had no place. When you opened your eyes life mattered. Only then. So why now are they closed?
“Pay attention, small fry,” he said, which got our backs up straightaway. “I’m giving one unbreakable command. Understand?”
With that, he stepped off the cliff and into the void.
“He ain’t tellin’ me what to do!” I bellowed.
So I suppose it was my fault really.
They did not fly, nor move more than but a few inches, even then just beak to beak. Twisting coils of white-feathered, serpentine necks, they adored each other with a perfection mastered over generations. Beautiful, they were, in a world gone mad, two cranes preening where children once played.