The Mower
A short story
Our history was built on a fake island. A fruitless forest of flat bladed trees. Shells of older species lie beneath us. I sat on a stick.
we tried to cross the wall. A temporary blurry guard of moving metal. Surely, we cannot cross the sea, perhaps we can dig underground. We have tried that. Beneath us is the same hard surface as the beach. Gray and impenetrable. We heard my brother crossed the sea. And did he ever come back? No, but somebody watched him get to the other side, told him he’d come to us with a flying army. Why would he ever come back here? Maybe the wall will catch up to him, it gets wider every day.
We tried the next night.
Have we considered cannibalism? The trees produce no fruit, and we cannot devour their fibrous bark. No, the necessity of such is a lie! My queen, if not cannibalism, then what? We are the last on the island. The rest have starved or killed. The great Gods who walk this island shall bless us soon! The monthly sacrament has begun! I shall give myself to them, and they shall give us the rain! Your highness, we have sent scouts to search for the rain, and they have found it. In brittleness, they steal it for themselves, and their rotted bodies are found in stalls, their flesh devoured by consumptio- SILENCE. We will hear no more. Take him away, guards! He is unworthy of our gifts!
I sat on a stick and stared at the body. A headless God, fertilizing the soil with its blood. It lay idly beside it, fingers crushing the soil, a chitin desert surrounding this mountain of flesh. The old God’s neck led to a great machine, an engine with ten orange swords jutting into what was left of the skull. A tool for perfect self-annihilation.
He has come! Our beautiful god! Here to reveal the sky before the trees block it again! Do not let talk of starvation quench your thirst for life, let the giant be a reminder for change!
He is getting off his seat. Does he want to see us in person?
YES, MY CHILD! Here he comes! Ready to bless us again!
Our Lord sat still, pouring water over his face. The engine was still running. It walked alongside it like one does a mount and lay down in its path. The engine halted to a perfect stop on top of the head, and the crowd shrieked as our castles were sprayed with blood, and pink mush spilled down our tunnels and filled our rivers. Our God shook violently, slowing down as the engine died.
Our salvation came with the sanguine rain!
I put my hand on his cheek and drank from the skull. Behind me sat a burial ground. The shell of my father sat below. We did not know what to do. It was a mistake. I am sure.
Mistake? You fools are responsible for this! If we were allowed our consumption, we might have lived another day! My queen, what if we devoured it all? Meek pest, our God gave us his body, why shouldn’t we indulge? Shall we devour it all and leave our descendants nothing? My queen, it is not eternal. It shall rot and decompose like us, only much slower. Why not live in prosperity now and peacefully drift away? Let us halt our consumption and let the Earth have itself.
There now lay what was once our queen. Her wings were stabbed in place and coated in glass. Homes of glitter and oil surrounded me, furniture in perfect condition lie coated in dust.
Our species left by choice.
Shall we have one more? One Last Messiah to tell our tale?
I sat in the final womb, waiting to arrive. The prior took their vows and let me be the last. Once mates, now siblings. I was raised with wisdom and was the final passenger on our quaint flight through life. Eternally, I sit here, waiting to fulfill my purpose. I slept in the brain and fed until my stomach overflowed. No melancholy, except the memories of others, could distract from my bliss. They speak to each other within me, contemplating their final choice. Reliving history through my shell.
They are coming, don’t you see? Messengers! Red and blue lights pass in the sky above. They inspect our lord, and we think they can take it? Fools! You dunce, bear their size and collapse. We are but fairies compared to our celestial paragons.
As they leaned down in their reflective masks, they held the wrist of our savior. They got up and walked away.
