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The Plague Years
Aug. 1st, 2013 02:49 amThey walk together toward a winter pine tree line marked by a few recent stumps. Snow muddied by prior excursions, sawdust and torn earth and dead beetles. All of the insects had stopped moving weeks ago with their little legs twitching in robotic frustration.
"Well at least we aren't eating bugs yet," he says and smiles through layers of wool. "At least we aren't being eaten," he chuckles, repeating his mother's words from last night around the fire, remembering how it made his father laugh.
The taller figure looks down, scratches at his beard, turns his head and spits. "Just push the cart, save your breath for the axe."
"Are we going to die," he asks calmly, head turned up and unblinking.
"I don't," he begins, hand slowly falls to his side with a frown. "Well," he kneels for eye level and jabs one finger into the boy's shoulder, brows knitted. "Maybe you should tell me, kid."
+
He remembers last night. Big people screaming, being on fire. Pain quick replaced by numbness and the feeling of loss, horrified expressions on their faces as they pulled away the blankets used to extinguish. His face and half his torso writhing and black, alive with melting. Glistening tar slowly flowing into his features, growing fine strands to replace hair, clothes, the shoe that remained in the fireplace and melted away.
Mother and Father reeled back as each burned and tattered edge of the child was remade whole. He stood, arms out pleading. "Why are you scared," he asked quietly. "It's just me."
+
"Get cutting," he hands the boy one of the dull axes while arming himself with one freshly honed. Watches as the small figure wrapped in parka and scarf turns toward the closest pine and attacks ferociously in a blur of steel arcs and wood chips. Leans back against the cart with axe on one shoulder and removes a small bundle from a pack at his feet. The camera is a glass and gleaming onyx design from a small firm in Oslo specializing in club footwear that unfolds in his hand and envelops four fingers. He holds the camera up blade like at eye level and watches the three foot wide tree felled in under a minute. The boy looks back, hopeful for approval.
The camera whirs in mechanical assent, changing focus, maneuvering, aperture.
"Well at least we aren't eating bugs yet," he says and smiles through layers of wool. "At least we aren't being eaten," he chuckles, repeating his mother's words from last night around the fire, remembering how it made his father laugh.
The taller figure looks down, scratches at his beard, turns his head and spits. "Just push the cart, save your breath for the axe."
"Are we going to die," he asks calmly, head turned up and unblinking.
"I don't," he begins, hand slowly falls to his side with a frown. "Well," he kneels for eye level and jabs one finger into the boy's shoulder, brows knitted. "Maybe you should tell me, kid."
+
He remembers last night. Big people screaming, being on fire. Pain quick replaced by numbness and the feeling of loss, horrified expressions on their faces as they pulled away the blankets used to extinguish. His face and half his torso writhing and black, alive with melting. Glistening tar slowly flowing into his features, growing fine strands to replace hair, clothes, the shoe that remained in the fireplace and melted away.
Mother and Father reeled back as each burned and tattered edge of the child was remade whole. He stood, arms out pleading. "Why are you scared," he asked quietly. "It's just me."
+
"Get cutting," he hands the boy one of the dull axes while arming himself with one freshly honed. Watches as the small figure wrapped in parka and scarf turns toward the closest pine and attacks ferociously in a blur of steel arcs and wood chips. Leans back against the cart with axe on one shoulder and removes a small bundle from a pack at his feet. The camera is a glass and gleaming onyx design from a small firm in Oslo specializing in club footwear that unfolds in his hand and envelops four fingers. He holds the camera up blade like at eye level and watches the three foot wide tree felled in under a minute. The boy looks back, hopeful for approval.
The camera whirs in mechanical assent, changing focus, maneuvering, aperture.