Sunday, October 26, 2014
The Last of His Kind
The Last of His Kind
by
Phoenix Hocking
He was the last of
his kind.
He knew this; it
came as no surprise. Every generation had been smaller than the
last, until only he was left, with no female to mate with, no progeny
to raise.
He was alone.
He was ugly; he knew
that, too. On the occasions when he found relatively clear water in
the gutters to drink, he closed his eyes so as not to see his reflection staring back at him. If any were so unfortunate as to see
him on the street, they would shudder and turn away. Sometimes, they
tried to kill him, but always, he had escaped. A huge head, a long
body, tiny legs, dark bristle for hair, deformed. Ugly. It had
always been thus, and even more so now.
The world had grown
dark. There had been a bright flash, then darkness, choking dust,
and silence. He could still see, though, and that was a blessing.
At least, he thought it was a blessing, though the sights he saw as
he made his way through the darkness made him sick to his stomach.
The bodies became
green and bloated, putrid things he avoided. Hunger might have
driven him to partake, but no. He would not stoop that low. He
would not.
For now, he rested
in an alleyway where he had made his home of late. It was dark here,
too. The rainwater crept down the side of the building, dropping
filthy wetness into the gutter. Usually there was nothing else to drink, so
he drank it.
He knew things. He
knew that when the wind came from the north, to burrow into the hole
he had made behind the trash bin. He knew to hunker down when the
wind came from the south, bringing with it dust and debris and the
stench of rotting bodies. He'd learned that when the bodies were removed, there would be fire.
And he knew that he
carried within his body both life and death. He felt it as surely as he knew to dread the sun, for with
the sun came warmth, and with warmth came feet.
He didn't like feet.
The feet were attached to giants, and giants liked to kill. So far,
he had avoided them, but now, he didn't care. After all, now there
were no females for him to mate with, no progeny to raise. He was,
as was said before, alone.
Sometimes he
wondered if the giants were as they were because of the bright flash,
or the darkness that came after. Were they born of the chaos the
world had become, or had they always been, and he had simply never
noticed?
He was resting when
he felt, rather than saw, a shape come toward him. This creature,
too, had feet, but they were not the feet of the giants. Well,
perhaps they were, but if so, then it was a small giant, with small
feet. Perhaps this generation of giants was growing smaller, just as
his own had grown smaller with each passing generation. He burrowed
more deeply into his hole, waiting for the small giant to pass.
It was singing. He
poked his head from the hole to listen.
Ring around the
rosies, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, all fall DOWN!
And
the small giant fell with a crash into the street. Not thinking, he
left his hiding place and scurried to where it lay. It
was still for a moment, then began to laugh - a strange sound,
coming from the creature. It laughed and laughed and laughed, then
began to choke and sob.
Compassion
for another, even another species, still dwelt within him, deformed
and ugly though he was. Gently, gently, so as not to frighten
the small giant, he reached out to stroke the strange skin.
Startled,
the small giant screamed, and brushed the place where he had stroked
her, flinging him onto the cobbled stones. Frightened, the small
giant began to call and cry. A large giant rushed to the creature's
aid.
"Molly,
Molly, what's the matter?"
"Something
was crawling on me!" the small giant cried.
The
large giant looked around and saw his ugly, mutilated body, quivering
in the dust. It brought a huge foot down upon him. "There,
I've killed it. Now come in the house for supper."
From the shadows watched another. She was the last of her kind . . . .
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
