the tree and the dust chapter 7

The spacesuit stepped toward her with monstrous intensity as the battle fell into a few random explosions, a stray shout, a thunder crack a flash of light
The arms holes reached out to embrace her hands like soft cold vagina and pull her in, when she screamed like a fart, and the robots held her tighter

It practiced all the things it would say, soliloquy, staring into the views, listening to her voice, smelling her boiling air, in short quick whiffs~ as knives stabbed in nostrils~

What if the world was a haunted house, a monster movie, what if every planet was taken, owned, or enslaved by all the creatures of your worst case thoughts, dreams, nightmared hopes, what if you’re the last person alive in a haunted space ship crash landed on a desert island after the apocalypse on a dead world, you are the last person alive, in the whole universe and there’s a knock at the door*

What if god is a shrimp and you’re a whale~ do you eat ’em ?

Does she even know the history of her own people ?

How these smelly huge burning fleshed humans came exploding off of their green and red and purple puffy planets and settled here and there and everywhere trespassing, poaching, stealing, mating, raping and setting up colonies and then cities and empires and further and further out here to the stars and how we just shrugged and stepped out, aside, into the dark and waited and hide and watched, until they all died out, evolved, crept back home to their hole in the dirt, but mostly just screamed along in jihad against each other, until this, a small museum sampling, a few books, entertainments, drama, and wonder, most of us didn’t even see or hear about them until~ they were gone, into the curvature of extinction. . . No, don’t be sad all living things race out there collective lives to the cliffs edge, the glass wall, the noose~

They never found us out here~
And we never had the pleasure
They would have eaten your fathers with a touch of salt, some fruit juice
A wonderfully short story
don’t’ forget how we helped exterminate them
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The incredible old man walked along the rows of coffins, draped in thick green mats of moss, crusted granite stones carved in lichen blossomed circles, beneath the large black dead trees, each thick haunted trunk hiding a life time of deception, casting a pale grey purple drapery of color on the snow covered ground at his feet as he walks with the military precision of a threat, his left hand pulls a line of frost off the length of black rolled steel of a casket, set atop a plinth of plum tarnished silver
Bumped up and to the shipNorth, the roots of massive twin trunks mere inches from the headstone, weathered, smooth, inset with the holographic image of a women, with thick black curling fur, her eyes follow his movements~
you can~ let me out now~ Dosh her aching young voice pants, with saliva still so strong to his ears that he is stopped and turned, with commandment his legs drop and he kneels at the foot of the casket
“I can let out, now ~” he cries with pain laced punctures from memories and twisting of times
Hold me back, hold my mouth shut, drag me away from here ! He commands and the three or four robots hiding behind the death dewed trees lunge at him, grab his arms, twist his wrists and smother his face with soft gray hands and choke hold and chicken wing and submission fist assault him,
Drag him away from the pleading young women trapped in her casket
Dosh. . . Where are they taking you ~ a white tendon hand touches pale bruised lip and her eyes follow the violence till it’s lost in the screen of thicket, bramble and thatch
Dosh, your face . . .where have you been. . . For so long. . . Come back. . .let us out
Her voice trails off as her eyes see the eyes attached to faces of all the grave markers around her, tens, hundreds, thousands, faces of men and women and children lovers and haters
All trapped, entombed, and watching
You talk to him someone shouts, you make him let US OUT !
until they all fall silent, again, frozen in pictorial grace under the forests’ black canopy of branch, twig and shadow~ litter
He’ll never let us free. . . a voice like a falling acorn bounces off plinth and rolls to a silence buried in the salt haired snow.
*some famous s-f stories go like this

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