The Passing…

by
moriba sababu

A bolt of lightning struck the old oak tree, causing an agonizing scream to enter his throat, but the sound was extinguished before it left his mouth.

For what had seemed an eternity, he had seen the burning ember plummeting down upon him, and knew without a doubt, that for him… life was over.

How strange it is he contemplated, that selective thoughts can suddenly cascade through one’s consciousness in such a short space of time when the end is near. Leaving only momentary thoughts for comfort… and the mind… the only spectator.

Was it just yesterday…? Or was it this morning, that all whom he knew… all whom he loved, and grew up with, were killed by the unknown substance in the demons hand? He could still remember the look of joy on that murderers’ face, as she had held the red, and green container, with the letter R, peeping between her fingers. Such a fiend he knew could never have in her heart, (if she even had one), any remorse for the holocaust she was causing.

At least for him, he knew, death would be quick, his demise would be painless, unlike all his relatives, and friends, even the youths, and babies… where the act of dying seemed to go on, and on, forever, and ever.

With agony piled upon agony, he had seen them squirming in the dirt, where they had fell, the cruel mask of death stamped indelibly upon their faces, as if painted with the fine strokes of a master artist, he had instinctively known, only the severing of the silver cord of life had offered them relief from the pain.

Now he thought awhile of the mutant prophet Antroachant. Ahh… yes… indeed! Such a glorious martyr…! One… the likes of which the world had never seen before, and may never ever see again.

She had said among much in the Holy Anthilliant, a mere six months before her death, and eventual resurrection to the abode of the Gods:

“… to die… yay…! to pass on… without leaving memory, or hearing some words of oneself behind… is but a waste of quality air.”

He sighed… for now all whom he knew, were no more, and this knowledge pained him most exceedingly, leaving an emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

It would indeed have been reassuring if someone… anyone… had remained alive to speak of him. Any simple words would have sufficed.

If he had the time, he would have cried… for soon the wind would blow away his many foot prints, and others would one day walk… and talk… laugh… and cry… in the very spot where he would die… yet know nothing of him, nor the life he had lived.

Suddenly… within the eye of his psyche, these string of words appeared, and were echoed in the magnificent voice of Antroachant, where their essence hung like pearls from the neck of a Queen… and swayed like the ripples of a thorax about to deliver:

“He lived a good life
Both morning, and night
He died on his feet
With his chest sticking out
All of his soles planted firmly on the ground
Indeed a credit to his race
An ant”

He smiled finally… a melancholy smile… and was gone…


the end

Ralph Boothe
–/–/1995