Author: Andrew C. Kidd
He knew that the universe was an incalculable equation and that he was an inconsequential variable within it. Despite this, his fear was that of being consigned to oblivion. Burial was not an option. The instruction to his family was clear:
‘I am to remain forever present, visible to this world as I pass unto the next.’
Death inevitably became him. Tears on the faces of those that knew him fell with the rain. The cobblestone-clop of horses echoed as they pulled his black carriage. His cremated remains were collected and retained in the house he had vacated.
Maps on the continents of the world were eventually redrawn. Bombs fell between zeppelins. He rocked back and forth in his mantelpiece place until clear skies replaced the thunder. Light shone in through the window to reveal the room wreathed in flowers and flags.
In time, the curtains would be drawn again. Black-and-white footage of the lunar landings flashed out at those huddled around the television. They applauded when the Eagle disturbed its ashen surface. When a visitor asked who was propping up the books, they were met with blank faces.
More of his progeny would be born to pass. The urn moved from room to room, eventually finding its way into the attic. Bells welcomed in a new millennium. Peace was prophesied until further fights followed. Flash upon flash turned night into day. Fury’s face shone through in the blood-red light. This time, no garlands were hung after the arrowing screams stopped tearing through the sky.
Yet there he remained, not in the brick house, but buried somewhere beneath its rubble and ruin. The Fourth World had settled to start itself anew. An alliance was augured but dissenting voices became louder. The thunder had returned. Light no longer showered but radiated out. A crowning phosphorescence beaconed to those who had already punched their way out through the exosphere. Their telescopes peered down at emptied seas and rivers of plastic. Diggers dug holes as they deepened their encampments. Spacers gathered at the gates of the sky-ports as a means of catharsis. By now, the Great Clearance had started.
After the rockets rose up, grand stations were constructed and sent spinning on their axes. Teams were sent back to pillage the relinquished land. Materials were gathered and launched upwards. The orbiting debris was harvested and rebranded. And fate would have it that he was fished out from this Acheron. The long rod of a salvager slowly reeled him in, eventually dropping his urn into the hold of a grand celestial junker. One day, like all the other vessels, its inhabitants took one last look at Earth before shooting off at star-splitting speed.
Fluorescence spilled out into its corridors and gangways. Those onboard argued that Arcturus had been the brightest. Centuries cycled in dim-shining ingloriousness. Giant claws continued to pick out archival pieces from the stored detrital mass. A loud clunk thudded dully in one of the sorting chambers, and a pincer-like face speared towards him:
‘We could do with the iron.’
The urn was upturned. His ashes spread out in a whorl of dust. The floor was swept and cleared in readiness for the next pile to be sifted. A lever was pulled and an airlock secured. The high-pressure change shot him out into a grand vacuum. His escape was into nihility.
It was here that he remained long after the lights of the junker had faded. It was here that he had been deposited as grains of sand dropped into a great black desert, never to be found, but forever present.
