Spring, Unwinding

The flowers clicked gently in the breeze.  Intrigued, I plucked one. 

The stem was oddly stiff, and it broke with a metallic ping.  Inside, it was hollow, a tube with a long, thin cam shaft running down it.  The petals, blunt and angular, gleamed copper-bright and polished.

I looked up from my prize.  The blossoms were opening as the sun rose.  They meshed, gear linking to gear through the flower bed.  The clicking became a rattle, then a hum.  A rumble echoed haltingly from deep underground.

It’s March now.  The flowers are still sprouting.  The machine is not finished.

Yet.

Sing Down

This is the song that ends the world.  Because it is about the end of the world, it is a sad song.  Because it is a song, it is joyful.  This is not a contradiction.

The song that ends the world must contain the world.  To end is to stop; to stop is to oppose; to oppose is to be equal to.

Do you suppose that you are equal?  Will you sing the song?

It’s too late now, of course.  You’ve already begun.  We all have.  That is why we must make the choice now. 

This is not a contradiction.

The Optometrist

I’d seen the sign taken down and gotten worried.  When I went inside, my fears were confirmed: The Doctor was packing up his machines. 

“You can’t possibly be going out of business!” I exclaimed, ignoring the sobbing from the back.  “You’re one of the best eye doctors in the country.  Possibly in all the world.”

“That was the problem,” he said, closing the case with a snap.  “Too good.”

In the back, the sobbing turned briefly to screams.  “I can see everything!” the poor wretch shouted.  “Oh, God, the emptiness, the dark between the stars...  Those eyes!  Those terrible eyes!”