When there’s nothing left to burn, a fire puffs out. A poetic way to describe its final seconds.
It’s what I thought about when I got here.
Combustion requires three elements.
A fire needs fuel, something to burn. Oxygen it draws from the air. Heat maintains the reaction. Take for example a flare.
A device to attract attention. A sudden burst of intense emotion. Or recurrence of a medical condition. An unexpected burst from the sun’s surface, an out of place illumination on a roll of film, or trousers whose legs get progressively wider from the knees down. Can you guess which one best describes me?
The trees. The animals. The birds. The Spider.
Everything went up in flames.
And yet I survived. The Spirit’s magic, indeed, still alive.
I shielded my eyes to search for high ground. Nothing.
I sucked in air through my nose, hoping for something—anything.
No. Nothing.
I cupped my ear to listen for sounds. I got something.
The sound of my breath, the stomp of my feet, the slap of hands on my cheeks.
I bent down to feel the dirt between my fingers, but only met with resistance. Then in a vision or a flashback, I couldn’t tell the difference, I saw myself writing these words, from a distance. A late night, early morning session. Mother had long since passed into dreams. Sleeping. Not me.
I thought about a song where a man waits for a woman and she does whatever she chooses. He’ll be alone again. The singer wrote the song about his mother. A flamenco dancer—a trumpet solo. I pictured a dance hall and musicians. Head shifted.
T.S. Eliot wrote about a wasteland. The terror, futility, and alienation of modern life. Didn’t fit here. A jigsaw piece in a different scenario.
But isn’t it funny the things you think about when terrified and alienated, alone and powerless? I looked about me. I had nobody.
Ready to accept my fate. A slow death.
“Should I take a seat? Close my eyes while I wait?”
No seat. So I dropped to the hard ground.
But I kept my eyes open.
If I’d had a stone I would have chucked it. Skittered across the lake. But no stone. No water. Though I heard it.
Skit. Skit. Skit. Glip. Glip. Blip. Glop.
Then it hit me. On the back of my neck.
I yanked my hand up with a yelp. The air colder.
I turned, all slow and awkward, my breath numbing my throat.
Expecting I don’t know what. The worst.
A spider.
Jerking on a thread. Right beside me. The one I feared most.
A black widow spider.
And it grew.
I stumbled backwards. Scrabbling on my hands and knees to escape. But compelled to look back. My eyes wide open. Face beading with sweat. Knees cracking and scraping. Again, I had to look at it. Still getting bigger. Creaking and groaning. Not fat or swollen. But taller, a collection of burnt sticks, glued together.
Black.
And hooded.
I cricked my neck looking up at it.
Its body caught the dim light like a patent leather shoe standing upright. Two red markings on its back, shaped like an hourglass.
It didn’t speak.
It didn’t need to.
It raised one long, spindly leg—and pointed.
I followed it with my eyes, glancing in that direction. Rubbed the back of my neck. I didn’t know what I was expecting. Ah, heck.
“What are you pointing at?” I snapped at the Spirit. “There ain’t nothing out there?”
I looked again. Blinked. Rubbed my eyes.
“Jesus. I see it.”
There on the horizon: A black dot, getting bigger. Then I heard it—growling, glinting, drawing closer.
A car, heading this way. Right at me. Wait.
“Can they see me? That’s a shadow, isn’t it? Some cooked-up illusion?” I shot a look at the Spider. “It can’t hurt me… can it?”
Closer. Snarling. Biting. Horses under the hood. Wilder.
The black machine grew teeth—chrome and glass and fury.
“They ain’t stopping! Why aren’t they stopping?”
Tyres shrieked. Engine howling. Burning up the dead ground, fire and rubber pricking my nose. Spitting distance.
I leapt sideways—arms flapping, eyes shut.
Screech—metal groaned. I hit the dirt with a thump.
Spitting gravel. The Impala lurched to a stop.
Smoke curled from black wheels, the stink of scorched rubber.
A ’58 Impala. Right where I’d stood a second earlier.
My heart jackhammered as I scrambled to my knees.
But the place shifted. The earth rippling beneath me.
Huffing and gasping, I staggered to my feet. Rubbing my chest helped, down a notch to steady breathing. My eyes darted around.
Not in Kansas anymore. Different.
An empty lot. Broken concrete. Fenced off. Signs saying keep out.
It looked familiar. Like I spent a lot of time here.
Eight kids jumped out of the Impala. Scuffing the paint. Metal buckling with a groan like a roll of thunder.
Kids, not saying much either.
Seven greasers, and a tomboy with bangs. Zipped-up, beat-down Harringtons. Broken jeans, bent high-top sneakers and logger boots scuffed up with dirt and dried-up blood.
One, all in black—leaner, slicker, smoking a cigarette. He had to be the leader. A Streetcar Named Desire—a wannabe Brando.
Fifteen to twenty-three I’d reckon. Their eyes said different.
They slunk, sidled and skulked—auditioning for a musical. Preened, primped, and combed. Skirting an invisible perimeter, shooting glances at each other. Smirking and spitting. Never straying too far from the ’58 Impala. Coyotes waiting to feed.
Eyeballing me to see what I’d do next.
One spun a chain, another flipped a switchblade open and shut, open and shut. The tallest hefted a lead pipe, a rat beat a rock against his heel. A runt gnawed on a toothpick, a baseball bat slung casual over one shoulder.
All hanging at the empty lot. Fenced off. Signs saying keep out.
Kid with the chain ducked forward, rattling. “Arid,” he said, chin jutting, “Nothing grows here, man. You can’t change what’s done.”
Tomboy with the bangs popped her gum and flicked her switchblade open. “Lifeless,” she said, grinning with all her teeth. “Ain’t you a fish out of water. No spark, no twitch, dead look in your eye, nobody’s coming.”
Runt with the bat and a twitch tapped my chest with his finger, eyes darting everywhere. “Desolate. Hear that? That’s the sound of all the gone things. Ain’t coming back, not now, not ever.”
The wannabe Brando, all decked out in black leaned in, cigarette dangling, voice slow and mean: “Without life. That’s me. That’s us. That’s this whole rotten block.”
Two kids hung back, spit and image, shuffled their sneakers on broken concrete. Dead eyes. Crooked teeth. Said nothing.
Rat, the kid with the rock—little more than a mouse—whispered, “Without living things. Not a soul. Not a bug, not a bird. Just us and you, pal.”
They all took a step closer.
Where was the Spider when I needed it?
They came for me. Teeth. Stone. Wood. Metal.
Rat threw his rock. Runt swung his bat. The switchblade whizzed past my leg. The lead pipe thwacked. The chain left a gash. Blood spat out of my ear.
“Dead,” they all hollered. “Dead! Dead! Dead!”
Hands shot up. Fielding the blows.
Whump! Thud! Whack and smack!
Eyes shut tight. Nose bloody. Running into my mouth. Metal and soupy. I wiggled and struggled, pushed and shoved. I yelled back.
“The world—dead?”
And they vanished.
“Dead!”
I screamed.
An unfiltered, full-throated howl that started with a sharp inhale and kept going.
“Aaaaa—!” I didn’t pause for breath, didn’t blink, kept it rolling.
My face flushed pink, flashed red, then boiled crawfish.
“Aaaaa—!” I thumped my chest to keep it going.
Even the Spider leaned away. I guessed with embarrassment.
“Aaaagh—cough—koff—!” Until my lungs gave out.
Throat scratching. A splutter—a woeful hack.
I collapsed to my knees, chest heaving, eyes watering, one hand grabbing at the Spider’s stick leg, the other clutching my stomach.
I vomited. Dry heaving. Nothing left.
Wait. The Spider! The black widow Spider.
“Why did you leave me?” I slumped to the ground, rocking forwards and backwards, head in my knees, one hand scraping the dirt. Different.
No more empty lot, or broken concrete. No fences or signs saying keep out.
Back here. Back to nothing.
And I sat like that.
Can’t say how long. Had no way of knowing. Sky didn’t move.
But my skull was on fire.
I thought of all the ways to describe this place. But one word, didn’t do it justice. One popped in, then a second and a third, until I had a gang of synonyms. Yeah. A gang swinging chains, hurling rocks and switchblades. Hammering a ’58 Impala.
I shivered. I’d been through a lot. But my brain wouldn’t let up.
“I can’t figure it out. I read all those articles on microplastics in the food chain. Binge-watched nature documentaries with soft-spoken narrators. I unplugged my charger when it wasn’t charging. And what for?”
I huffed. I blinked. Screwed up my fists. Puffed out my cheeks, and shut my eyes tight till they pinched.
“I liked all those posts of the children in Palestine. Laughed at immigration officials in the States getting humiliated. Cheered when that diehard rightist called me anti-fascist! What the fuck!
I yanked back my finger, waiting for a snap, a crackle, a pop. Felt nothing. I ripped out a chunk of hair. Nope. Sucker-punched myself in the face. Not even a flinch.
“How did we let this happen?” I croaked at the Spider. “Why can’t I feel anything?”
We had sat by and watched as the world ended.
“But nothing I ever did changed anything.”
That this now flat, pebble, skipping through space. Once thrived, green and abundant.
The ground here was smooth. Not polished. Wiped clean. Nothing protruded from its surface. If it had any corners, dust would collect but there were none so it didn’t.
“Can we start again?” I asked of the Spider, my throat rasping.
Above, the sky—a dull, metallic grey. I did see a sun, a faint, dying ember hovering above the horizon.
Impossible you say. No birds. No clouds. Just empty.
The Spider pointed. I walked there.
And it followed, legs clicking like knitting needles.
“Reckon you must be the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come!” My voice shook like a kid meeting Santa. I puffed out my cheeks and, with a snort, said, “I didn’t get a chance to meet you formally.”
It didn’t respond. It just lifted its scrawny leg.
So I walked. No—not an option. The Spider clicked at my shoulder.
There was no food. No water. No warmth. No chill. It didn’t exist. I had no need. Not here. Not in this place. The Spirit’s future vision.
The emptiness was wondrous in its cruelty. A perfect, gleaming dead planet of nothing.
“Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they the shadows of the things that may be, only?” I asked the Spider.
I’d read the words somewhere, a long time ago. But there weren’t any shadows to speak of.
The Spider said nothing. But pointed again.
I shook my head. Kept walking. The Spider followed.
Click. Click. Click. Sticks creaking like knitting needles.
Day and night became impossible to distinguish as the dying sun grew weaker. Night only slightly darker. Time was passing. I guess.
Sometimes when I looked over my shoulder, the Spider had vanished, but something kept watch in absentia.
Shortly after my arrival, I came across skeletons, scattered like broken toys. Human. Animal. It didn’t matter. When stripped of skin, all looked the same.
No flesh. No faces. No colour. No gender. No names.
I stopped at one. A child’s skull, small and delicate. Obvious.
“Agatha,” I whispered. But it wasn’t her. It couldn’t be. Could it?
As I touched it, the skull dissolved into dust and blew away.
Yes. The wind blew. Neither gentle nor fierce. Indifferent.
It kept me company.
The Spider followed, but I’d all but forgotten it was there.
Clickety click. No. Still there.
I asked the Spirit again if these were the shadows of the things that will be, or that may be, only. It became a habit.
“It’s too late. Isn’t it? I missed my chance. We all missed our chance.”
The Spirit pointed. I kept walking.
My clothes became threads. Soon I was naked. But it didn’t matter. Not another soul to see me. I felt no shame.
Then, the wind stopped completely. Gone forever. And I missed it. I’d made a friend.
How it cheered me on, one step at a time, caring for my mental well-being. It had my back, lifted my mood as I took on this onerous journey. Its whistles and whispers sounded like voices. We’d played games like Whispering Secrets.
The wind would carry messages—cryptic, mysterious. I would endeavour to interpret the meaning. I won a point if I got it correct. Though the wind would often challenge me, changing its tone, volume or frequency.
I think the Spirit was jealous. It banished my friend.
Clickety click.
Then came a silence pressing against me. It weighed around my shoulders. My chains, I’d forged, link by link, yard by yard, trailing behind me, growing longer with each step.
I couldn’t sleep. Neither did the Spider. We kept walking. I did all of the talking. It listened.
I asked again if I could alter these shadows. Yes. Still believing I’d escape the Spirit’s vision.
But it stared back at me. Didn’t even raise its leg to point. Had it forgotten its mission?
Time had no meaning here. Myself my only companion. So we became close friends. We walked together, speaking our mind. Though conversation was mostly cyclical.
As we did my thoughts unraveled, spilling out like loose thread.
I tried to remember the sound of laughter. The taste of bread. The warmth of sunlight on my skin. But our memories slipped away, melting into the void.
I screamed into the emptiness, my voice swallowed by nothing.
“Why do you do it?” I shouted, turning to the Spider. “Do you take pleasure in making me suffer? Talk to me!”
The Spirit didn’t respond. Only clicked together its broken black sticks—a bonfire eager to spark. But the hourglass mark on its cloak—a cruel joke. Time flickered, but rarely flowed.
My limbs never grew tired, or failed me. As long as I kept moving. So I did.
When the grey dust descended from the sky, it painted the surface with grounds for hope.
“Would one day, life return?” I asked myself, rubbing the back of my neck. “Seeded from the heavens?”
“How could it? The sun’s dead. It never rains,” was my rather blunt response. “Can’t you see? Death. Extinction. Decay.”
I stopped talking to myself.
We could never agree—least of all on hope.
The dust drifted and rippled, the seabed shifting, making it difficult to walk in a straight line. But I ducked my head and kept going, the Spider, trailing behind.
Black sticks scraping together, a sound that grubbed into my ears.
“If this is what’s coming, why show me?” I yelled, waving my hands above me. “Why not just let me disappear?”
But the Spider’s silence meant stability.
And it came to me.
“I am as solitary as an oyster,” I said aloud, my voice cracking.
“For you, Spirit, are no company at all. You banished the wind. And I can’t talk to myself. For then I am evidently mad. But I’m not.”
I snorted. The sound fell dead in the emptiness. But then I drew my hand to my chin. And I paced side to side.
“An oyster,” I repeated. I thought about the oyster. I’d read that somewhere, too. Encased in its shell. Closed off. Stuck.
“No, wait a minute,” I said, stopping in my tracks. The Spider, all broken twigs, all but crashing into me before rearing up its tail.
“Not an oyster,” I blurted. “I’m something that moves.”
I crouched, my hands sinking into the dust, letting it sift through my fingers.
“A clam,” I whispered. “That’s what I am. Not much to look at, sure.”
I held up my finger. “But clams move. They dig themselves out. Inch by inch. They don’t just sit there, waiting to be pried open.”
And I shouted, “They make their own way. And so do I.”
I looked up at the Spider. It stood still, watching, many eyes glinting like black pearls.
“That’s what I’ll do,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’ll keep moving. Dig myself out. Inch by inch. I won’t be the oyster. I’ll be the clam.”
I turned to the Spider with a plan. One I’d walked with while talking to myself. It began as a fleck of an idea, a spark taking hold, drawing its fuel to burn from my thoughts. They weren’t dead.
But I should be. Dead.
“Please,” I begged, my voice cracking. “Take my life. End this. I can’t do it anymore.”
The Spider tilted its head, sticks twitching, sensing I had more.
“There’s nothing left,” I whispered. “No trees from which to hang myself. No oceans in which to drown. No buildings from which to jump. No weapons. Nothing. Just… nothing.”
I looked up at the Spider, my tears long since dried up.
“Please,” I said again. “I confess. Humanity’s crimes. My own. All of it. We destroyed everything. We burned it all. We deserve this. I lost hope. I could’ve done more. I see that now. I was afraid it wouldn’t matter—but it would’ve. It does. I won’t give up. I promise!”
The Spider moved closer, its legs clicking together. Broken black sticks all glued together. Click. Click. Click.
“Please,” I whispered, closing my eyes, bowing my head.
I waited for forgiveness.
It struck.
A deadly blow at the nape of my neck.
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