Epilogue: One Last Story
In a reflective tale, a storyteller shares memories of a world lost to technology, contrasting nature's beauty with urban decay.
You’ve reached the end of the line. But Murph’s descent into memory, magic, and rebellion begins here, when the Teller first shares his story:
Prologue: Tell another one
A small hand tugs at my cloak.
“Mister, what’s that in your hands.”
“My book?”
“Book?”
“Yes, stories, child they’re made of words and we put those in books.”
“More stories?”
“Yes, plenty.”
“Can you tell another?”
“I best be going, little one.”
“Please?”
“Alright, a short one about the time before when technology swallowed the world,” I thumbed through my weathered tome to find one less bloody and grim. Cleared my throat and started true.
When I was young the skies were blue, the fields were green, and the animals roamed. Now the fires burn and the skies are grey. The hills lie covered in concrete. These small boxes hold the dreams of man, while skeletal trees plead ever upwards.
Oh, I remember the cries of the fish eagle, piercing and wild, seeking and circling. It flew above my home on quiet days, we’d stop and listen, smile and give thanks. Now the skies hum and whirr with delivery birds. At the beck and call of Consumption’s Beast.
The rain fails, then falls in floods. It stings and spits. The sky cracks and down it comes, flashing and crashing through houses of tin and borrowed screws. The banks crumble and break as forewarned, new lakes appearing overnight, knee deep in our living room.
Our city grows. It absorbs more wayward souls from the rural past. Welcoming the starry eyed into the city lights. A life of hard work under a hot sun, given up for long nights under harsh lights. Faceless and forgotten in the shantytown, less known than at home where the postman called by name.
Gone are the wild edges, the mountain cats and the baboon troops. Land is precious, people are plenty, up go the arms and down come the trees. The city has swallowed whole the rivers, the lakes, the forests, and the seas. Nothing scurries or crawls, but hungry men, no beetles or bees in our cities.
This city was beautiful, wedged between mountain and sea. An isle of man, within nature’s bosom. Stand on our roof and you’d see her, three sides of our valley. She stood and smiled. Now stand on our roof and take your chances. Shots fired, the cops are tired.
The city is everywhere.
Hmm, cops? People who used to protect you from bad people.
No more of those, little one. No more of those.