I thought I was done with them. That they were gone. But they would not leave my head. So, as another first for this site, may I present the first “Flash Fiction Trilogy” to ever grace Coolerbs Writes.
I have no idea if there will ever be another. Or even if I will finally be able to leave these characters alone. But until then, enjoy the third installment in this weird story about the end of this world.
If you haven’t already, I HIGHLY suggest you read “My Fingers Are Cold” and its sequel “My Feet Are Cold” before you even attempt this one.
For everyone else, let’s begin:
Our Hearts Are Cold
Our hearts are cold, so he snuggles up between us. He is warmth. He radiates it from every inch of his skin. From his still growing hair, to his hands no larger than our fists. He opens his eyes, and stares at us with those globes of pure yellow light.
We hug him tightly, and he responds with a gurgle and a smile. We haven’t come up with a name for him. The Child? The Infant? The Son of Sun? We don’t have to choose yet. If he is anything like us, he won’t grow for a long time. And will never die.
“We are so happy you are with us. We chased for something like you for a long time.”
He does not seem to understand our words, but hears our tone. He seems content with that much. And as a gift, he hands us a bone from a skeleton. He does not seem to understand what it was, or why it is there.
We take it from him, and he coos. We pat him on the head, and give him a final quick squeeze before allowing him to explore around again. We do not need to run, nor burn to stay warm anymore. Those embraces serve better than this world ever could.
He is deft, and walks towards the edge of the cliff, looking down at the burned-out forest, and the ash-tinted water. Where he stands the ground grows green. He likes the grass, and he may never be without it again.
He picks up the femur of a woman, and casts it over the edge. It hits the pond below and the ripples spreads across the surface. He watches it for a time. And then he puckers his lips and breathes towards it. The surface ripples again, and the ash purges into oblivion.
He moves even closer. And with the speed of one of us, we catch him and bring him back for another hug.
We are surprised to hear him speak. We gasp as one. He keeps both of his arms on us, one to each, and looks with those eyes so bright they almost blind. “Mother, father?”
“Yes. I suppose we are.”
It appears those are the only words he knows, and he leans back into the hug. We feel an emotion we are not sure we have a word for, somewhere inside our souls. We look at each other, and we decide on the name.
He perks up at the words. Reaching up into the air like he could catch them. He taps his chest with his tiny, tiny hands.
“Yes. It suits you.”
“Mother. Father. The Innocent.”
We place him on the grass in front of us, and sit down. He mimics us, lowering himself with a soft plop.
We point at our male half.
We point at our female half.
He nods with each. And seems to glow around his edges. A warm breeze runs across the hilltops, and makes the skeletons whisper a new word. Our child repeats it.
We lean against ourselves. But keep our eyes on him.
“Yes. Until this world ends again.”
Special thanks to: Bob Gerkin, Collin Pearman, Dylan Alexander, Jerry Banfield, Michael The Comic Nerd, Nitesh Sah, Pulsatilla Pratensis, SuperGoof Media, Thomas J. West, and Zeony.
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