there were three

Glittering skies. Cackling fire. The smell of pine and fur. Trees swaying to the wind, dancing to the breeze. Spreading the love all around. The trees were tall, motherly, casting their comforting canopy all around. The spot was slowly turning, the meat browning, and the smells luscious. Endearing. Primal. The touch, well the feel of the air was that it was clean. You could put your fingers through it effortlessly, it giggled as you pushed through it, ticking you.

Three say by the fire. Two men, one woman. One of them was twirling rocks between his fingers, trying to see if they would crumble. If they did, he would try to put them back. More often than not, he would fail. But the times he did succeed, the joy on his face lit louder than the glow of the fire.

One of them sat hunched over. Using a stick she had made when they had made camp to scribble in the sand. She was drawing pictures that told stories. She had these visions, this desire to tell stories. And so she did. She might not be the smartest of the three, it was unclear who was, but she had the biggest heart. 

Her man sat cross legged. Eyes closed. Elbows on knees, hands palm up, index, thumb, and middle fingers closed in a pinch. To him, the world was happening, had happened, and would happen. He sometimes did not make sense for the other two, but they accepted him. He was her man.

The other one was her brother. They formed a camaraderie that in the early days of this simulation was unheard of. No cheating. No backstabbing. Just teamwork. It came natural, effortlessly to them. That was why they had survived this long. They could be called the forefathers of intelligent life, but they would not have children. None of them would. But theirs was the way that humans would move forward. Banding together to fight the things that were stronger and faster than them, on this great big, blue ball of gas, and water, and fire, spinning around in a universe that barely cared.

The fire cackled. They each went about their things, musing. A wolf howled, not so far away. The woman and her brother opened their eyes, cocked their ears, her man kept them closed. Her brother stood up, on alert while she put out the fire. The meat was done anyways. She covered it with a cloth. Her brother had grabbed the stick he kept sharpened for just this situation and held it in front of him. His hands were shaking. Strange, she thought. This was not how the story usually went. He was solid, hard. Stoic. Her man opened his eyes, and looked into hers. She could not decipher the look. It was filled with pity, seething, scorching sorrow. He closed them again. The wolf jumped out from somewhere, and faster than he could move the stick, sunk its teeth into her brother’s throat. He could not even scream. Her voice, her throat was choking up. It made fast work of her man. If she were to write this, she would wonder why it was only killing them, somewhere deep inside, she knew instinctively that it would not eat them. This was its purpose. She would write about why it glowed purple. Then she too, would die.