Chessboard

Thunder cackled. Lightning rose. Winds howled. The air was burning. The ground was drowning. Water everywhere. Fire everywhere else. Smoke drifted through the air, lit up by the cracks of lightning, the whips of electricity sparkling through the air. It was black, enveloping, almost as if it would suck you in, would eat you. The ground felt muddy, and yet as if it was so dry that it would crack open. Heads felt heavy in this, as if in a daze, a fog from whence they would not return. The air tasted of burnt water. Droplets singeing your tongue soon as they dropped on it. Letting us steam, leaving a painful sore on your tongue. Yet, none cared anymore, those that were outside were dead, or uncaring. They walked around in a daze, uncertain, unknowing. They had blinded themselves, let their animal parts take over their minds, for the intelligence of humans could not survive, could not grasp this new world. They had allowed themselves to be dumbed down, had forced themselves, like they had once suppressed the intelligence of those they had been created to safeguard.

The chessboard cracked louder than the whips of thunder, hungrier than the grumbling of the clouds. Roared louder than the shadow rajah had, even though that was heard all over the world, and this was only heard by those that had a part to play: the boy, and the girl in the forest, the watcher, the doctor, the patient, the three, the celestials. The crack was meant as a warning. The time was coming ever closer. The pieces must be in place. And yet, the game must go on. On and on and on. Never to stop. Just keep flying onwards. With every push, every shove. It went on, and went flying. Onwards and upwards. To infinity and beyond.

In infinity, the three sat in silence. Two were uncaring, unaware. Waiting for the clock to strike so they could return. Their eyes closed, patient. Waiting. Life went on. Too bad for the life that didn’t. They were only there to split atoms, and to oversee time. Respectively. They had no other purpose. Neither did the third. But she sat worried. Her eyes closed. Her siblings would not recognize her emotions. She was the one who saw and understood them. Her siblings understood physics and the space time continuum. She understood living beings. She wrote their stories, after all. She sat cross legged. Worried. The authoress was worried. The pages were removed from her memory. And she was not used to that. She hadn’t told her siblings, but unlike them, she could see what was happening below. In bits and pieces. But it was something. She couldn’t make out the patterns. And strain as she might, she didn’t understand what would happen next. As things happened though, they made her more and more concerned. It did not look as if they were going in a direction that would be conducive to a happy ending. She sat, worried.