Mongrels

We believe that we always existed like this. It is horrible to think of it any other way, and when we do, we construct a list: Wonder. Ask. Accept.

And thus we’ve landed back on our original belief. This is how we have always been. Before we moved in herds, we were at a standstill. And before that, we were moving once again.

Our fathers command us and our mothers scold us whenever we dawdle over it. Doubts will slow us, they say, those who cannot keep up are left to succumb.

We accept these words as we are the quickest then. We lead with our fathers and mothers close behind ready to call for us to rest. We often wish to travel further. To scout the risks ahead. But their old legs tire fast. We are unwise to the scope of things our parents say.

We settle in spots of shade so that a count may begin. We display heart-shaped, clasped shells each containing our names when asked. Our mothers call us their pride.

The slowest of us have fallen to the back and hold up their markers. There are less than before. They consist of not just aged legs, but arms and bodies. Their eyes can hardly take in our silhouettes. Their ears hear no calls to lead them. Their voices crack like stamped-out flames. The few here are lucky to have made it.

Our mothers tell us that those who did not are reclaimed by an eternal state. A lulling of the body and mind. Their spirits persist without consciousness.

Give us a name for it, we implore.

There is no title that could fit, is always their response.

Once we have rested, we return to our positions. We ask to be let loose, and soon we are bounding ahead. Too far, some will shout from further back, and we’ll reel back in, fearful of our sudden bravery.

We travel far until even our legs cannot endure the strain and the light diminishes. We take count once again. Twice as many have been lost as before. We are silent as our fathers tell us to rest.

We lay still in the dark, listening to and feeling our breath exit and enter through our mouths. We think about it as we do it. We wonder. Perhaps we will wait in this place for too long, and something will come along to quiet our noise. We won’t even be aware when it comes.

One of us calls out over the tune of our frightened breaths. We listen as their steps take them away from our camp back from where we have traveled. In the morning we count. One less than before. Our mothers and fathers weep at their loss.

We travel forward with them. We feel our prior fear in them and surge forward to prove to ourselves that we are indomitable. We hang our pride on the length of each step bursting forward onto previously untouched and unknown land. We look back in hopes of seeing their confidence renewed.

We become unsteady as we lead. We slip back to be even with them. We survey the world as they do. We begin to wonder if we have always been like this. We ask expecting a no. We accept it as such and hold our place anticipating a sudden change. The others race beyond us, their terror driving them away.

Bit by bit, we begin to fall apart. We can’t give a name to it, but we can describe it. As we crumble, we recollect on our fears now passed and the calm therein. Before we can attempt a breath we feel an intense burning as images push through us of what we were prior. We see the glow of bright lights and vessels that could carry us distances and speeds we couldn’t hope to reach. We see the coming together of friends. We see the embrace of lovers. We wonder if we can return to it. And then we feel the burning grow. And we feel the hate in words and weapons. We feel cruelty in our youth and the ire born there. We try to force our way through it. We try and try to quell it as we pass before we finally float out unaware.