Nobody's Flower

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. What I enjoy most about traveling is the way lava floats in ether, and there's no trace of who came before. Or who died. Memories are fine; keeping dead bodies exhausts me.

We've been over funerals, cremations, and such ever since the Planet got so crowded there wasn't room to keep the breathing souls. Let alone give hills to graves. Be they as deserving as any.

Millenia ago, we lived on green Earth and roamed the fires. Chasing like flies, all that caught eye or lust. This Planet we have come to call home is different.

No tree would stay for weeks; flowers dry up in seconds. And still, I wouldn't go home anywhere else. Mother, father... those family ties were lost eons back. We're all separate, come from the Whole Being. No one knows how. We wake up grown up. Children don't run or play. Stories are a dream we lost on our way here.

And where is here?

This used to be called Moon. Before a tiny volcano seed landed on it. We came to visit, but we stayed. As one explosion after another wiped out living dust on Earth, that ancient dwelling, ships whisked survivors away as fast as possible. Even so, most were caught in the impact of the destruction.

The few left to endure knew about the Moon. They couldn't take moondust for meals. That was the second killing spree.

We landed here with no provisions. Fruits, vegetables, bread, or any luxury we had were gone forever.

How did we live on? Moondust fed us. More than half died in the attempt. Their insides couldn't handle it, or the taste just sucked out their wits. Be that as it may, it wasn't crowded in a matter of months.

And those of us who made it were changed. Faces, past, memories, and bodies worked differently. Flying was no longer an issue. Fuel came from our own bodies. The air wasn't poison, and we became young. Not teenagers, grown adults with new faces. Organs worked better, and cancer and all diseases vanished.

Mirrors were shattered at the same time. We were young, but we looked altered, distinct from any life form. No one would call us humans now, but that's what we used to be.

Ten arms where we had one, four feet instead of two. Eyes around the head, no hair. A life that goes on for hundreds, possibly thousands of years.

We have become weapons

Our own weapons. To destroy any threat, seen or its shadow. We harbor no love, no fear. This moondust that we forge leaves traces. Fingerprints on the heart. Ultrasound checks showed how it obliterated diseases starting with the heart. But the dust grows on top of it. And feelings stop.

All looks are mute. No fear is also no loss. Strength on your own. By yourself. Love ended when the moon volcano set everything smoldering.

We were burned beyond recall; faces changed once more. No one remembers if they were a man or woman before. If they cared about anyone at all. Or what it means to be in love.

We dwell separately. No children are born. Yet we receive new adults every few months. Moondust takes away worries, but it burns a hole in the memory. Days disconnected. Starting, ending. Living again just like a hundred years before.

Something is hiding in the holes. Green lights are all I see when I guide my mind deep. Then pain stops thinking; I go back. I'm here. I don't have a name; none of us do.

We're known by a tattoo on our fingers. A cosmic shape of globes, different for each. It can't be said aloud or read. I tried it once, and a blistering echo made us all faint.

Invincible or conquered. Moondust is our feed; we slave to it daily. We're now its moving masses.

I would like just one mirror. Not to see me, to catch the vision around corners when moon storms start. Are we alone here or pets?

© 2022 Amy Christie