(CIRKUMFLEKS)Magazine

A Worm is a Bird and Other Bad
Dwarfed by their enemy, the two of them run between the shrapnel from
exploding Zeppelins, amongst the falling debris of their once proud fleet. “We
fell two hundred feet and survived, Mr. Bailey. Maybe we yet have purpose in
this terrible series of events?” She points towards the Flight Academy, a giant
amongst the Parisian landscape. “The project, Bailey. There’s a chance it’s
not damaged.” He calls, “What project?”
She dodges the back end of a molten statue, as it shakes loose from the top
of a building, the cause of its crumbling, quite obviously, another fallen ship.
She drags him into a side alley with buildings still attached and points
towards the Flight Academy. “It’s said the French government were working
on a way to drag these worms from the ground, just like they’ve plucked our
ships from the sky.” She grins. “A reversal of physics sounds much more
palatable than death, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Bailey?”
He smiles at last. They run, towards the Flight Academy, a dream of
something to cure this infestation speeding them past the dangers all around.
Flashing by are all the possible avenues for failure, the alternatives, which
shadow victory, the chance that death will take them, sooner, like everyone
else around.
As they continue to run, Captain Deckard, hollers. “It’s three streets away, we
can get there. It’s supposed to be in the lower levels.”
Bailey isn’t so hopeful. “What if this project’s gone?”
She growls at him. “I lost eighteen good men and women back there. Don’t
make me regret you survived!”
He stops and waves his arms at the chaos, pulling her backwards. “But look
around you! If this miraculous project existed, these worms would be in the
sky already!”
She pulls him forward, and they begin running again, but she takes a second
to reply. “If it’s gone, we’ll flee the city. Watch the world crumble as we get
drunk on French wine.” She ducks as shrapnel from an explosion skims close
to her face. “If we survive this, I’ll gladly join you. But not yet.”
They speed up, as the rain turns to ash. It would have been spring, but this
carnage has stripped Paris of its season. Apart from the cherry blossom,
which fall between the cracks. Pink tears, from trees mourning for the tourists
who worshiped their beauty, before the worms came. Deckard slows, as they
reach a row of cherry trees. She stops to reflect, to watch events beyond her.
Death doesn’t discriminate, doesn’t care about daughters or husbands, or
those left behind. It’s rolling back its eyes and laughing as it reminds her of
New York; of a place she never wanted to look back on.
(CIRKUMFLEKS)Magazine 2.2012