Tell A Tale in 500 Words
Silent Footsteps By Anthony Morgan-Clark
At the end of all things.
I am the silent runner. I cross cities that crumble in my wake. I cross fields of grass wilting under my feet. I pass through forests, leave a carpet of leaves to rot, hear oak and ash and beech fall to the ground. Foxes die in my wake. I drift through hospices, move through hospitals. I lay my fingers upon the weak, the sick and the elderly. I am the black ice on the road at midnight. I follow loggers through the Amazon, forage through conflict and warfare, trail chemicals through rivers, trail oil over the ocean. When the Earth quakes, I am there amongst the rubble. When it spews lava I am of the ash.
I have seen it all. Disease, destruction and despair. I have marked the end of individuals and civilisations, of cultures and species. I was there at the first breath, the first creation, waiting. I am inevitable.
I go everywhere. And everywhere I go, she follows. Sometimes she is but a step behind; sometimes a season; sometimes a lifetime. I cannot see her, though proof of her lies all around.
She’s the green shoots in the barren field. She is the fresh spring blooms colouring winter branches. She is the baby’s cry chasing funerals.
Always we chase each other. I was at the first breath; she was the first breath. I was waiting at the first creation; she was the first creation. She was there before me, she was there after me, and I am there after her.
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