It is quiet. I sit in the middle of the Serengeti Plain on the branches of an acacia. Below a pride of lions lounge languidly, the alpha male licking his magnificent balls. Call me risk perverse. I like living on the edge. Got to get your kicks somewhere. The world is recast in quicksilver beneath the full-term moon. The stars looked fresher somehow, I swear, as though they’ve just been turned on by some celestial celebrity on Alpha Centauri. A comet streaks across the sky, its velocity setting it on fire. The faster we go, the brighter we burn. Somewhere curious eyes look up and wonder, mankind a twinkle beneath heavy brows. A pack of hunter-gatherer hominids make their way across the uncharted savannah, a slight ripple and then they’re gone. Time has not even been invented yet. The idea of a ‘new year’ is a concept of the far future. Yet you couldn’t get much newer than this (speaking anthropocentrically). I hum a wordless song.
The old ones are the best.
(1 of 12 connected flash fictions written by Kevan Manwaring, dedicated to David Bowie 1947-2016, and published here to mark the first anniversary of the passing of a visionary starman & much-missed musical genius. ‘Look up here, I’m in Heaven…’).
Copyright © Kevan Manwaring 2016