The place looks familiar, but it also feels rather strange that he remembers it without actually remembering it. He’s been here before, but can’t figure out why that matters enough to stop him in his tracks.
The groaning, shambling horde has since crossed the bridge, with only two of them tumbling off the edge into the water—the canal; and yet, here he still stands, chewing thoughtfully on a takeaway hand, drawing in a lungful of the now stale air as reminiscence of a surprise proposal trip he took with his girlfriend starts to spark life back into his undead mind.
He chokes on something and now has half the mind to spit it out into his gray palm. The diamond ring looks familiar, too; he wishes he could just forget again.
The slab of stone has been touted as the greatest archaeological find of his generation.
Sure, Fru finds the markings on it especially fascinating, showing what could well be the oldest writing system known to date. Some over-thinkers and creative minds have even suggested the possibility of a secret message–a prophecy, a warning–hidden behind the squiggles and shapes of black, white and green, framed by a broken layer of ancient glass, too thick and too solid to be of any use today.
Half the world is already neck-deep in unraveling the mysteries of this latest historical enigma. And Fru’s just here wondering why their ancestors, who lived in a supposedly advanced society some 100,00 years ago, were still writing on walls.
The path is paved in rainbow colors, the symbol of hope. At one end of which stands a pale blue structure– pristine and untouched by the devastation that swept through the rest of what was once a lively town. The Girl takes one last look at it and for the first time sees it for what it really is–four walls and a roof.
Turning on legs already wobbled by the plague that killed her community, she catches sight of a faint dash of rainbow in the sky. No pot of gold or empty promises of eternal salvation at the end of it. Just plain hope for another day.
For the first time in centuries, the Elf Queen sits on the grass.
Being here, away from the chaos of her kingdom, gives her pause to remember the young, idealistic ruler she once was before power, ambition and the court’s dirty politics corrupted her compassionate heart.
She sighs after a while, giving the executioner her sincerest, most benevolent smile, “I’m ready.”
Tim was just about to nod off into oblivion when Mrs. Lu, their usually uninspired science professor, brought out a photo of the alleged alien species that was photographed millions of light years ago on some primitive planetary system in some faraway galaxy that had yet to learn the wonders of a synthetic sun—no wonder this one looked so strange with its fluffy white skin and faceless bubble head.
“What’s it called?” he asked, his four hands and five feet already fidgeting in anticipation.
Three of Mrs. Lu’s eyes took on a pensive gleam, the other three fixing themselves on Tim, only one of which glinted with certainty, “I believe they call themselves ‘mankind’…”