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body div#devskin0 hr { }

It was early Autumn when it happened, and deceptively sunny. The sky was bright and clear, but the touches of copper and gold upon the trees betrayed the true season. My grandmother, sixteen years old at the time, stood shivering by her sister's grave. A chill seeped into her bones, settling deep inside her chest. Her heart told her something was wrong, and it had nothing at all to do with the weather. In the ground beneath her feet she could feel something stirring; rousing, maybe. It was the day the Earth spat back out those who had done it so much harm. It was the beginning of the Happening, and the humans that got back up from their fall weren't humans at all.

She didn't drop the flowers she was holding, not even when the ground tore itself apart. I suppose she told me that it was fear that kept her rooted to the spot, but having seen them first hand too, I know it to be fascination. There was always something that appealed to us about being rejected even by death, strange as that seems. No, she didn't flee at first, not until she looked to fire at the whites of their eyes, and saw only empty sockets staring back.

I still remember the dread I felt when she told me her story first. I had grown up when the Happening had mostly died down, and only a few hazy memories remained: cold underground bunkers, stifled sobs from children at school, the outcry when they told us on the radio that a few of them would be kept alive for research. There was no metallic scent of blood lingering in my nostrils, nor any trauma lingering in my mind. I hadn't even seen my parents fall, let alone humanity. But my grandmother had seen both, and the tale she told me of the that day changed me. It made me want to be a scientist, I think, although I didn't realise it until some years later. It made me decide to take up the chance of working with them, so I that I could delve into the workings of their brains... or lack thereof, perhaps (the guys working on dissection like to drop hints over lunch some days). You could call it morbid curiosity -- hell knows everyone else does these days -- but my grandmother's tale was always a bitter reminder of times past when we couldn't afford to merely hide away.

I guess that's why I'm here as I am today, watching one of them slowly gnaw away at the bone in my hand.

I always imagined their manner of eating to be far removed from what I see in front of me. Are they really so consumed with lethargy that they can't even seek flesh with passion? Or is it just that they need human brains, not mere animal blood, to sustain the tenuous grip they have on life? A scream ricochets around the room. I turn around -- a cleaner is watching me, it, and the chewing motion, and then is gone before I can explain this overstepping of boundaries. You see, I had to get closer to one myself, today. I don't know what it was. I had to outstretch my arm and watch it feed like that, just to see. I don't know what to see; just to see, is all.

Behind a pane of glass, the limbs of a tree fork like a tongue, cleaving my view beyond the window. It isn't Autumn yet. I don't think so, at least, but I'll have to go outside and check each leaf individually to be sure. I glance a metal bench underneath the tree; the perfect place to sit awhile and carry out my inspection. Thing is, the universe is a cycle of life and death, growth and decay, as my grandmother used to say. The world around is like a nature morte; when you first look, everything is green and flourishing, but the closer you peer, the more you see death's roots slowly splitting the life apart.

I wince as I try to open the heavy door, its weight crushing against my hand. The sunshine is blinding. I feel a breeze pass through me with a hiss and remember my grandmother humming an old song.

"morning found us calmly unaware,
noon burn gold into our hair"

The lyrics spiral around and around in my head like a coiling snake. What was the title, again? I reach for it lazily, but it slivers from my grasp. Instead, I focus on the way the wet grass sounds under my feet, as if to preserve it in my mind like a polaroid. Deep in thought, I trip over something, and fear seizes me as I tumble to the ground face-first. The dew soaks my lab coat through, making me shiver. I pick up a bruised apple lying beside me and realise I should have taken the path rather than cutting across the grass. Suddenly, a swarm of black specks -- ants -- erupts over the apple, consuming it entirely. I drop it immediately, shaking off the ants that try to cling to my hand.

I feel shaken; need to sit down and catch my breath back. And then I can perform the inspection properly. I reach the bench quickly enough, shuddering at the cold touch of the metal, frigid and sterile as a laboratory. Seated now, I try to remember all the steps of the inspection, knowing if I miss even one it could spell disaster. I roll up my sleeves, wondering at the way the light flakes away under the branches of the trees. La lumière qui se détache/ Sous les pellicules du temps. I trace my parchment skin and it flakes to the touch, sheds a layer of dust. Dust to dust. I check each leaf for blemishes, each patch of skin for bites. Both come up clean; litmus-paper green.

And it is only when the breeze shivers through me again that I think to check the back of the tree, the back of my hands. A leaf, diseased with autumn. A bite. A bite I knew was there all along. The disease spreads like the blemish on a leaf. I sit and watch the first one fall.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

It was early Autumn when it happened, and deceptively sunny. The sky was bright and clear, but the touches of copper and gold upon the trees betrayed the true season. My grandmother, sixteen years old at the time, stood shivering by her sister's grave. A chill seeped into her bones, settling deep inside her chest. Her heart told her something was wrong, and it had nothing at all to do with the weather. In the ground beneath her feet she could feel something stirring; rousing, maybe. It was the day the Earth spat back out those who had done it so much harm. It was the beginning of the Happening, and the humans that got back up from their fall weren't humans at all.

She didn't drop the flowers she was holding, not even when the ground tore itself apart. I suppose she told me that it was fear that kept her rooted to the spot, but having seen them first hand too, I know it to be fascination. There was always something that appealed to us about being rejected even by death, strange as that seems. No, she didn't flee at first, not until she looked to fire at the whites of their eyes, and saw only empty sockets staring back.

I still remember the dread I felt when she told me her story first. I had grown up when the Happening had mostly died down, and only a few hazy memories remained: cold underground bunkers, stifled sobs from children at school, the outcry when they told us on the radio that a few of them would be kept alive for research. There was no metallic scent of blood lingering in my nostrils, nor any trauma lingering in my mind. I hadn't even seen my parents fall, let alone humanity. But my grandmother had seen both, and the tale she told me of the that day changed me. It made me want to be a scientist, I think, although I didn't realise it until some years later. It made me decide to take up the chance of working with them, so I that I could delve into the workings of their brains... or lack thereof, perhaps (the guys working on dissection like to drop hints over lunch some days). You could call it morbid curiosity -- hell knows everyone else does these days -- but my grandmother's tale was always a bitter reminder of times past when we couldn't afford to merely hide away.

I guess that's why I'm here as I am today, watching one of them slowly gnaw away at the bone in my hand.

I always imagined their manner of eating to be far removed from what I see in front of me. Are they really so consumed with lethargy that they can't even seek flesh with passion? Or is it just that they need human brains, not mere animal blood, to sustain the tenuous grip they have on life? A scream ricochets around the room. I turn around -- a cleaner is watching me, it, and the chewing motion, and then is gone before I can explain this overstepping of boundaries. You see, I had to get closer to one myself, today. I don't know what it was. I had to outstretch my arm and watch it feed like that, just to see. I don't know what to see; just to see, is all.

Behind a pane of glass, the limbs of a tree fork like a tongue, cleaving my view beyond the window. It isn't Autumn yet. I don't think so, at least, but I'll have to go outside and check each leaf individually to be sure. I glance a metal bench underneath the tree; the perfect place to sit awhile and carry out my inspection. Thing is, the universe is a cycle of life and death, growth and decay, as my grandmother used to say. The world around is like a nature morte; when you first look, everything is green and flourishing, but the closer you peer, the more you see death's roots slowly splitting the life apart.

I wince as I try to open the heavy door, its weight crushing against my hand. The sunshine is blinding. I feel a breeze pass through me with a hiss and remember my grandmother humming an old song.

"morning found us calmly unaware,
noon burn gold into our hair"

The lyrics spiral around and around in my head like a coiling snake. What was the title, again? I reach for it lazily, but it slivers from my grasp. Instead, I focus on the way the wet grass sounds under my feet, as if to preserve it in my mind like a polaroid. Deep in thought, I trip over something, and fear seizes me as I tumble to the ground face-first. The dew soaks my lab coat through, making me shiver. I pick up a bruised apple lying beside me and realise I should have taken the path rather than cutting across the grass. Suddenly, a swarm of black specks -- ants -- erupts over the apple, consuming it entirely. I drop it immediately, shaking off the ants that try to cling to my hand.

I feel shaken; need to sit down and catch my breath back. And then I can perform the inspection properly. I reach the bench quickly enough, shuddering at the cold touch of the metal, frigid and sterile as a laboratory. Seated now, I try to remember all the steps of the inspection, knowing if I miss even one it could spell disaster. I roll up my sleeves, wondering at the way the light flakes away under the branches of the trees. La lumière qui se détache/ Sous les pellicules du temps. I trace my parchment skin and it flakes to the touch, sheds a layer of dust. Dust to dust. I check each leaf for blemishes, each patch of skin for bites. Both come up clean; litmus-paper green.

And it is only when the breeze shivers through me again that I think to check the back of the tree, the back of my hands. A leaf, diseased with autumn. A bite. A bite I knew was there all along. The disease spreads like the blemish on a leaf. I sit and watch the first one fall.