Them Percy Shelley Blues

John believed in the sanctity of life. Well as much as he believed in anything, John believed in the sanctity of life. Only damn thing worth defending, truth be told. He knew people had a real hard-on for possessions and ownership, but that was never really his bag, so to speak. You used them, they broke, you got more. Nothing lasts forever out here. People, objects, empires; they’d all be dust by the end.

There’s a point at the end of a life, where a human passes from life to object. As John saw it, though this was a single second in time, it meant the world of difference. Life was worth protecting, objects were not. Not to say he was one of those guys that got off on eating human flesh, but corpses, bones, any of that sort of thing sat fine with him. Just another object that used to belong to someone else. Someone else who hadn’t lasted forever.

These particular bones hadn’t belonged to anyone in a long time. They sat in the entrance to a cave, picked clean and incomplete. John was confident he’d had worse company in his time. The cave was far from perfect. Shallow, sparse, and with a dampness whose origin John could not determine. Barring a few puddles and the small pile of bones, the cave was completely bare. But it was tall, and the Sun was setting behind it, so it would do.

He dumped his pack in the dust, which stirred and settled in the gentle breeze, before producing a scuffed lighter. He snapped it open and lit it, the flame trembling brightly in the dying light. Some bloke at a rest stop had told him once that using a lighter to light your campfire was a bitch effort. Real men, he said, had the survival skills to light a fire using flint, or friction, or some other bullshit. Survival skills. The bombs dropped long ago. John was still here, just the same as this guy. He didn’t stay too long at that rest stop. If he’d wanted to sit around measuring cocks with the other drifters he would have brought a ruler.

In the dim light he could see a bit of refuse. Damaged timber, old planks, weeds. He gathered it by the entrance to the cave and arranged it in a pile. Survival skills. The weeds hissed and fizzled, refusing to hold a flame. He looked back towards his pack, hoping for some scrap paper or other such garbage that might be lurking deep within, when he noticed a satchel nestled in amongst the pile of bones. He stretched over to grab it, disturbing a few ribs as he yanked the strap.

He found a few books inside. Good condition, but yellowed. They looked to be from the old days, with pictures of some kind of huge sea creature on one, and a man holding a skull on the other. John thought for a second they might be worth something, but he couldn’t be sure. They were worth more to him as kindling if it meant he got through the night. He tore a couple of pages from the back of one of the books and placed them under his pile of wood before setting them alight. The fire danced about the paper, licking, consuming, and ultimately catching.

First the paper caught, then the damaged, splintering timber. A little bit of blowing here and there, and finally flames began to curl at the edge of the planks. As the fire began to breathe on its own, John retrieved a few essentials from his pack; a third of a fifth of whiskey, a deck of cigs, and threw his pack back down next to the fire. He laid back, resting his head on his pack and watching the tower of smoke rising from his handiwork make its way to the stars. Never reaching, but striving nonetheless.

Lighting a cigarette and taking a draw from his whiskey, John realised he hadn’t searched the skeleton’s satchel properly. It felt empty as he grabbed it, but it never hurt to check properly. He reached around inside, then flipped the satchel upside down and shook it a couple of times. On the final shake, a silver, heart shaped locket fell from within, landing with a light thud in the dust beside him.

The firelight danced across its dull shell, worn from whatever trials its previous owner had been put through. Its chain was chipped, but still did the job. John held it in his hand. He felt the grazes on the locket against the grazes on his palm. Similar stories in different languages. As his thumb caressed the jewellery’s edge, he felt a small latch. The locket sprung open at its push, revealing a picture of a couple in front of a large, angular building with big white sails. It was definitely from before. Nothing like that existed anymore, not that large, not that pretty, and definitely not that clean. But John had a glimmer of recognition. He’d seen it somewhere before.

There was another person at the rest stop with Mr Survival Skills. Ms Books. As the name John bestowed upon her would imply, she had a lot of books. From the old days, mostly. She talked about the art and literature of the old days and how it could never be recreated again now that it had been lost. She read John a poem about some guy named Ozzy Man, or something like that, whose empire was forgotten except for a worn monument to his arrogance. She told John about a beautiful building from the old days in a place called ‘Sydney’, where thousands of people would pay to watch other people dance, and sing, and act, every night of week. She had a picture of it in one of his books; the big building with the angular, white sails.

He stared at the picture in the locket, imagining the people moving in and out of the building to watch their shows. He drank more whiskey and sighed. Ms Books was nice enough, to be sure. Damn sight better company than Mr Survival Skills. But John felt there was a hypocrisy to her worldview. How could she marvel at a poem about the ruins of an arrogant king’s empire but still stand in awe of the crumbled empire it came from? ‘Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair?’ John had laughed at that line, much to the annoyance of Ms Books.

Ms Books wasn’t alone in the wastes. John had met plenty like her. Literate types, folks of culture that gushed about history and art, but who were not blessed with what you’d call critical engagement. So fixated on the grandeur of how things were that they pay no mind to how things are, or could be. They didn’t call it the ‘end of the world’ for nothing. That world was done. There were lessons to learn, mistakes to be avoided, but today and tomorrow were all that was left. Living in the moment; that was John’s survival skill.

A creature howled in the distance. John paid it no mind. He held the locket in his hand a second longer, before snapping it shut. The people in the photo had lived for their today, he felt. They went out, they went to the big, white building. Hell, maybe they took in a show. But they were gone, their world blown to hell, and the locket was with him. He unfastened the clasp on the chain and placed it around his neck, tucking the locket inside his shirt. Warmed by his hands and the fire, the locket felt soothing on his skin, faintly reflecting the beating of his heart. He closed his eyes, gently cradling the whiskey at his side. When they next opened, he would be in the midst of another today. That’s where his attention would be.