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Wyvern Lit
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Three Endlings

Fiction by Joel Hans

Opal Feldwing

            The opal feldwing lands on a birdbath and says hello to a bird of another species also standing along the rim.

            The bird says hello back, and for a while they take turns keeping watch, sipping from the stillwater.

            Do you ever think about things bigger than yourself, the opal feldwing asks.

            Bigger in size, you mean, like that tree, the other bird asks, but the opal feldwing shakes its head.

            There is a shadow and they reconvene on a nearby tree branch.

            Do you ever have feelings, the opal feldwing asks.

            Maybe, the other bird says and sings a short melody to try to remember.

            There is a sound and all of a sudden they are flying together south, or almost together—a few wingspans apart, roughly equal elevations.

            Do you ever think about those who have gone, the opal feldwing asks.


            Yes, gone.

            The other bird says, I don’t understand.

            The opal feldwing says, Gone is what they are when they are not here.

            Oh, the other bird says and sighs.

            There is hawk overhead and in a moment the other bird is no longer an other, but alone. It dives for safety without the opal feldwing in tow.

            And it feels that gone is gone is forever and sings a short melody to try to lighten the mood.


Gray Flix

            Five gray flix stand on the last patch of land. The ocean is still swelling and seems purposeful in its effort to flood all of everything. They stand huddled, whispering, wanting. Throats scarred scarce from saltwater and blue emptiness.

            Ocean laces their ankles and leaves behind ringlets of darkened fur and here is all they think: This is how we die. This is how we die, shells of our old bodies, fur laced in wet. Emptied of pelage. This is how we die, our mouths open always and spilling out landlocked promises that will only sink and seek out dark. This is how we die, bones buried at sea, bones become water, become the very flooding that takes us.

            The five gray flix nuzzle their faces into one another and listen to each other’s breathing. When they start to daydream, those breaths sound like waves crashing.

            And soon enough, they are.


Martian Globule

            The Martian globules start dying when the black sky dotted white becomes hazy. They thrived for millenia on extreme temperatures and radiation and cannot withstand the consistent cold.

            With the last of their strength, they assemble atop their rock and watch the sky turn.

            There is nothing we can do, the globules wiggle. We tried our best to become more than globules but that was never meant for our future.

            Beneath the newly-hazy sky and blue-gray tendrils of anti-sun they are cold and press their bodies together.

            They wish for other methods of communicating, more than shaking their bodies to different frequencies.

            That way, they could seek out the new creatures from beyond the sky, the ones that have brought these new colors and this new cold, and perhaps communicate.

            and ask them to look down and see the kingdoms beneath their shadows.

            Because if they saw, maybe they wouldn’t be so quick to end.

            Maybe they would stop, at least wiggle hello before whispering goodbye.