In the glass desert, the sky is always a sunset. It is burnt orange, and it is dark purple. It is black with muck. For the skeleton who has no eyes yet still sees, it must be a sunset. A sunrise would bring him joy. A sunrise would not smell like poison. He hefts his bag and shuffles into the desert to face the ending day.
The skeleton prays for night.
The desert glitters with false stars, and a cold breeze blows over the uneven ground. Dirty shards patter with the current. It sounds like rain, but sometimes, on bad evenings, it becomes song, a thousand wind chimes playing all at once, clicking together to block out the sobs of the dead. It is a sad song. He prefers not hearing it.
Globes of yellow-green fire float by as the wind threatens to take the skeleton’s bag. It is a frigid evening, though he does not notice it. He is too busy, his eyes focused on the ground looking for pieces of glass. He knows he shouldn’t expect any this close to home, but the wind is always blowing, always ready to unearth some new gem for his work. He sees a piece the size of his palm and bends to pick it up.
The glass is too small to use, but it has a rosy color that marks it as treasure. He likes the rose glass. He doesn’t know why. He puts this piece in a smaller satchel wrapped around his waist. The skeleton has a collection of rose glass, a corner of his home piled to the ceiling with misshapen fragments and half-finished projects. He wishes he could remember, wishes he knew why he hoards this one specific color, but all he can do is shake his head and believe this find is a good omen. Today’s sunset will be a good one. A productive one. This evening, the song will not play.
Hours shift by, and more glass glitters.
Once upon a time, the desert used to move like the ocean, its sand dune waves made of soft grain. Once upon a time, the desert used to teem with life, stout cacti that swelled with water, lizards that always kept one foot up, off the heat and ready to run. Once upon the time, the skeleton had been a man. But once upon a time was long ago, and the skeleton has problems catching those memories. They fly while he remains trapped on the ground.
The colors are prettier now though. The skeleton is sure of that.
Eventually the skeleton reaches the end of his worn road, where uneven glass turns into windowpanes of shrapnel. He sets his bag down with care and crunches to a large pile of twisted shards, ready to excavate.
Even after all these years, the skeleton is picky. His work demands the finest pieces of glass, the clearest ones. Cracks can be mended, but anything smoky or opaque must be tossed aside. He scrutinizes each piece like an archeologist, looking for flaws, patterns, and stories. One piece is from a building that no longer exists, maybe a home. Maybe his home. Another is made of bone, humans fused together and then transformed all in a second. A third is simply melted sand and animal fats. He throws that one away. It doesn’t smell right.
“Caaaaw! Caaaaw!”
The skeleton looks up. “Hello,” he says. The word grinds in his throat. “Come to watch again?”
“Caaaaw!”
A dead crow flaps out from a burrow of glass shards. It stumbles along the ground, scratching red lines into what little flesh it still has left. Its colors are dead grey and infected crimson, and the sunset makes the small bird glow.
“Caaaaw!”
“And good evening to you,” the skeleton says.
The crow jumps and struggles with its wings, trying for lift but failing. Too many of its feathers have withered away. The skeleton appreciates that it tries though. Perhaps one day it will work. He used to pray for the bird, but God did not answer, and the skeleton fears he has only so many prayers left before God will stop listening. Best to not waste them.
He does like the bird though. He wishes he could smile at it.
Satisfied that today is not a good day for flight, the crow hops over to the skeleton and taps at a piece of glass. The skeleton picks it up, shakes his head, and tosses it back. The bird cocks his head.
“A trick of the light,” the skeleton says. “It is not rose. I’m sorry.”
“Caaaaw!”
“Try that pile over there.” The skeleton points, his hand blackened and scarred from his chosen line of work. “I bet you’ll find some there.”
The crow does as it is asked, though not with fineness. It is a creature made to fly. The skeleton turns to his own pile and shoves his hands inside, not afraid of sharp points or disease or pain. He is a creature made to work, and that is the difference he believes. It’s why he is still around. Someone has to rebuild. Someone has to pray for night.
Sometimes he wishes there were others though. He is lonely, and he is tired.
“Caw,” he says, and the crow backs out of a glass tunnel. Blood trickles into its face. The skeleton chuckles from somewhere within his ribcage. “Just checking,” he says.
The bird cocks its head. “Caaaaaw!”
“I prefer your voice to mine.”
“Caaaaw! Caaw! Caaw!”
The skeleton shakes its head. Glass fragments glitter as the wind howls, and together, they threaten to play their sad song. The dead below scream for help, and wind chimes begin to twinkle.
“Tell me a story, please,” the skeleton says, afraid the song is about to start. “Tell me what it was like to fly.”
“Caaaw!” the crow says. It hops, flaps its wings, and falls to the ground, gouging a line into its belly. A green ball of flame floats by, slowly turning to turquoise.
While the crow struggles with his story, the skeleton reaches back into the pile, making harsh movements that crack and clatter. Together, he and the bird keep the song at bay.
It is work, the skeleton knows, and hard work too. The city used to be huge, a jewel that housed hundreds of thousands. It had roads and shops, fresh fruit and trees whose leaves changed with the seasons. It had people. It had music that was not sad. It had water! The skeleton knows it can have those things again; it’s why he is here. It’s why God spared him. And yet he is afraid of what might happen next. What if he has to make more than just a city? What if he has to rebuild the state or even the country? What if he has to rebuild the world?
“There’s not enough glass for that,” he says, though he knows it isn’t true.
Underneath him, the dead sob, and all around him, wind chimes sound. The skeleton works, and the crow digs for rose-colored fragments. They are loud, but not loud enough. Soon the song begins, out of tune clangs that catch the one memory the skeleton wants to forget. The skeleton puts his hands to his head, but he cannot block out the noise. He has no ears. He has no flesh.
He falls to his knees, grinding glass into powder.
It wasn’t God but bombs, and it wasn’t fate but dirty magic. The skeleton remembers seeing the mushroom cloud on T.V. and holding his breath, terrified of what would happen next. He remembers turning to his wife and daughter. He remembers the color rose. He remembers the terror and shock of the days that followed, and when the next bomb went off, he remembers the pain of giving up. There was nothing anyone could do, only watch and pray. Neither helped.
The third bomb was an accident, but the fourth and fifths were on purpose, made to be the biggest the world had ever known, made to turn souls into glass. By then, no one could remember what they were fighting for, only that they had to finish what they started.
The sixth and seventh contained poison. The eighth contained magic. Nine through twelve contained nothing but were launched anyways. It would be a waste not to use them, not to turn every inch of the sky into sunset.
The thirteenth bomb was a dud. The last man alive died before he could launch the fourteenth.
“Caaaw!” the crow says, and the skeleton gets up. He shakes, and a pane of glass slips from his hands to shatter into a thousand pieces. “Caaaw!”
“Sorry.”
Tired though not thirsty or hungry, the skeleton reaches for his sack and slings it over his shoulder. It is heavier now. The glass inside clinks. He does not smile for his face is stuck, but this sunset was a productive one, a good harvest. Each pane is just right for his project. He will mend any cracks, and then his bellows will spread heat into the world. He will work.
The skeleton turns back, and though he is far from his home, he can see the glittering line of his city. Each building is made out of glass, perfectly sculpted as it once was. One day the entire place will be finished, and then maybe the dead will stop sobbing. Maybe he won’t be alone.
The crow carries over another piece of glass and drops it at the skeleton’s feet. He taps at it with his beak. It is the wrong color, not truly rose but reflecting the burnt sunset, but the skeleton reaches for it anyways. He does not want to offend the small bird.
“Good,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Caaaw!”
“I’ll see you next evening.”
The crow tries to fly one last time before giving up and returning to its glass burrow. The skeleton sighs. He has many hours to walk, and then many hours to work, and when he is done, he will get into his glass bed and pray. He will then pretend to sleep.
Maybe God will answer this time. Maybe tomorrow, the sun will set.
The song begins to play as the skeleton walks home.
Nonsense 