Scintilla

Small, I was. Like my planet. But what is small when there's no big?

Insignificant, I was. But when there's nothing but rubble, what is?

Alone, I was. And still I am.

Rocks that were cities are rocks again. Rocks that were homes and forges and churches and schools. All just rocks.

Empty slate. Again.

What to make of it all? What to make of me now? What purpose is there now? I keep finding myself acting like I’m dead already since there's nothing much to do anymore. Just walking ‘round the rocks that my planet has become.

But there’s the same old one, I suppose. The original purpose. Survival. Good at surviving, I was. I am. Managed to stay alive, I did. I do. Roach, they called me, ‘cause I was the last one. An insult, I think. Not much of one, it seems. There is no bottom of the barrel. There are no barrels. Just rocks.

Rocks and bugs. Easy to hunt, bugs. Especially the big ones. One good rock from a sling–nothing else works much anymore–and I’ve got dinner. Good at hunting, I’ve become. The meals are not much, they are small like I used to be. Like this planet is. But it’s better than the gruel.

So from rock to rock, I go. Searching, searching, surviving, and searching. Thorough, I was. Crafty, I was. Inventive, even. Though now I’m mostly tired. But not as tired as with the work before. That long dredge of endless work. That long life with no reward. Turmoil to be survived. But good at surviving, I was.

I am.

But how do you survive alone? Yes, I survive—very well, too–I’m good at it. But there will be nothing after me. Just rocks. And bugs. Just the small ones, though–the kinds you eat.

I’d given up on offspring a long time ago. I was the only one left after all. Seems more dire now, though. Given the state of things. Plus, it’d be nice to have someone to talk to now that the work is done.

Noone left though, not a single one. But, I think I’ve come to terms with that. I’m not small anymore, cause nothing’s big. Noone to call me Roach anymore either. That’s a plus. Though it wasn’t too bad of a nickname in my eyes.

Suppose I wouldn't know the first thing to talk about if there was someone to talk to though. Didn't do much talking when I wasn't alone. Granted I still don’t quite know how they talked at all. With the mandibles and all.

But, here we are. From rock to rock, I go. Surviving, living, searching, and surviving. The nights are cold but at least the fire is warm, even when it’s small. But fires don’t always need to be big. I like them when they’re not so big that you can still see the stars through the light and the smoke. Since there are no lights anymore, you can see all sorts of stars. Even the ones those big bugs came from. Wonder if it’s all rocks back there too.

It was a wonder how they could fit all of them on this tiny planet - granted they liked to dig down in the rocks. Made those big lumpy hives and great big holes in the ground - quarries they called them. They’re a real pain to walk around. Guess some things are still big. But they’re just rocks, so they don’t count.

Sometimes I go down in them, when the sun gets too hot. The shade helps and sometimes critters like to hide down there. Makes for good hunting. There’s good supplies down there too, if you can get close enough to them without falling to your death. But good at balancing, I was. I am. Underground wells and mining outposts and food stores, if you’re lucky. Sometimes coal too, even just chips are good since there’s no wood - they ate all of that a long time ago.

But a tiny bit of coal can start a fire, you know. Good at building fires, I was. Very good. Scurrying about the forges, making sure the fires never died or got too big. Had to keep it just right. Right in the middle. Nice and safe and productive, those fires. Though tiny bits of coal didn’t keep those fires going. No. Coal, it was not. But what it was could start a fire, you know. A big one. One so big it poisons the air - well, if you’re susceptible to that sort of thing. Like those big bugs were.

The fires are out now though. The cities have long since been dark, the big lumpy hives are empty, and the holes in the ground stretch all deep and down around my little planet. 

That's what it was. My little planet. Nothing was bigger on my planet than the planet itself. Who cares if it’s just a rock now. It was all mine. Makes me big by association, I say.

So I walk my big-self all over my little planet. Its lumpy hives are mine. Its dark cities and dead forges are mine - even the burnt one where I lit that big fire is mine.

I am a roach and I’ll keep living as long as I can. Maybe I’ll find a way to get to the big bugs' rock in the stars and keep living some more. Heck - maybe there’s even a little Miss Roach they took back with ‘em.

I’ll find a ship that survived too. A roach-ship that's like me, surviving down there, hiding out in one of their quarries or hives. Those bugs didn’t have fingers, how hard could steering a ship like that be? All you have to do is hit the right buttons. I knew the language well enough, after all. Especially the word for roach. 

So from rock to rock, I go. Searching for a ship. Not easy to find, a ship. Even though they’re supposed to be really big—but it’s just a ship, so it doesn’t count.

But I’m good at surviving, I am. Good at hunting and real crafty too. Inventive, even. I’ll find a ship and I’ll go be the biggest person on a bigger rock and—

“SQEUUUERR KRRRRS RIIIK”

Oop. Missed one.