The temple ruins were older than the forest by several thousand years, and older still even than its current invaders. Automata DC-70785 first learned of their presence when they crossed the exterior columns delineating the temple space, the building itself having long since sank beneath mud, moss and the gnarled roots of rainforest trees. The visions it received were at first blurred, grain-spotted, and the cracks on the ancient lenses cast lines of throbbing color across the subjects. DC-85’s mind quickly set about correcting the images, tearing and twisting and refocusing the footage, correcting the color, balancing the movements of the beings recorded.
Once thoroughly edited, all images were stored. DC-85 never forgot an image once it had been corrected to its satisfaction; it was not within its logic to overlook trespass upon the temple. Ancient mechanisms within its body readied to repel the intruders.
Continue reading “A Strange Rationale”
Amala always rose with the sun, crawling out of bed when the first lights of the day slipped through the window of her room. Because she slept on the third floor of the temple, and her room faced the dawning sun, she was usually the first one to awaken. Thus she had morning duties for the temple. She donned her simple brown robes, tying them right over left with a black sash, and clipped her hair to the back of her head, readying herself for garden work.
Atop her bedside drawer, her almanac was open to the center page, folded out into a calendar that was nearly completed. Red ink circled the day’s date, the 27th of Darkmoon. Amala closed the almanac. On her way out, she dropped it into the bags outside her room. She had spent the night preparing those bags. With her almanac, they were at last full and ready for the trip.
Continue reading “Departing The Garden”
Aruvinda turned his back on the first rays of the sun, coveting every moment of sleep he could glean before the day’s labors began. He was meant to wake at dawn, but the past day’s work overtook him, and the cold dawning breeze whittled away his strength. He pulled the cover of his sleeping bag as far tight over his head as he could, and returned firmly to his dreams. Though he felt aware of footsteps and felt the steaming of the family’s pot nearby, nothing woke him. When he finally opened his eyes, and knew that they would not close again until nightfall, the sun was high over his square tent. He had slept tight in his bag until the afternoon, and soaked himself in sweat.
Continue reading “Praying Over A Meal”