eblo by Lindsay Bison

My trowel is ready. November is in two days. There will be enough residual Halloween candy to pump my fingers through 50,000 words.

These are the preparatory etchings, the stirring of sands.

Wiser humans than I advise the showcasing only of mountain peaks. The lifting of seabeds is too messy, and no snow survives to cap anything.

And yet it is a going home. Reconnecting to the warmth of the vents that gave birth to us all. A chance to gaze upon the four letter alphabet used to write our own history. To watch the earliest words form, raw, unsmoothed by evolution.

Nearly everything wrought by these forces has been lost to history — undoubtedly, so too with these words. And everything that follows.

The early replicants had no choice, they simply were. They simply did.

And so I seat myself by the heat of my own creation. It will be messy, it will need to be revised, it will need to be better. But it will exist. And its evolution will be documented.