Whimsy

The statue of young Buddha had been an exemplar of serenity when first placed under the tree. Time had passed. Wars had come and gone. Nutrients and sun had been converted into growth by the woody plant’s armoury of respiration and generative processes.

Aashi grinned widely at her discovery. The base of the tree had grown around and in front of the old idol, seemingly intent on squeezing it silly.

She looked closer. Through some trick of lichen growth, the once droopy eyelids and superior smile had been transformed into an expression of squashed distress.

Her tinkling laughter wasn’t malicious.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

A Matter Of Life And Death

I was moments away from death. The oxygen in my blood stream was starting to expire.

In reaction, my diaphragm flattened, almost instinctively. The simultaneous contraction of my external intercostal muscles forced my lungs to expand. My ribs elevated, extending the length of my thorax.

All this action, seemingly involuntary, but triggered by long forgotten impulses, had decreased my internal intrapulmonary pressure. My body had established a new pressure gradient from the outer atmosphere to my alveoli, causing air to be sucked inwards.

I had once again successfully executed the carefully calibrated intake of oxygen and nitrogen into my lungs.