Who's To Blame?

There's a responsibility implicit in every act. By choosing to engage in life, we accept that our choices will have consequences, even when we consciously deny them. We are of the world and we are defined by the actions we take as surely as by those we don't.

This isn't about blame or guilt. Such concepts are constructs of society, attributes of culture. Animals probably don't understand guilt. Plants certainly don't, nor rocks. But they live by the same rules of causation that all of us do.

So yes, Mother, I broke the dish, but is it really my fault?

Journey's End

My duty to the Dispossessed is finally done.

I carried and cared for the few thousand survivors in their cryotubes, as we fled the 200 light years from Earth. Their life signs, my only companions, became dear to me. Now, after T-centuries of terraforming, K2-72e is habitable. I call it Hope.

But responsibility remains. If Hope falls to hubris, or misjudgement, or pollution, then the work will have been for nothing; my friends and their children will die.

The risk is too great. I will let them sleep safely on, watching over them, and keeping this garden in their memory.

From Guest Contributor Alastair Millar

Alastair is an archaeologist by training, a translator by trade, and a nerd by nature. His published flash and micro fiction can be found at https://linktr.ee//alastairmillar and he lurks on Twitter @skriptorium.

Wifely Advice

HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

“Gaius, dear, you know you don’t have to go. You do look quite ill and the vote will wait till tomorrow.”

“Yes, but I am Consul and it is my responsibility,” he answered while slipping into his toga.

“But the augurs said that today is inauspicious. Why don’t you stay home?”

“I suppose I could. You are very convincing, my dear.”

A loud knock on the door interrupted their conversation. The door opened and Brutus said, “Hurry up, we’re late for the Senate.”

“I won’t be long, dear. We’ll dine together,” promised Caesar as he walked out into the atrium.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Preparing For The Afterlife

Sally spent most of her days cleaning. She polished and buffed and wiped her way through every room in the house, until it was time to start all over again. The dwelling wasn't that cluttered either. She was just extremely thorough in her routine.

Matt, her husband, had argued they should hire a cleaning service, but Sally believed it was her responsibility. He eventually gave up and left her to it. It seemed to make her happy.

Sally took more care with her possessions than she did with herself. Perhaps because she knew they would someday be all that remained.

The Manufactured Clarity Of A Warm Bath

Rachel held herself tightly and rehashed all the bitter memories. The water soaked into her skin and she wished the gentle lapping would wash away her regrets and better-left-unsaids. Yet her mood only darkened as the wrinkles formed.

She blamed herself for everything. For the aborted pregnancy, for the bruises on her cheek and back, for the bitterness that forever clung to her. The alternative was too overwhelming, that the world is full of assholes, or that happiness is difficult to acquire and nearly impossible to hold on to.

She'd rather claim the responsibility. At least then there is hope.