One Last Sunset A boy. A girl. The flaming passions of the setting sun reflected in their young faces. He turns. Sweet salt air. A hint of vanilla. Her dark eyes meet his. Eternity wraps herself in a moment. In that tangible instant, he sees another face from another time. A strikingly similar face from an incredibly, indescribably distant time. And he is filled with the anguish of the ages and the regrets of humanity clutch at his heart. Just as his forefathers had before him and just as his sons will after he is dust, the boy sees — in the depths of his love and in the wells of human emotion — that fatal flaw, that Transience which is the curse of humanity. The boy shivers, imperceptibly, as a warm hand slips into his. And he watches quietly as the dying sun slowly slips beneath the dark, dark horizon.

Sandcastles A little girl sits in the warm sand. The wind pulls at her hair, widening her big, bright smile as she beams at the sun and the sand and the waves. She gets up and runs to the water, falling over herself in her eagerness to touch it. Laughing, she dusts herself off; nothing can dent that radiant smile. The little girl wants to build a sandcastle. She sits near the water's edge, patiently moulding mounds of pliant sand. Finally, she sits back, admiring her hard work. The little girl imagines how it would feel to live in a castle—a princess—mistress of a sun-kissed realm. She really, really wants to be a princess; just like those fair Barbie dolls she's seen in those large, air-conditioned cars. But in her eager innocence the little girl doesn't notice the waves pulling at her faded rags. She doesn't notice until they've begun to devour her little castle. But by then, it's too late. She watches quietly as the waves tear down her castle of dreams. She wants to cry, to scream, but there's dad in his little fishing skiff. He doesn't like it when she cries. The little girl hopes he has some fish for dinner; she hasn't eaten since yesterday. She looks at the castle again and, in a moment of sudden defiance, smiles as wide as she possibly can. She doesn't need a stupid sandcastle. Her father sees her, laughs and picks her up. No one notices a little tear trickle down her little cheek. Another wave breaks on shore, burying the remains of the shattered sandcastle.

KHI Night. It's hot. The power's out. It's damn hot. Can't-breathe hot. You drag yourself out of bed and try swatting a mosquito that's been pissing about your head for God-knows-how-long. You miss. He buzzes off; triumphant. The bloody bastard. Wait-a-minute. Only the females bite, right? You could make some sort of witty metaphor with that, something to impress the next girl you see, but it's too hot. Too God-damn-hot. And it slides off the edge of your consciousness, vowing to piss you off later like a half-remembered dream. Like a f*cking mosquito. Blood-sucking bastards. So you head for the mesh covered window, hoping for fresh air. It's cool to the touch. But where's that Karachi breeze? Damn. It's like a prison: you can feel the fresh air but you can't breathe it. The sky isn't dark, even though it's 12:51. Yeah, like The Strokes' song. What-a-coincidence. There's a sickly glow to the sky; the colour of an insomniac's dreams. Again with the cheesy metaphors. You blame it on the claustrophobic heat and wipe the beads of sweat off your forehead. The mosquito's back for seconds; she wants it bad. In the distance, gunfire sounds and an ambulance wails. You see a kid walk down the street. He looks like shit. Looks like he hasn't washed in a year. Must be, what, 12? Poor kid. Mosquito buzzes into your ear and you yelp. The kid stops. He looks up. Blink. The power's back. Your stereo starts playing. Some jazz shit on CityFM89. Who the f*ck listens to jazz? 'Cause the streetlights are on, you can see the kid clearly. He's still there. There's something about the way he's looking; you just can't meet his gaze. But then the kamikaze mosquito dives at your ear again and you shut the window, turn on the AC and run to the bathroom to grab a can of Mortein. Stupid mosquitos. Too many of them. The bloody, blood-sucking bastards. They won't know what hit 'em. Why the f*ck can't they just leave you alone? You've never done anything to them, right? Then you remember the kid's stare and, suddenly, you aren't so sure.

Rome The campfire flickered, dancing like a nimble young girl away from the advances of the cold, biting wind. The grey-haired sentry pulled his scarlet cloak tighter around him. 'Old friend,' he whispered softly to the fire, 'old friend once I burned with #life too. I do not think I will be able to dance for much longer, as you do.' He lapsed into silence, exhausted by the weight of his thoughts, and closed his eyes. Gently, he caressed the coarse sand beside him. 'You are rough,' he said to the sand, 'but I would be too if I had been scorched by the sun, every day since the creation of the world. Yes,' he paused, 'you are rough, but you are honest and pure and you only feel as you do because of the tough #life you lead. You and I are not so different,' he smiled. And then something strange happened. Perhaps he feel asleep. Perhaps it was a mirage. Or a trick played by one of the djinn of the desert. But this much is certain that as the sentry blinked dreams from his weary lashes, his half-open grey eyes saw a dark shape crossing just outside the warm, safe halo of the flickering fire. It was darker than the surrounding night, and paused for moment, silent; motionless. Then it glided on, becoming one of the many unsolved mysteries of the desert that have been padding at the edge of man's sanity since time immemorial and shall remain long after man is forgotten dust. And the sentry's eyes closed, tired from years of gazing at alien shores far from home, and he slipped into one of those strange sleeps of the body that tire the mind and pass the time and do little else. And when he awoke later, expecting dawn, all he saw was the same dark night, blowing over infinite miles of dark desert sand. And he blinked, wishing desperately for the dawn to come, but the night only swirled tighter around him, blowing out his fire and tugging at his scarlet cloak. And then the old man knew that dawn would never come so he pulled his cloak tighter around him and closed his eyes and drifted into that sleep that rests the body and rests the mind and from which one never again need awake.

City of Blinding Lights The starship Magellan was an oasis of existence in an ocean of nothingness. It screamed its loneliness through the inky blackness of space, crying out to the cold, distant stars. The Captain stood on the bridge, gazing out at the blue speck that beckoned like an old, faithful friend. Thirty years of deep space exploration had taken their toll on him. He was no longer a young man and his greying temples and salt-and-pepper beard made sure he didn't forget that. He focused on the distant speck again and forced his turbid thoughts to settle. And his mind moved upon silence. And the Magellan rushed onward to Earth. Too long had it been in the empty voids of eternal night. It craved the noise of humanity, the sweet sad songs of Earth: the crackle of a small, warm fire deep inside a distant forest; the incessant hum of pulsing, breathing cities; the wind forever whistling across desolate deserts of Artic ice; all this and more, it craved, like a moth craves the flame. And onward it ploughed, delirious with thoughts of union, ignoring the ominous premonitions that seemed to almost weigh down its sleek silver exterior. And as the blue planet drew close enough to fill the Captain's viewport, a shudder of horror ran through him and the crew that crowded around behind him. For the Earth was dark. Not the quiet, gentle dark of a new#moonbut the harsh darkness of #life terribly extinguished. For none of the great cities of Earth were lit up. And the silence that greeted the navigators was the same silence they had lived with for thirty years; they knew it all too well. And the Magellan cried out in anguish and frustration and its cries were heard by the cold, distant stars, and the cold, dark planet and it sobbed quietly as the infinite loneliness of space silently closed in upon it.