Posted by: Nick Walters | May 13, 2008

The Writhing of the Futile

Suddenly, somewhere, in the misty distance, a bald worm screams. The sound is sudden, shrill, pitiable, and utterly desolate. It is the sound of a dying being’s realisation of its own insignificance, the sound of its abject terror in the face of unavoidable oblivion, the sound made by a tiny thing at the absolute end of its tether. And, just as soon, the sound is gone, leaving nothing but the night; the endless, boundless, loveless night. Then, some indeterminable time afterwards, the worm perishes; and no-one is there to mourn, to grieve, or even to merely note the moment of its passing.

From “The Writhing of the Futile”, by C. G. Scanlon

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