The Scratch

The nut is hanging from the tree at twenty arm's lengths ahead of me.

I rush to indicate it to those near me.

They are thrilled.

The drought has made nuts scarce.

This nut is ahead of the season.

Ahead of when hunger becomes too much to bear.

But they are still hungry.

They move towards my direction, and I swing. They swing. I suddenly hear it.

A sound I have never thought of before.

I stop to hear it better.

A scratch.

I stand completely still.

The sound is petrifying.

The others do not stand still.

Perhaps they don't hear it.

All of a sudden, an animal falls from the sky.

It begins to rip and tear into those who didn't stop.

I am the only one who stopped.

I am the only one to return.

The group looks at me.

I signal danger in the animal's direction.

A sadness falls.

We have not yet been born with the proper organs to convey this deeply.

The drought ends.

With it so do most of us.

All of those who died rushed in too fast.

All of them had animals leap on them.

I stopped to hear the scratch.

They must not have heard it.

I swing from branch to branch, stopping to hear the scratch, and get a lot of nuts.

No one else is there to take them.

I grow a large group of mates and a larger group of children.

The children resemble me more than the others of my kind, though they are slightly larger.

They reach the size of five bright green fruits that hang from the larger trees.

I stay at a respectably average height of four bright green fruits.

As they grow, their differences become more pronounced.

They grow to swing faster, and they balance with their larger tails to climb farther

Most twitch their heads at the sound of the scratch.

The heads that don’t are soon removed.

We find them covered in blood at the bottom of the canopy with claw marks.

My children start to vaguely sign to each other.

They seem to be indicating a position better than I can.

They can now get nuts incredibly fast.

I can’t understand it.

I wish I could.

I died one day, as I was too slow to move away from the scratch. I resolved to be better next time.

The mound has been dug twenty paces away from my water source.

The drought has left no real lack of feed for the bugs that call the mound home.

The bugs are somehow ahead of the curve of survival.

Ahead of when the state nature has adopted should apply to them.

I poke and I dig, and I feast with my group when suddenly I hear it.

A sound I have heard several times and was vaguely aware of.

I stop to hear it better.

A scratch.

The sound makes me alert.

Suddenly, several bigger animals are upon me.

They didn’t stop even in the drought.

I avoid the claws by less than half a meter.

As I continue to avoid them, I look to the others in my group.

I noticed they were not so lucky.

A sadness falls

We have begun to become aware of hierarchy, and our organs convey sadness deeply.

The drought ends.

So do a few of us.

Some of them became aware of the sound.

We stopped to hear the scratch.

Most of us can hear it, but most of us never seem to be properly rattled.

I continue to eat what I can near the water source.

I have a group of 2 mates and children.

The children now are slightly larger, and a few of them begin to experiment by pushing off their hind legs.

I stay on four legs on the earth, where I know it's safe.

They grow to be quick; I notice them not relying on their tails to climb and move further.

Their heads twitch at the sound of the scratch.

Their bodies seem to know what it means and respond automatically.

We gradually see fewer and fewer claw marks.

My children start communicating more intricate plans

They seem to be indicating the point and origin.

I can’t understand it.

I wish I could.

I died one day, as I was too slow to go on.

I resolved to be better next time.

My life's work stood written on the board ahead of me.

The war has left no real lack of ingenuity.

These wars brought humanity ahead in terms of knowledge.

Ahead of the restraint held in peaceful times that keeps a firm hand on the chain of curiosity.

I list out my ideas with chalk on a board when I hear the sound.

A sound I hear once a day and am constantly ignoring.

I stop to hear it better.

A scratch.

A scratch coming from the hand that holds the chalk, from the point where it makes contact with the board.

It irritates me all at once.

My hands don’t stop while being irritated.

My hands avoid completing the seven I was inscribing, and leave it looking like a one.

And don’t look back at what I did.

I will notice in hindsight that I was not lucky.

A sadness falls.

In the past few tens of thousands of years of change to my organs, I can now feel this sadness so deeply, and I hate conflict so much that I refuse to stop perpetuating it.

The war ends.

So do a few of us.

Some of them became aware of the sound.

We stopped to hear the scratch.

The scratch is now not coming from any animal or any board, but now the sky.

Most of us can hear that only 1/7th of what should have been a 7-part payload is dropped as a test.

This ratio produces a flawed test.

As the experiment is going on, I continue to eat my mid-day meal.

I have a Wife and two children.

The children now are slightly larger than I was at their age.

I stand on two legs on the earth as I realize they will not be safe.

The payload fails too quickly. I notice shouting as heads move so eyes may see the atmosphere above, as it begins to resemble fire in all directions

These heads don’t know what it means and respond automatically in whatever way they can.

We gradually see less and less.

My last child starts to communicate more intricate pain.

I will hear the scratch on the last time from the earth as I begin to stare down at the hands that damned myself.

I can’t understand it.

I have no desire to.

A chill rushes through my spine when I hear the last scratch, and the heat of the rapidly approaching air warms me immediately.