A monster emerges from the shadows. He is followed by another, and another, until the world is inhabited by new beasts of its own creation. This anthology incorporates stories from various genres and timelines, exploring what makes us who we are.
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A pair of butterflies twirls, slow, wings extended, in a levitating glass jar.
"Vibrant," mumbles Zach, observing.
"Young and energetic," replies Tiff as she too admires the insects.
They're monarchs, orange and speckled like the dawn.
Neither of them flaps their reaching wings. Despite the lack of exertion, the butterflies stay in midair, trapped in a flight not their own, and in the reflection of their glass container, a faraway blaze expands, steady and determined, an enormous fist of fire. Zach snatches the jar and holds it tight as he glances out the window of his and Tiff's spaceship that begins to vibrate. Whimpering, he flails and clenches his teeth. No boom deafens him. The lack of pressure in orbit muffles the explosion down on the planet where humanity vanishes in an instant, and the flames caress as much as they obliterate.
For a while, it's blinding.
Its light outpaces its destruction.
Zach and Tiff gasp and spin away and peek back as if fighting hypnosis.
Earth ripples in the distance like sheer water. A third of the planet is missing, the bright molten core glowing through. Nobody can save the old world. It resembles a huge apple with a bite in its flesh. The colors of the exposed mantle bleed together, from yellow to deep crimson.
"And there it goes," says Zach.
Tiff just nods and wobbles as the ship judders, her eyes closing, maybe grateful for the shields of lead, tungsten, bismuth, and other advanced materials protecting the craft from radiation emitted 628 kilometers away.
She floats over him.
Releasing the jar, he cries into his palms until his knuckles drip.
"We made it, space guy," encourages Tiff above him. "You okay?"
He jumps out of his seat, floats up to her.
"I am." Zach hugs her close. "We've got butterflies."
She pats his nape. "You think they'll last?"
"They have a better chance up here than down on Earth."
"A start."
"If only it were more."
"For now it's enough."
"Don't forevers begin with nows?"
"Unless—"
"Forevers don't begin with unlesses, space gal," whispers Zach into her ear.
Tiff's nose crinkles. "The apocalyptic ones might, space guy."
She dodges his nudging elbow.
The jar with the butterflies inside floats past and clinks into a wall of the ship, then changes direction as the insects, perching on the glass, rest their wings.
