Sub Specie Aeternitatis

by Maximilian Martini

Savannah Bolton

Barefoot and bloodshot, he kneels in the yard and faces the house. In the dirt, between every blade of grass, lie innumerable diamonds. They reflect the light of day a billion fold, coruscating beneath the house’s one window.

The diamonds were the window. And then the pane broke into infinity.

— -

Each diamond is a caustic little rainbow. He works to grip them tight between his fingers and bank them in the trash bag at his side. But they cling to the earth. They cut his skin. They stick to the gashes that multiply on his hands and knees.

And yet he can gather some of them up. The pile in the trash bag does grow. In time, it exceeds the bag altogether, spilling back into the yard. Now it’s a pile — now it’s a mound — now it’s a hill.

Now the hill of broken glass exceeds him. It’s over his head, taller even than the house. He looks for the top, shielding his eyes against the sun. But he can’t see it from here.

— -

Because his work is not done, because there are still diamonds in the dirt, damages to concentrate, he collects what he can into the bucket of his shirt and — cradling the sharpness and light against his chest — shuffles toward the glass mountain.

He takes his first step onto the surface. The glass shifts under his weight and tears flesh from his feet. With his second step, bright blood spills all over the dull depth of the mountain.

By the time he reaches the top, where the wind howls, blood is dripping from his legs and his arms and his chest. He drops his load at the very peak. The glass sounds like sand slowly sifting down the side, sidling towards stability.

Below him, a crow circles between the house and the mountain. It seems to pass directly over the gap in the house where the window was. Maybe it can see the diamonds in the dirt.

But he can’t. Not from up here.

— -

Back at the bottom, he gathers diamonds one by one in his harried shirt.

He climbs again.

— -

Day becomes night. The sun rises again.

Now the mountain is many, a wide and variegated range of broken light, a landscape of diamonds. Glazed by blood and glass, he becomes like the mountains, a body barely glinting in the dusk.

Still he gathers his damages. Still he climbs to and fro.

— -

Night becomes day. The moon rises again.

He climbs again.

— -

Now he collapses.

He’s so close to the top. But he cannot do it again. Diamonds skitter away from his broken body. Poked and pierced, pathetic at every angle, he lies on his back and surveys the world he’s found: the glass mountains and the flood-lit yards beyond, lamp-lit windows and the high-beamed roads all around. Anything can glitter in the dark if you know how to look.

The firmament overhead, meanwhile, hangs like glaring, unbroken glass.

He reaches toward eternity, fist in hand.

---

Maximilian Martini writes, teaches, and sings in Chattanooga, Tennessee. He is an artist with River to River Community Records. His work has been published by Caveat Lector, Signal Mountain Review, FlowerSong Press, and Walnut Street Publishing, among others.