When i was fourteen i had a dream about the end of the world. The humans controled the weather with machines and all plants grew in rows. When humans eventually killed themselves off in their hubris, the world reminds us we dont matter. The world recovers itself, we are nothing to it in the long run.
All the gods faded out of existence except for two: the young feral goddess of adaptive evolution (Fang), running wild with the beasts that humanity couldnt destroy, and dionysus, the god of wine. Because humans drink for both joy and desperation, and Dionysus is there for both.
Here it is, the end of the world:
The air is still. No sky, no sea, just the slow hiss of cooling stone.
The last man in the bunker uncorks a bottle. The smell of wine—sharp, earthy, alive—spills into the silence.
Across from him sits the god who outlived joy.
Dionysus watches the pour, eyes reflecting the faint red light of the liquid.
The gods of sky and harvest, forge and hunt—gone.
But as long as one mortal can taste, he still exists.
“You know,” the man says, voice cracked, “this isn’t even good wine.”
Dionysus laughs. “Doesn’t have to be.”
They drink. Somewhere far beyond the bunker’s rusted walls, the soil hums, a pulse that doesn’t need humans or gods. Fang runs through that darkness with her beasts, wild and self-made, carrying the world’s next breath in her hands.
When the glass is empty, the god and the mortal look at each other.
“Guess that’s that,” the man murmurs.
“Guess it is,” Dionysus says, smiling faintly. “You were a good audience.”
The bottle rolls, a few drops catching the last light.
The god fades like vapor, laughter echoing faintly in the dark.
Outside, green creeps over stone again. Fang’s laughter answers the wind.
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