Submitted for the January 2024 prompt: Weather Warnings

Some of us remember a plane crash. Others a shipwreck. People in the village have differing stories about how we got to the island, but we all agree on one thing: we are in paradise now.

 

On those rare occasions when people talk about the weather here, it’s always in contrast to a distant memory from before the island. Words like snow, hail, and storm are slowly disappearing from our vocabulary. Even the word weather sees little use here. Our environment just… is. Constant, comfortable, predictable. Idyllic.

 

We have a plentiful supply of fresh water and food. We produce waste, of course, but it never seems to overwhelm us. There is no industry here, yet we want for nothing. The island provides for all our needs. And perhaps because there is no struggle to survive, the few thousand villagers live together in perfect harmony.

 

“Do you ever wonder whether we should be doing something, Clara?” I asked for the hundredth time. Clara, my mate of the moment, stretched luxuriously on the beach sand and yawned before answering.

 

“Can’t you just enjoy your life, Dorian? Look around you. This is paradise.”

 

“But what is paradise? There are children in the village who were born on the island, and they probably don’t even know what ‘paradise’ means. Don’t we have to compare it to something before we declare it to be the perfect environment?”

 

Clara was not the type of woman who enjoyed these kinds of philosophical discussions, but she was beautiful to look at. Every inch of her was bronzed, as if the intensity of the light rays had been carefully regulated to nourish her perfect tan.

 

“Dorian,” she said, “you know I love being with you, but you can be… irritating. I can’t say why we’re here. Nobody can. What makes you think we need a purpose beyond just living our lives and enjoying ourselves?”

 

“Because we’ve always struggled, Clara! I remember enough of the old times to know that humans have always had to fight to survive. Against the weather, against disease, and even against each other.”

 

“And now we don’t have to anymore,” Clara countered. “The island provides everything we need in just the right measure. There is no disease, the weather is always perfect, and no one can think of a single reason to struggle with each other.”

 

Clara turned over on her back in the warm sand, wiggling seductively as she did. She smiled at me and teased, “Unless you insist on talking about this boring stuff. Now that might be a reason for me to get up from here and fight you just to get you to shut up and kiss me.”

 

I laughed and joined Clara on the beach. Maybe she was right. Maybe this small contingent of humanity had finally found a place where struggle is unnecessary. Maybe the universe doesn’t require us to suffer and compete with one another. Maybe we don’t need to continue playing a zero-sum game with ourselves on this island where the land, the air, and the sky aren’t constantly trying to kill us. Where life is easy and the weather is fine.

 

With these last thoughts, I allowed myself to relax. I relished Clara’s glistening body touching mine, and we kissed with guiltless abandon.

 

* * *

 

Chyrak had invited Llarn over for a special dinner. It was part of the courting ritual for Cenarian royalty. Llarn knew, of course, that Chyrak wanted to marry her, and his wealth and station in the court assured that she must accept his proposal. Still, it was amusing to follow the old ways. Especially when they involved eating.

 

When Llarn arrived, Chyrak politely rose and held the chair for her with the war-scarred and pitted battle claw of his scaly, dominant arm. He used the other two to gently guide her to the dinner table.

 

“Welcome, my dear,” he said. “I’ve taken the liberty of having a table set for us out here under the stars. It’s such a beautiful evening tonight.” Faraway lightning flashed from Cenary’s permanent planetary cyclone off the eastern coast. Chyrak had been assured by his court astrologer that it would not spawn one of its frequent coastal storms to spoil tonight’s dinner. The astrologer was nervously aware that, if he was wrong, he would suffer a horrible death by Chyrak’s battle claw.

 

Chyrak sat down opposite his guest and gazed at Llarn’s beauty. Large, feminine eyelids, two on each eye, carefully trimmed and painted non-dominant claws, and an elaborately bejeweled primary.

 

“The table is lovely, Chyrak,” she said. “And look at that centerpiece!”

 

A subtly lit transparent dome sat in the middle of the table, its containment force field shimmering in the evening dusk. Within it was a detailed miniature landscape on which a large number of tiny creatures scurried about, seemingly without purpose.

 

“Ah,” cooed Llarn, “they’re cute.” She pointed to two small, dark spots on an otherwise white expanse of artificial landscape and asked, “What are those two doing there?”

 

“They’re making new ones,” replied Chyrak with a satisfied chuckle.

 

As servants brought out plates of canapés for the two diners, Chyrak proudly explained, “They’re finicky little mutts, that’s for sure. I have to make certain I keep them perfectly comfortable at all times. Temperature, humidity, and light levels all have to be carefully controlled inside the humarium. If any of it varies even a little, they start killing each other. Very annoying.”

 

Chyrak tossed a whole canapé into his mouth. As he chewed, he closed his eyes and added, “Annoying, but so worth the trouble.”

 

“Mmm, delicious!” said Llarn, nibbling one of the dainty appetizers.

 

“The best thing about humans,” Chyrak observed, “is the way they wiggle going down.”