THE PERIODONTAL BARDO

By Jeff Dunne

            “It’s a matter of faith,” his brother acknowledged.  “But we live on the fringe.  When the resources are gone…”

            He shuddered once, and then again.  There were rumors of prosperity beyond the Wasteland, but only as stories for the young. 

I’m scared.

            He looked around at his friends.  They met his glance, but only briefly before turning their attention elsewhere – some down, others upwards toward the Great Pink Pendulum.  The message was clear:  Don’t be a fool.  There is no promised land out there.  Let your brother go if he must, but you know better.

            But he did know better.  His brother was right.  The food was gone, and those who remained would surely die.

            He turned to his brother, nodded.  Together they slid down to the bottom of the fissure and stepped onto the Bridge.  Neither knew it was a Bridge, of course.  How could they?  To them it was simply the Wasteland - infertile ground of bleak whiteness, hard and unforgiving.  Resolved, they climbed until the ground grew level, and then began to make their way toward the horizon.

            There was no break in the landscape as they crept along.  Beyond each shallow rise was more of the same pale, dead ground, and after a time the brothers could feel their strength beginning to wane.  But still the Bridge continued.

            Each step grew slower, more painful than the last, and hope began to dissolve.  Pausing, they shared a look, each seeking comfort from the other.  But there was no confidence to be found now, only weak smiles to say, “Well, we had to try.”

            I knew it was a long shot, he reminded himself with a sigh, but there’s no turning back now.  His brother was already moving again, and he hurried to catch up.

            Time, like the great white Bridge, went on, and soon there was no energy to spare for thought.  Step.  Step.  Step.

            It happened gently at first, so gently that neither noticed how the land now sloped steadily downward.  When he slipped on the wet ceramic, his brother helped him to rise, and it was then, as they gazed about, that they saw it.  There, at the bottom of the valley, the bleak white of the Bridge terminated sharply, abutted by the ivory hues of fertile soil.

Sliding as much as running, they rushed to the bottom of the slope, and fell to kiss the ground.  Without rising, they dug out great chunks of rich, delicious enamel and began to feast.  Energy returned as they ate, and eventually they sat back in satisfaction, bellies full and flagella nutating idly, to admire their new home.  A virgin, vacant bicuspid, ripe and inviting, lay before them, and they sighed with contentment knowing that they would never go hungry again.

And they never did.

But unfortunately for the audacious bacteria, soon thereafter they were carried away to frothy deaths by a fearsome and unforgiving Toothbrush.  C’est la vie.

The End