Ezza and Roz, unsure of what tomorrow’s experiment in postmortem immortality will bring, spend their last night together. 

Today’s story is “The First Shall Not Be Last” by Nalz, who has had one non-fiction, furry turned non-furry story published in a journal for military veterans and has had a SoFurry account since 2004, which is mostly populated with Sci-Fi erotica. You can find more of his works on nalz.sofurry.com/

Read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

You’re listening to The Voice of Dog. I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

and Today’s story is

“The First Shall Not Be Last”

by Nalz, who has had one non-fiction, furry turned non-furry story

published in a journal for military veterans and has had a SoFurry account since 2004, which is mostly populated with Sci-Fi erotica.

You can find more of his works on nalz.sofurry.com/

Please enjoy “The First Shall Not Be Last”

by Nalz It was late evening and the paved street he trod was devoid of any other life;

nothing out of the ordinary.

His only companion was the warm,

amber glow of the occasional,

evenly spaced street lamp

locked in its cyclical battle against the dark.

The planet's lone sun had set two hours before

and the nights were long this late in Soro’s cycle.

The temperature was still mild, however,

necessitating only a medium-weight pair of leggings and a thick,

hooded long sleeve shirt to go over his thin,

insulating underlayer.

At least it’s not scorching hot, he thought.

He didn’t particularly care for extreme hot weather, or high humidity,

and the hot season had been particularly brutal at its peak.

Oddly, he thought of his ancient ancestors,

chasing the sun’s warmth

through the inexorably changing seasons of their birth-cradle planet.

The disparate temperatures between night and day,

so close to the great deserts that blanketed the equatorial regions of Soro,

didn’t make his temperature regulation any easier.

The cool air suited him just fine,

reminded him of life as an adolescent;

a time when he only had to worry about when the next meal was,

whom to play with,

and not what fears the next day portended.

His forebears did not have the technology to keep warm in that

less hospitable clime;

to be comfortable somewhere that the chill could otherwise be deadly.

Roz sucked in a deep breath

and exhaled slowly.

A thin puff of mist hung briefly in front of his reptilian snout before melting into the night.

The chilly air made his lungs ache

in a familiar way.

He focused on his breathing,

slowly in and slowly out,

in an attempt to clear his troubled thoughts.

He’d been tense ever since he’d left his small apartment and started wandering.

The road he travelled

was one he’d been on innumerable times;

always to visit someone he’d known for half of his life.

Yet, his trip had been circuitous.

He’d avoided the direct route,

even considered turning around and going home.

He was nervous and it gnawed at his gut.

This time was different.

That difference was what fueled his trepidation.

For dozens of seasons,

Roz had been able to cling to the small hope that he would be able to get through to her,

convince her to go down a different path;

that she didn’t have to be the one,

The First. That perhaps now wasn’t the right time.

There were still uncertainties in the process.

There was no changing her mind, he knew that.

Tomorrow was the day they had all been preparing for:

every computer scientist,

programmer, bioengineer,

neuropsychologist,

neuroprostheticist, neurosurgeon, and every other myriad of neurosciences practitioner in the enclave,

including himself.

His heart beat faster as he approached

a wide and unmarked,

light colored dirt path

that branched from the paved street.

A natural grove of trees flanked him

as the path wound away.

Only a few squat, single-story dwelling entrances

behind him this far from the city center.

No trees had been removed when the path was laid,

it meandered and twisted naturally around the ancient growth.

Some of the trees would require three clones of himself, fingertip to fingertip,

to reach around their massive,

ancient trunks. Their kilometers long roots

reach deep underground to equally ancient aquifers.

They defied the great desert

and the small amounts of rain that fell

and grew to immense size.

He had no idea the age of the grove,

but the thought humbled him.

What any naerian would call a long and fulfilling life,

these trees had lived in the flick of a tail.

These masters of the natural order had been around

long before the Gene War.

The path beneath his thinly wrapped toes was hard and packed from decicycles of use.

Tens of thousands of toes had packed the sand.

After tomorrow, he imagined the traffic would be significantly reduced

—at least for a time.

A new Matron would be selected,

after a strictly defined period,

and she would take up residence where the path ended.

It was strange to him that,

despite their impervious belief in science and rational explanation for all things,

they still followed pious rituals stemming from the fallout of the Gene War.

The great reverence for mothers,

literal and figurative;

ritual mourning for the passing of any female

who had fostered life within herself and, thus,

ensured the continued existence

of the Pure bloodline.

Roz looked up from in front of his feet and saw two windows lit by pale light

through low hanging branches.

The light was dim

and danced slightly to no known pattern:

candlelight. Natural light always meant one thing in this home:

meditation. A time of quiet,

introspection, and intimacy.

This amplified Roz’s trepidation.

Disturbing Matron Ezza’s meditation was something not to be taken lightly,

especially considering what awaited her tomorrow.

Roz dragged his claws down the sides of his pebbled snout,

jostling the thinning scales.

He took a long, deep breath and closed his eyes.

Thoughts of turning back made his old tail twitch.

After ninety-six cycles of pushing forward through life,

he couldn’t allow himself to be a coward.

Even if it meant disturbing Matron Ezza at such a late hour.

The trees fell away to a natural clearing around him

as he approached the small, quaint structure.

He shortened his naturally long stride.

A picturesque view

bathed in crepuscular light

that he knew every detail of:

the yard of short,

stubby vegetation with a sprinkling of color from the blooming wildflowers;

a tall, single story vestibule that disappeared underground at the rear

that seemed to occupy the clearing’s exact center.

Two tall, skinny windows

flanked the slim doorway that waited at the top of the two asymmetric stone steps

that marked the end of the path.

Roz was particularly fond of the old house.

Anything that couldn’t fit through the front door had been built by hand inside.

Matron’s were not typically materialistic,

with spartan but comfortably furnished dwellings.

However, every piece inside

had been the work of a master craftsman.

Built to withstand the passage of time

and the hands of many owners.

Then, Matron Ezza had been selected.

There had been no shortage of craftsmen wanting to add their name and a piece of their work to the home,

for she was well loved by many, at first,

and then many more after.

Everything the Ascendant

could truly become was because of her,

fully realizing all the groundwork

that prior Matron’s had laid.

Roz paused on the first,

roughhewn, stone step.

Cold seeped through the single layer toe wrap.

Foreboding filled him,

creeping up his legs,

up his spine, from the stone.

The passage of time wore down even the hardiest of rock.

How will time treat us after tomorrow if it is so unkind to Soro itself?

Roz wondered. He stepped up with some effort.

Only in the past few cycles had his body started to feel its age;

or, was it not physical exertion he was overcoming?

The tall reptile’s eyes

fixed on the beautifully crafted handle on the door.

Copper, shiny from use,

worn uniformly where the fingers naturally grasped the elegant arch

that ended in an extravagant coil.

Then onto the silver knocker even with his chest.

A sea mammal with down turned, doleful eyes beseeching

politeness when swinging the silver ring hanging from its mouth.

Roz grasped the ring

with two fingers wrapped around the central stud,

raised it, and swung it down into the copper panel beneath.

The sound that greeted him seemed much louder than the small movement should have generated.

It had always been like that,

just as the mournful sound that echoed through the small yard always had;

swallowed up by the boughs of the ancient trees surrounding him, as it always had.

He wouldn’t have been surprised if the craftsman claimed prescience

of this very night

when they had tuned the knocker’s melody specifically to unnerve him.

Time seemed to drag

and the door stood before him like a judge.

Was he to be deemed worthy and allowed to pass,

or be damned for helping bring about what he longed to avert?

Roz wondered how long he would blame himself.

For it was his pursuit of his own passion,

his brilliance in work,

that had subtly steered Ezza toward this reckoning.

The light from the candles in the windows guttered.

A solid click came from the door

and then it pivoted silently on well-oiled hinges.

Pleasantly warm, comfortingly familiar,

scented air bathed him,

driving the chill of the stone from his bones.

His eyes had been closed since he’d knocked

and he inhaled deeply on instinct.

Memories associated with such a welcoming aroma threatened to overwhelm him.

Roz quickly mastered his emotions

and slowly opened his eyes.

Matron Ezza’s soft,

amethyst gaze met his

and watched him curiously. A placid smile

lifted the corners of his lips.

She tilted her snout down in welcome

while gazing silently up at him,

then held out her hand,

palm up. Roz lightly set his four-fingered hand on top of hers

and dipped his long snout in response.

Her fingers closed softly around his and guided him inside.

She put her back against the wall to make room in the small entryway.

The door latched closed lightly

and with that Roz felt he was lost in a memory.

Despite the passage of time having weathered her once lustrous scales

and wrinkled her sharp features,

Roz couldn’t resist smiling at Ezza’s beauty.

Two sandstone horns

started thick at her skull,

flowing down and back on themselves with a lazy curvature,

tapering as they ended

close to the sides of her head.

Her scales were deep brown,

like the bark of the trees whose shade she lived under;

faintly lighter in hue showed at her throat,

belly, and disappeared from sight.

She was attired simply

and it did nothing to discredit her.

A sheer, lavender shawl graced her shoulders,

dipping down to cover her smooth chest,

its tails braided down between her shoulder blades to the base of her tail.

Around her waist

a loose skirt of heavier fabric of the same color

hung halfway to her knees,

split at the back

and flanking her thick, sinuous tail.

Two gold necklaces,

each a different thickness and length,

clung to her elegant neck;

two oversized bracelets,

each a different precious metal, circled her wrists.

Sheer, black thermal leg coverings gripped the curves of her long legs

and ended at a point,

secured in place by an elastic ring encircling one toe of each foot. “Oh, Roz,” Ezza sighed with a smile, squeezing his hand,

“come to try and sway me away from what must be, one last time?”

“No, Matron Ezza.” Ezza scowled

and crushed Roz’s hand with a strength

that startled him and made him wince.

“Ezza, Roz. Just Ezza,

as it has been for a long time.

Honorifics between us are unnecessary here.”

Her voice was no longer gentle and airy.

Roz nodded mutely.

She continued, “so,

why do you lie about your pretense for visiting me at my home?

It has been some time since our last talk.”

Argument, Roz corrected silently

and belatedly flinched at her rebuke.

“I apologize for interrupting your meditation.

I should go,” he said,

but made no move to actually leave.

Ezza maintained her firm grip on his hand

and, being a head shorter,

looked up into the old naerian’s eyes.

His eyes were the color of the desert,

spackled at random by darker brown and black.

She wished she could winnow out what she could do to make him truly happy,

simply by staring into his somber gaze.

She was a few years his elder

and Roz noticed that the amethyst surrounding the slits of her space-black pupils

bore a pale haze.

Her look was stern

and held him—searching,

deciding. “No. You will stay, Roz.”

He heard the command, subtle in her tone.

“Yes, Matron Ezza,” he said with a bow of his head.

The honorific had been reflexive, due to her tone.

She sighed loudly with a roll of her head

and lifting of slim shoulders.

“Sit your limp-old-tail down, Roz,” she said, exasperated,

and pointed to the alcove in the entryway.

Roz couldn’t help the impish smile that tugged his lips at her insult and did as she bade,

sitting on the soft bench seat built into the alcove.

The bench was not flat,

it dipped, concave,

lower than the edge which was sculpted to support the knees.

He sank into the supportive foam cushioning

and reclined against the similarly padded,

angled back rest. The lights in the entry were tuned dim

and he noticed the flickering glow of the candles reflected in Ezza’s bared scales.

He believed that time had been much more kind to her than himself.

Had Ezza access to Roz’s thoughts,

she would have disagreed.

There were far younger males around her constantly in the labs of the enclave,

but she preferred when Roz was near.

Their scales still had luster,

but he had a permanence of presence.

He was the fulcrum

by which the Ascendant’s pursuits would succeed

—or fail. She needed him to remain at his peak,

while his successors were yet ready to assume his mantle.

By her decision, he would outlast her

and the next Matron would lean heavily on his acumen.

Yet, she had hoped he’d come this final evening.

Selfishly, she wanted him as a male,

not as one of her scientists.

She felt a clarity in her purpose

and at ease with her choice,

but she ached to assuage his latent grief

and to skirt her own social status as a Matron.

Ignorant to Ezza’s thoughts, Roz curled his toes around the edge of the permanently installed cleansing basin,

where each one nestled into a specifically designed cradle.

It was of hammered platinum,

each dimple and smooth divot

placed by handheld hammer,

not machine—a hint of opulence.

Roz twisted a simply designed wheel above a large

mouthed, downward curving spout.

Pleasantly warm water flowed like a miniature waterfall into the larger than necessary basin.

A handle next to the faucet closed the drain with a pleasing metallic ‘snick’.

Ezza put her internal monologue aside

and plucked a small glass bottle from a flat beside the faucet.

When she uncapped the bottle

the tang of sweet

and bite of spice wafted to her nostrils.

She felt suddenly relaxed by the scent of the extract

and tipped a few drops into the rapidly filling basin.

When Roz caught the same heady aroma,

she saw the tension in his manner subside.

She set the bottle back

and closed the faucet.

Homes typically had a small alcove, or space set aside,

with a basin, faucet, and drain.

The material the basin was crafted, or manufactured, from was often a sign of,

or lack of, wealth.

The permanency of the fixtures was, as well, a symbol of being able to afford a dedicated space.

The most basic was a simple,

large saucer filled at a tap

and one sat on the floor to use it.

The Matron’s space was somewhere in the middle with flourishes of excess.

Ezza took a plump, square pillow from next to him,

dropped it to the floor before the basin

and knelt on it, her tail curling around her knees.

Roz bent forward and was about to pick at the end of a foot wrapping

when he felt Ezza’s hands on his shoulders,

gently pushing him upright.

He regarded her uneasily.

Traditionally, naerians wore nothing on their toes and legs because of the toughened scaling.

Wrapping the feet existed for two primary reasons:

protection in harsh environments

and as a fashion accessory.

Neither reason was mutually exclusive.

Roz mainly did it because his scales were soft in his old age,

more prone to cuts.

A byproduct of this was the cultural practice of cleansing one’s toes before entering a domicile.

Though the act itself was simple,

many different expectations,

rules and implications,

practiced differently throughout the species, splintered it.

Cleansing could be as simple as dipping the toes in water

and wiping them on a towel when entering your own home,

or when there are many guests;

the head of the dwelling

washing a guest out of deep respect;

in honor or reverence of;

or to forgive or to beg forgiveness, to name a few. When Ezza’s delicate fingers began to undo the simple knot that tied the loose end of binding at Roz’s ankle

he shot upright. “Ezza!

You shouldn’t be—”

“Telling me what I should and shouldn’t do again, Roz?

You know better than that,”

Ezza hissed and glared at him,

without stilling her fingers.

Her features softened into a toothless smile

at Roz’s discomfort.

“I can and I am—for no other reason

than I choose to.”

Roz dipped his nose twice in submission,

but Ezza had already turned her attention away.

He reclined into the plush cushions,

unsure how to feel about this.

Never before had Ezza insisted on cleansing him,

or anyone that he was aware of,

and yet she was performing in such a delicate and intimate manner;

stroking his dulled, sandstone scales as she revealed them;

lifting each leg

one at a time by the dusty pads of his feet

as she bared them and placed them into the pleasantly hot water that lapped against his ankles.

He spread and flexed his toes;

blunted claws scraping metal

and closed his eyes.

“Do you mind my…familiarity?”

Ezza asked, already knowing the answer.

“No.” Roz swallowed nervousness and was too embarrassed to open his eyes.

Ezza dipped her hands into the water

and flicked her eyes up,

pleased with herself to see Roz unwilling to look at her.

She started to massage his toes and pads while washing them.

Roz was a meticulous male,

in his work and with himself.

Only a few bits of sand and dirt had settled in the basin.

It pained her that this was the first and only time she would humble herself to Roz.

As Matron, it was expected of her to show no great favor to any male.

The old ways of polyandry,

necessitated by the cataclysmic Gene War,

were fading as the female to male ratio grew closer to equilibrium.

However, that was not yet the state they existed in on Soro.

For a Matron to cleanse a lone male, as she was, was borderline uncouth.

She’d always kept the proper distance from Roz

because of their differing status in the Ascendant.

While she hadn’t been a Matron the entire time,

she’d known him for half a century and her status

had always been above his.

However, tonight she didn’t care about annoying cultural taboos.

The desire to break them, and change them, had been there for decicycles.

Tonight, she was doing just that—because

tomorrow she would be dead.

Roz’s eyes were still closed

and his breathing deep and ponderous

as Ezza finished washing his wrappings and wrung them out.

For a moment she thought he had fallen asleep, but subtle twitches of his fingers and lips betrayed him.

She spread the strips of cloth on the lip of the basin to dry and opened the drain.

Even with little airflow the synthetic material would be bone dry by the time Roz left.

If I let him leave tonight,

Ezza thought with a smirk.

“Pretending to be asleep so you can machinate in peace?”

Ezza teased and took a small towel from the shelf above the basin’s spout.

Roz had finally opened his eyes. “Machinate?”

She dried one leg at a time

and placed Roz’s toes back on the lip of the basin.

Dropping the towel aside, she fetched a bottle,

different from the first one.

She teased a few drops onto a palm,

replaced the bottle,

and rubbed her hands together. “Hmm.

If you were thinking something positive, you’d be more talkative,”

she said mirthfully.

Ezza knows me too well for me to be dishonest,

Roz decided. His formulating response was interrupted by the slick fingers that started massaging his foot muscles.

He inhaled a salubrious, mellow aroma that invoked images of the great trees outside.

What he’d planned on saying

slipped his mind,

toes reflexively spreading under Ezza’s firm yet delicate ministrations.

He melted into the alcove’s

supremely comfortable embrace.

“What were you thinking?”

Ezza asked after a time.

She’d finished massaging the oil

into Roz’s lubricious scales,

returning a lustrous glow to them.

Just as the color of his eyes,

his dusky tan scales reminded her

of the great deserts;

vast expanses of them,

so unlike on their mother world, Sihv. “I,

uhm, forgot, actually,”

Roz said and scratched at his pebbled snout.

“Really?” Ezza regarded him with a coy smile

as she wiped her hands on the previously used towel.

“How unlike one of my highly regarded Ascendant elders to be losing their mental faculties.”

Roz frowned meekly.

She continued, “I wasn’t worried about tomorrow’s final test that we’ve—you’ve struggled toward,

but maybe I should be.”

Ezza stood up and tossed the cushion she’d been kneeling on at Roz. He caught it easily, but stared at it in his clutching hands.

He knew she wasn’t serious,

but had known exactly what to say to bring all his earlier misgivings about the project back

and to remind him

of what he had been “machinating” about.

“I dislike how well you know me sometimes,”

Roz grumbled. “Hah!”

Ezza extended her hand with a smile.

He set the pillow aside and took it.

With a bit of effort,

he pushed himself up,

stepping away from the basin.

He opened his mouth to speak.

She shushed him with a finger to the front of his snout,

perfectly placed between his widely spaced nostrils.

“First, before you bore me with your naysaying,

we need a drink.” “Skavok?”

“Only the finest—for my Roz.”

Ezza whispered as she turned away

and walked down the short hall and descended the stairs that led underground.

For my Roz, he thought, testing the implication.

He watched the swaying of her tail,

and short skirt,

and decided he quite liked the possessiveness of it.

If only it could be for more than a few hours.

He suspired sadly

and padded down the stairs after her.

They emerged into a large room softly lit by tuned down lamps.

Several evenly spaced columns of utilitarian design

supported the ceiling and,

now that they were underground,

dirt. Designed for hosting small groups,

the space had no grandiose air.

A sunken semi-circle of cushions around a large wooden table

filled one corner.

There was a hallway entrance near that

which led to three bedrooms and a bathroom.

Another door on an adjacent wall

was another bathroom.

A larger wooden table surrounded by chairs for eight

was for serving meals;

a small island was flanked on two sides by the kitchen.

Ezza had made her way to a large, double-doored cabinet.

Through the crystal glass windows was a number of bottles of varying size and design,

filled with liquids whose colors were as diverse as the bottles.

She picked two small clay cups

and a plain bottle.

The ebony substance hardly sloshed as she poured a precise amount of the oddly viscous fluid.

She sauntered up to Roz

and offered a cup to him.

Roz took it and sniffed it delicately.

His nostrils flared and he suppressed a cough,

nose overpowered by the smell;

mostly bitter, a touch acrid,

with a strange, overly sweet undertone.

“Where is this from?”

He asked bemusedly.

“Sihv.” “How old is it?”

Roz wasn’t surprised the Matron had imported skavok.

“I’m sure you can guess by the thickness that it’s pretty old,”

Ezza said with an amused smirk.

“Expensive, then.” “I believe it was brought by the first colonizers.”

Roz switched between gawking at the cup in his hand and at Ezza,

who laughed softly at him.

Expensive had been an incredible understatement.

A bottle of alcohol brought to Soro by the very crew that named it so.

That does explain the plain bottle,

Roz thought. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to imbibe something

that deserved to be on display in a museum.

“What should we drink this in honor of?”

Roz stammered, still dumbfounded.

“To tonight, to tomorrow, to us?

To the Ascendent?”

Ezza asked as she stepped closer to Roz.

She took his free hand into hers,

intertwining their fingers,

and slid the tip of her snout back and forth along the age softened edge of his angular jaw.

Roz smiled. He experienced the giddiness of an adolescent male.

“To us.” “I’ll drink to that,”

Ezza said. She tilted her head back and put the cup to her bottom lip.

The viscous liquid

lazily poured out onto her tongue.

Roz mimicked her

and the skavok assaulted his senses the moment it touched his tongue.

He found it difficult to swallow

and wondered if it had turned poisonous

and their last night together was turning into a double suicide.

Ezza pressed herself against Roz’s chest

and couldn’t stop a choking cough that morphed into a hacking laugh.

Roz resisted and tried to hold it in,

chest spasming, until he followed suit

and they were holding each other, coughing and laughing together.

The drink burned its way through them

in unison. “I hope that doesn’t make us sick,”

Ezza finally managed,

tears collecting at the corners of her vision.

“Why did you even pick that?”

Roz shook his head

and rubbed her smooth back.

“Why not? Figured I might as well try it

and I didn’t want to suffer through it alone.”

“There are more enjoyable things you could pick in your final hours.”

Ezza pushed herself free

and looked up at Roz.

She saw a glint of sadness in his eyes,

but his choice of words made her curious.

“So, you’ve accepted my decision?”

He shook his snout.

“No.” “We’re as close as we’re ever going to get without a real test.

It’s time we used a living subject.”

“There are hundreds who would gladly volunteer if you only asked!

It doesn’t have to be you,”

Roz pleaded and touched Ezza’s arm.

“I volunteer.” “I refuse to allow anyone in my place, Roz.

Especially not you.”

“You want to be the first.”

Roz heard the bitterness in his voice

and regretted it.

Ezza’s eyes narrowed into slits in anger

as she crossed her arms.

“Are you implying that I made this decision out of vanity?

That I desire notoriety?”

Roz bowed his head,

unable to look her in the eyes,

arms limp at his sides.

“My emotions are getting the better of me. I’m sorry.”

He flicked his eyes up.

“I accede to my Matron’s will.”

Ezza’s shoulders

quivered with annoyance.

She took a deep breath and stilled herself.

It wasn’t often, but sometimes Roz made her want to claw some sense into him.

“Roz, I will be the first because,

as the Matron, I cannot reconcile allowing someone else to take the risk in my stead.

I have spent a long time considering the options.

Sacrificing myself

is the only option my conscience can bear.”

Ezza stepped forward again

and wrapped her arms tightly around Roz.

“But I can be honest with you

—I am scared.” “I am too,”

Roz agreed and returned her embrace.

“I would be even more scared if you weren’t here, Roz.

This project, the Ascendant, our goal,

it will be fulfilled because you are part of it.

In the end, no matter tomorrow’s results,

we will be successful in the end.

I believe that. “For the good of all True,”

Roz quoted and rubbed his snout gently against the top of Ezza’s head.

“Relevancy will be the greatest protection of our future,”

Ezza replied. She leaned back enough to look up at him.

“Stay with me tonight.”

Roz’s hands came to rest above the base of Ezza’s tail.

“As my Matron commands,”

he replied with playful impertinence.

“I’ve changed my mind,”

Ezza hissed. “Liar,”

Roz rumbled. His hands slid lower along the base of her tail,

feeling more than just the fabric of her garment.

“Impudent male,” Ezza huffed

and pressed her snout to Roz’s

with unrestrained salacity.

Ezza knew there was nothing she could do to cure Roz of the grief to come.

The fact that moving the project forward

required sacrifice did not please her.

If it was in her power to spare Roz his heart, in any way,

she would not hesitate.

However, in this intimate moment,

she had absolute confidence in her ability to leave him with a memory of her

that was shared bliss.

She knew her efforts and name would be emblazoned on the pages

of Ascendant history,

but even if they weren’t she wouldn’t care.

She could die happy

as long as the knowledge that she loved him

kept Roz inexorably moving forward.

The ascent of consciousness could not be denied.

Yes, she would be the first,

but with Roz at the project’s helm,

she would not be the last.

And, should tomorrow be an unlikely success,

in some small way

these might not be her final moments with Roz.

This was “The First Shall Not Be Last”

by Nalz, read for you by Khaki,