The final part of a creative writing story.
Find part one here
And part two here.


The extermination went on for weeks. Waves of people were removed from the island and deconstructed by the storms. Everytime a storm advanced on us, I feared that I would be next but somehow I was spared even the selection search. There were perhaps a dozen left of us by the end of that year. By the end of the next I was once again the lone occupant of the island. I seemed to be special in some way I could not fathom. A quincade later it was my turn to depart.

The year was many months old when the storm approached. I ignored it at first because over the previous years many storms had passed through the world without touching the island. This one was different. It seemed to know I was there because it came directly to the island, straight towards me. Suddenly, I was lifted up but instead of being inspected and tossed about like my brethren, I was place in something that I can only describe of as a hollow island. My new island was much smaller than the one I was used to. It had walls surrounding it so that I could only see the sky directly above me. This sky was different from the usual cloud covered  one that I had known all my life though. On this island the sky moved overhead! This was unnerving. Was the world moving around me too? It only occurred to me later that I should have been worrying about deconstruction rather than being absorbed by my world moving. Without warning the sky disappeared and a mist so thick that I could feel it descended to block my view. Once more my world was dark. Surely this was too soon. It couldn’t be the end of the year already, could it?

My deconstruction happened in a different world. Somehow I have left the world I had know and travelled through the life-portal during the unnatural darkness. It was difficult to tell because the new world seemed to be the wrong way around though how I knew that puzzled me. I was once again picked up by one storm and tossed over to another. By this action I knew my time had come. The deconstruction happened immediately after my transition between storms. My skin was quickly torn asunder but instead of dying as I expected, my life continued even as my skin was discarded. Had I got it so wrong? Was deconstruction not the end but the start of a new existence? The storm thundered with a positive tone and pulled my body apart. Surely this should be the end? But it wasn’t. Eventually I found a new place to live through the storm. It placed me up high amongst others of my kind, in a mountain. We all have a view of our new world.

Time rolled by once more. Every year once the dark season had arrived, a storm would approach the mountain and pick me up. I would be moved to a different part of the world near one of the two moons that existed. I would be pulled apart and put back again. At first I was afraid that this was my end but It didn’t hurt and my new life continued. After a few weeks the storm would return me to my mountain spot where I would wait for the next year to arrive. It seemed that my body provided something to the storm that no other thing could. It seemed that I had developed a purpose. I was not sure I liked it.

Nothing lasts forever though. After two decades or so, the storm no longer found comfort in me and though it would always appear every year it now turned to other people. I was left alone in my defined place. I had lost my purpose I thought, but as the years turned to decades, and the decades to centuries it seem that my mere presence meant something in itself. Occasionally, the storm would stroke me, for want of a better word. It seems that just being in this new world is enough for the greater multiworld. I don’t need to understand why. I wonder if anybody else does.