THE LAST BITE

Last Rise (Photo by Brenna Huf, edits by A. Covo)

Man’s conquest of earth is encapsulated in a cup of flour and water. Like yeast.

Yeast cells are individual and infinitely various, each a member of a tribe of different origin. And each tribe arrives on the scene complete with its own set of unique characteristics. Some tribes are older, some derivatives of earlier branches. While the differences are vast, the similarities are few and basic – each tribe is hungry and thirsty, looking for a place to spread out and start a family after their own fashion. Tey alight on a fresh resource as chance would have it, in no particular order, like snowflakes. Each possesses its own set of weapons and tools and preparations and pleasures. Staking its claim in its own way on the wide-open expanse, they tiptoe out into the land of milk and honey.

For a time, things are quiet and peaceful. Each member forms the most rudimentary of encampments, leisure time and daisy chains. Streams flow. Food is plentiful – stretch out your hand in any direction and it will be full. Tis is the long, uneventful stage in their history. No care for tomorrow: limitless expansion. A carefree world.

Each colony has innate qualities, strengths and weaknesses. Each makes a thing, takes a thing, has requirements with similar but not identical preferences – levels of tolerance for every stress under the sun. Some are fighters, others not so much.

One day, almost suddenly, the colonies begin to see each other’s developments cresting the top of the hill. Toughts of limits become real. Lots of gesticulating and pointing. Tere’s a funny taste in the water. Te food is not as free and easy as it once was. Neighbors squabble, an ever-present racket of development drumming in your ears. Arguments erupt over a cow. Te culture begins to sour. Teme music leans toward the black keys. It is clear to everyone that at some point the steadily growing borders must meet. Some camps prepare defense – in others, attacks. For the survival of the children, you understand. Someone throws a rock.

Opposing war bands dig in, spears clash: my land, your land. Like a toppling row of dominoes, civil war ensues: a fight for survival. Arrows fly, fields are burned, villages erased – a countryside dotted with bonfires.

(Here I scoop out half and replace with fresh flour and water, a mass extinction event that suddenly frees up vast amounts of land and resources. Te sturdy survivors shake off the dirt and lay down rudimentary encampments.) Tey enter a feudal period. Te strongest of the warring factions gather strength and charge toward each other. Armies tear each other apart, leaving smoldering wreckage of civilizations behind them, who are then themselves blown to smithereens by other stronger or better positioned foes. As the war for resources continues the story repeats, becoming stronger and more singular by the day... as I scoop and replace, scoop and replace. A battle of sixteen armies. Eight. Four. Two. One. Te culture of that last is supreme, for a time: a late middle age. Here, we pause. Largest and most powerful, skyscrapers and monuments, vast networks and tremendous power, capable of annihilating anything that dares to lift a finger into the sweeping blade of its culture – and yet, its own enemy – for if I do not scoop and replace, it will quickly strip itself of resources, expand to the edges of its world, devour everything in its path, and crash. It makes delightful bread. But us? BY MICHAEL SOHOCKI