prompt: refuge, title: preserves in misc. flash fiction

The notion of a wild-life refuge is wonderful, of course. Humans have managed to really bung up large swaths of this planet, chasing slips of paper that don’t mean anything outside the context of a shared delusion, a grand folie-à-toute an ancient idiot called “economics”. Animals have taken the, no pun intended, lion’s share of this madness, it’s a grand idea to carve out a few tiny spaces where they might carry on. It isn’t their fault they ended up stuck upon a rock with short-sighted jabbering war-chimps, it’s only right to try and preserve them somehow.

People can be, however similarly threatened by those lightning-fast changes occurring naturally during the aging process and unnaturally due to rapidly shifting zeitgeists in terms of values and technology. Folks need their own protected spaces to decompress in safety, that they may live out a full lifespan despite the difficulties of adapting to the global culture change. This is why we’ve begun work on a similar sapiens sanctuary, we’re in early stages, calling the “Mild-Life Refuge”. When a soul can’t manage the blinding shearing forces of societal F4 tornadoes ripping through ten thousand short-lived fads and obsolescently planned-out do-dads, the Mild-Life Refuge can be their oasis of peace and restfulness.

Children, for example, will be allowed in the Mild-Life Refuge, but only if properly muzzled. Exceptions will be made for those with trained and licensed Service Children, those can omit the face restraints but must still wear day-glow orange “Don’t Talk to Me, I’m Working” vests at all times, connoting they’re not to be oohed or awed upon. They aren’t there for adorable Facebook pictures, either. They are strictly there to assist Mommy in getting her drinky-poos.

There will be alcohol at the Mild-Life Preserve, but you’ll only be able to get one drink an hour, there’s nothing calming or mild about a bunch of howling drunks. Only classy tipples like large snifters of brandy, vodka gibsons, deep dark merlots, hot toddies for colds. You won’t be there to get smashed, you’re there to be mild. In the basement of a bookstore or record shop, no windows to open even if you wanted, barely enough illuminations to read whatever you discovered above. Soft piano jazz so unobtrusive you will think you’re simply imagining the songs. As if Mycroft’s Diogenes Club from Sherlock Holmes if it allowed talking but nothing above a hush and nothing to stir up the blood. Just worn-down folks once born to be wild, now aged to totally mild, coming together to find a comfortable collective near-silence. A carpeted cave, colder than you’d expect, dim and inviting, to rest your knitting bones away from the fluorescent light and digital noise.

We are all, after all, each and every one of us an endangered species onto ourselves, dispensation for our fleetingness sounds like it would only be fair. A Mild-Life Preserve for people too tired to care about coming off as cool. With luck and with time, we’ll get there together.