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Camy

Gowther Mazza by Camy

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Sitting on the freshly ploughed loam of the field and leaning back against a hay-rick Gowther Mazza smelt the redolent new mown grass, listened to the bird song, and felt like he was in heaven.
"There was a time," said Gowther, cuddling the youngster on his lap, "that this would have raised a few eyebrows. Not to mention days in a cell and furious interviews by the rozzers. But now. Now, in these... whadda ya call em?"
"The end days, Gowther," the youngster replied. "That's what the newsies call 'em, anyways."
"Aye, that's them. the end days," Gowther said, moving the slither of tooth-pick from one side of his mouth to the other. "Take my chewy thing, here. Way back when it'd have been a bit of straw off a bale, or a match... but then you prolly don't know what those are, do you?"
"Oh yes I do," the youngster replied. "DadAI was tellin's me all about matches. If you like em you swipe left and if you don't you swipe right. Ain't it so!"
Gowther sighed, amazed at how fast it had all changed. When his granpappy had been his age they'd still had real transport, with electrickery engines and google mapins. Now, post crash, it'd taken just a few canny folk to corner the market in good old fashioned 'orses. Not that yer average soul could ever expect to travel on one. Worth more than life itself were those 'orses. 'orse feivery was a capital crime and the vids that showed public executions were so over-subscribed they had to institute a lottery for access.
The youngster wiggled and Gowther grunted with pleasure. "That's nice," he said, "that's really nice."
"You picked the prog," the youth said. "There's a few minutes left. Still want a girl? 'cause I can be a boy if yer like, or trans."
"Na, youse alright," Gowtha said. "''sides, I'm nearly outa creds."
With a minute to go the sky started to bleed away, followed by the church steeple, the nearby village, the field they were in, and finally the youngster as a bell chimed and the sim shut down.

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