All the world is gold. From the darkest depths of the glittering oceans, to the upper reaches of the tallest mountain peaks, all the trees, grasses, flowers, birds, reptiles and fish are, in and out, made of gold. Shades of copper gold and rose gold and iron gold. The ices of the Arctic are white gold. The forests of the tropics are green gold. The deserts are sweeping bowls of gold dust. The plains bristle with delicate blades of gold.
All the cities are gold. All the people are gold. They stand in the place where they were transformed, their actions frozen in time. People talking. People laughing. Children playing in the park. Adults hard at work. People driving their still cars. People standing in still lifts. People making still love. People having silent arguments. A vast tableau of humanity, preserved in cold, soft gold.
The architect of this high art sits on a high precipice, casting his gaze across his work. Only two things remain untouched. Ungilded.
Before him, a watch. A gift from a great love, now lost. As it ticks over to midnight, the alchemist places his finger over its face and watches, impassively, as the glass turns to gold, spreading like an ink blot on paper, until the mechanism comes to a juddering halt and the world goes silent.
'Now the work is done,' the alchemist says. He places a finger to his head.
Paddy Dobson
1st November 2020