Make It Count - flash fiction

Make It Count

"Vote out!" said Thistle, waving his placard and jutting out his lip.
Around him, the hurly-burly flow of entities eddied and swirled. There were so many types. Gods and sprites, mist-gobblers and sun-squibs, poor souls from the Beginning and ghosts from the very end. That was the problem, Thistle thought. It had become far too confusing. Too much diversity. After all, there wasn't room for everyone.
In the afternoon came the vote. To Thistle's great delight, an "Out" result was reached. That evening, they began to pour away. They leached off, slipping out of the dimming bubble of reality, taking with them their songs and their shimmerings, leaving the place still and cold.
"But so much more ordered!" thought Thistle. "So much cleaner!"
For a week, he was happy. Then a feeling of disquiet began to grow. There was still a problem, after all.
"Vote out!" said Thistle again. This time, his placard showed a devastating breakdown of all the damage the other dimensions were doing to their little reality bubble.
"It's true!" he said, when questioned. "What has Depth ever done for us? And don't even get me started on Time..."
The big day came, and sure enough Thistle got his way. Things were much more suitable, so much more simple now there was only Length to worry about.
Thistle was happy for a long time, then - or he would have been, if there had been any Time left in the reality bubble to be happy within - but then he began once more to grow restless.
"Vote Out!" he said. "This nonsense has got to stop! Out, out, out!"
And when the vote came, Thistle was vindicated, cast out of the last dregs of the reality bubble by a majority of one to zero. He had been the last sensical thing left at that point, and it was clearly time for him to go. The tiny bubble was much tidier without him; and he was much happier without a self to loath, which was, of course, the whole problem in the first place.

The End

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