"The Colossus' Glass" The Last Thing He Saw

“I remember the last thing I saw before I went blind. It was one of the Colossus, a massive herculean giant, fifty feet tall, hoisting a great lens up over his head in the burning orange of the setting sun. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, frozen in awe, or maybe fear, I can’t say now which was stronger. He stood higher than most of the buildings of our city, and his face was sullen, emotionless, unmoved by the mayhem and destruction he would reap by obeying the commands of his director. He just hoisted to his shoulder the large monocle-like glass the size of a small parachute, wreathed in gold and tungsten, and turned it slowly in a circle. As he turned the glass it focused the rays of the sun on anything in its gaze. Churches burst into flame. Playgrounds melted to boiling molten puddles. Rows of houses, entire city blocks, shriveled and shrank into the earth under a glowing furious heat. I watched from the hill. I couldn’t move. Those who remained in the streets turned and fled. They were the wise ones. Yes, I am lucky to have lived, to have lost only my sight, but foolish to have stayed. As the Colossus’ beam turned the corner toward me, he faltered. He lost his grip on the glass. And I stared too long. As he adjusted his hands, each one the size of a small car, on the edges of the glass, it quickly jerked and swept past me. In a way, it swept through me. I did not erupt into flames. I did not melt. I did not char. With a great white flare, the light reached the back of my mind and stayed. And then there was nothing. Which is exactly what I have seen since that day. Nothing.”