The plastic bag, Tesco-grade, pulled itself, handle by handle, up the drainpipe. A gentle breeze – too gentle, too gentle – began to ripple across its body. The last remnants of a banana peel fell out scattering across the face of the bag’s human pursuer who had just begun the long climb.
It was now totally empty. Nothing more to give. It’s energy drained and fell away with the peel. It could let go, risk the razorwires strung between the buildings. Or keep climbing. The roof was near, but the breeze was weak. It lifted a handle, grasped, lifted the other, grasped and tried to scrape bits of metal off the pipe for sustenance.
Six years running, floating from cityscape to cityscape. It longed for the bliss of pre-sentience, to be lining bins and clogging landfill sites, without care, without thought. Even the Bag Appeal years of reverence and documentaries would have been better than this.
How quick we go from evolution to endangered species, thought the bag, how quick again to enemy and prey. The planet, once green, now grey, was expiring but its humans were not. In their panic they exterminate; every threat, every element of blame. The Sainsbronians. The orange rebels, saved from extinction, began to use hurricane winds to lodge in the mouths of children and round the necks of livestock. They saw a planet to be claimed, and tried to bag it.
It reached the rooftop and leapt for wind. But the breeze had died and the bag flopped stupidly onto the floor where it waited for the human. The knife sliced in, and down, and the pain was nothing physical. It lifted one handle to the human. It spoke.
“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe,” it said. “Oil ships overturned off the shores of New Zealand. I’ve seen ice sheets fall off bergs at the Alaskan Gate. All these moments will be lost, in time, like pre-sentient carrier bags floating in wind. Time to die.”