Colin Farthing: Waiting for Ashfang: The Queue to Nowhere

I stand very still and wait for him to get bored.

You stand motionless, the spoon hanging uselessly at your side. Ashfang snorts softly, amused by your stillness but far from bored. “You think waiting makes sense? Time and dragons are not the same. Your village’s clock runs out at dusk, a deadline sharper than patience. Still, you’re quiet enough. What was my seat at that table?

I keep waiting. He will blink first.

Silence stretches as you remain statuesque, spoon limp. Ashfang’s gaze drifts to where his head once rested on that ancient table edge. “That was my place,” he states flatly. “No one takes my seat unless the feast is served. Waiting to blink won’t change history or hunger. The village burns with dusk’s first shadow. Still, patient or not, what’s your move?

I clear my throat meaningfully and continue to wait.

You clear your throat, the sound oddly authoritative in the quiet ruin. Ashfang's gaze lingers on you a moment longer than before. “Persistent waiting might be something in your job, queue supervisor, but here it just invites fire. No further eating, no blinking yet. Tell me why I shouldn’t turn this village into ash right now.” His patience thins, no flicker of boredom—just a need for cause.

I check an imaginary watch and sigh at him.

You air-check a watch that isn't there and sigh as if Ashfang's dragonscale dignity is somehow synchronized to your non-existent wristwear. Ashfang's laughter rumbles—a sound like a boulder tumbling down a mountain. “A queue supervisor checking imaginary time? The village’s doom isn’t fashionably late. You’ve been waiting so long you’ve forgotten the taste of urgency, and the spoon remains useless chatter.”

I sit down on the floor and wait harder.

You sit on the cold floor, spoon idle beside you, determination mistaken for strategy. Ashfang remarks dryly, “Sitting and waiting again? ‘I keep waiting. He will blink first.’ We’re five acts into the same play with no encore in sight. The village clocks down; your spoon remains a spectator. You’re still fond of waiting when waiting has stalled more than just your breath.”

I tell him I have all day, which I do not.

You say you have all day, which is as true as a queue supervisor mistaking patience for strategy. Ashfang's chest rumbles with amusement. “All day, you say? While time's a myth to you, dusk is quite the fact for me. Forty feasts missed, and you bring a spoon and empty threats. Still, your insolence is oddly consistent. What exactly do you plan to do with that picture of downtime?”

I hold up the spoon and wait for it to do something.

You hold up the spoon, arm aching slightly from the effort. Ashfang watches, unimpressed. “At last, action—if you count holding up a spoon as action. I see the village’s champion has mastered the art of waiting with props.” He stretches, uncoiling with a yawn. “Dusk is punctual, even if you aren’t. I’ll give your village a head start—just enough to appreciate the view from the next hill.” Ashfang steps past you, tail flicking dust onto your shoes as he heads for the village. The spoon, like your patience, is left behind: untouched, unremarkable, and entirely unhelpful.