Author: Blayne PM
A somewhat present, somewhat futuristic view of the relationship between the Earth and mankind. This is a short story written for my school's lit mag. Feedback appreciated.Rated: Fiction K - English - Words: 684 - Reviews: 2 - Published: 03-13-07 - Status: Complete - id: 2333139
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There is something dangerous about the mind. Something that haunts me, still, today.
I remember waking up that morning, a crystalline day; the sun was a glowing furnace above the horizon, set ablaze and buried in black by the sins of our forefathers, of our machines. The muddy hills dripped with the blood of the trees; their scars still visible from our swords edge. But what could be done about it? We needed our fires to burn. We needed our televisions to run. We needed the life of the land to replenish ourselves, for us to grow, to thrive. To live. What we wanted, what we needed, the land would give to us.
Until the day that the soil no longer gave as we asked. We begged the Earth, going directly to the Mother, for she would be our salvation. Our Mother with her vibrant garbs slowly fading to dull, autumnal hues, mirroring the toils we were putting her through. Her eyes were weathered from the work of replenishing the land for us, for her children. But still she loved us, surely she would help us now, just as before. Pick us up and put us back in our places, just like any loving mother would. And even with the tears in our eyes, she said no. No? No? But we were of the Earth, birthed and raised to tame the land and the beasts and the sky and the water. Sent to harness the powers that mysteries withheld with smug smiles and cool exteriors. How could she say no? Not now, now when we needed her most desperately.
Cast out and seeking pity, we crawled back to our homes and stores, defeated and sorely bruised (at least in our egos). What left was there to do, other than to mourn our own ignorance in thinking help would come when we asked for it.
But there is one other way, they told us. They, whose green eyes glowed even as the acidity of the air was tearing us apart, stomping us down, and draining us of any other color but that of the gray coldness that enshrouded us.
Tell us! Tell us!
And so the fight began; the battle against the world took place in our backyards, our streets, our schools, our churches, our cities, our seas, our skies. The world was ours; ours to conquer and ours to control. We would tell it if and when it could stop. Logic told us that when we wanted something badly enough, we fight and when we fight, anything we desired would become within reach. The earth shook, but did not falter; the sea burned but did not break. Even the sky, nearly torn in two from the struggles of night and day, us and it.
The sky did not surrender.
And so we built. More metals to fight against metals. More machines to fight against the trees that so stubbornly stayed rooted on the spot. The more we built, the more we burnt, the more the sky wavered against the pillars of smoke that blocked out the life giving rays of the sun. This was our battle and we were winning. Winning because we refused to lose; winning because we refused to be told no.
I remember that day that we finally won; where the land had finally ceased to live and merely was. I remember the quiet that followed, no storm to be had or to cause us anymore grief, destruction, nor ailments. I remember the lot of us, beaming proudly, clapping, congratulating each other at what we had done, our achievement and our victory. Don't tell us what we can't do. We sang through the streets, trampling over ashes of bushes, flowers, gardens, and more and more dirt. The rains came because we told them to; we told them to clean the blood of the Earth, clean it of its decay and ruin. Clean, because we say now is the time to restart. Now, because we say so.
Mother, come look at what we've done. Mother, why are you crying?