Tag: novel

I’ve been working hard on completing the THIRD book to The Kingdom Series. Sometimes it’s nice, though, to take a quick break and exercise another idea. Here’s a quick flash story I wrote. Enjoy 🙂

 

Barren

            I hope you like the color brown. Why? It’s a fair question. No one past adolescence should rightfully have an opinion on the matter. It’s a fricking color after all. But what happens when it becomes more than that? When it represents the agony, you’ve come to know as life. All the pain, blood, and tears embodied in such a crappy color.

See what I did there?

You should know it wasn’t always like this. Our ancestors lived much differently. Perhaps they were deluged with colors to the point of going mad. I don’t know—I wasn’t there. Green in particular, is one such color my grandfather boasted about. Thick, luscious grass, that would tickle the soles of his feet. Like the green grass, grandfather has long since passed.

To anyone still out here, my story is for you. I hope that against all odds, it’s not too late. Perhaps there’s still a chance we can save the world. We’ve been given so little, but the opportunity is great.

I’ve been travelling up this brown, dusty road. Is it sad that I can hear the crunch of each step I take? Never mind the creak in my bones. I’ve been on my own now for well over year. Ever since that dreadful day…

 

I awoke just as I had every other day. My older brother lay on a cot nearby. My parents surely slumbered peacefully in their room. We lived in a small stone hut, well insulated with mud and other gifts from mother nature. I left the hut and looked around at the small village I called home. It wasn’t much but we were lucky, you see. Why? Well, I eyed a tree nearby—that’s why. The branches may have sagged, and the leaves looked withered—almost rotten, but still it belonged to us.

It kept us alive. Society had finally reached a point that good-ole fashioned fresh air served as the greatest commodity of all. I hadn’t appreciated this fact in my youth. One time I had made a comment about how I hated living in such a desolate place. My father strapped on a backpack and threw one on me and made me follow. We exited the small village and hiked for nearly thirty minutes. I had never been this far from camp, so I grew excited. I kept waiting to see wonders of the world. Something to really spark, you know? After thirty minutes I realized I panted much harder than seemed appropriate. I mean, I really struggled to breathe. A glance at my father confirmed he felt the same way.

“What’s going on?” I had asked.

My father knelt beside me. He had to catch his breath a moment before he could talk. “You think our home stinks?” He paused and pointed to the horizon.

I looked over the vast emptiness of sandy ground, webbed with fissures and death. Despite my young age, I briefly had wondered if I could fall to hell.

“This is it!” My father continued. “Mankind has committed suicide. Sliced our own throats with the jagged knife of careless denial. And here we stand bleeding out.” My dad’s eyes—normally brown (what else) – took on a red hue. I feared blood would squirt straight from his pupils.

“What?” My hands trembled terribly.

“The air is too thin to breath outside of a few havens still clinging for life. You hate our small town. Our little dusty trees. Let me tell you something, that tree is the only thing standing between being here and not there.” He nodded gravely to the abyss.

I swallowed hard and began to cry.

That day had been a wake-up call. I didn’t want to face the music, but such is life… learn to face the truths or perish for failure to do so. If only our ancestors had seen that.

 

Who am I kidding though? Back to that day I had walked outside and gazed at the tree. If only I had known it would be the last time, I would ogle the majestic sorrow that saved our lives. The rest of the day has proved to be simultaneously the longest and shortest day of my life. Sometime around mid-morning, bandits surrounded the village. They wore metallic face masks accenting the dark goggles and hooded outfits. I could tell there were men and women hiding behind those masks.

I hid in a small chest and covered myself with tattered clothes. Then I listened. Bullets cracked the air. Screams echoed, seemingly bouncing from hut, to hut, to my head. A few times the bandits approached my hiding spot, causing my heart to nearly pound from its chest cavity, but someone must’ve been looking over me that day. Although now, I’m wondering if that person just found this as an amusingly twisted joke.

The tears flowed faster than the creak had ever ran when I saw the death that had entered my home. My brother lay exactly where he had earlier that morning only this time, I knew he wouldn’t wake. The blood leaking from his cot to the floor confirmed as much. I’m afraid I can’t even tell you what I saw when I entered my parents’ room. It’s a blur. What I can tell you though, is the feeling I remember. Sorrow than rage took hold of my writhing body. I had thought we were better than the ancestors I’d come to hate. Lesson learned.

The air within the hut had felt even more thin than the abysmal air my father had shown me had. I left immediately. It was then that I realized that the bandits had lit fire to the tree upon their departure. Smoke engulfed the trunk, but the branches had not yet lit.

Compelled to act I did the only thing I could think of. I leapt into the tree—something normally forbidden—and plucked every little helicopter leaf from its spot. My grandfather had said we could potentially grow more trees using these. No one listened, afraid to somehow destroy our sacred life. I could feel the heat beneath but still I picked away until finally, I conceded to the approaching red flames.

 

I remember that day like yesterday but its been well over a year. I left with no reasons to stay. Quite honestly, I’m surprised I made it this far. Progress has been riddled by frequent breaks. Still, I’ve clutched the air-tight bag of seeds close to my body to remind myself the mission.

Only once had I spotted any signs of life. In the distance there had been a small patch of tan bushes and one lonesome tree. While thin and knobby, it stood resilient to the times. I hoped I could be like that tree. I didn’t dare approach the campsite. It didn’t suit my purpose. As well, outsiders were often met with a high degree of resistance. You can’t blame them… it would be an extra set of lungs breathing their valuable commodity. So, I kept walking.

I’ve been wading through a monster garbage pit this last week. Today I will finally reach the other side. I can’t see much past the collection of trash because it’s encased by tall sandy walls. I’m unsure if this place was purposely dug to serve as a refuge or if the natural ground had encouraged a final resting spot for blowing litter. Either way, it stunk, and I shoved two wads of cloth in my nose.

When I finally reach the perimeter, I turn and shake my head. I wonder the garbage’s worth to my ancestors. I have to remind myself that they didn’t care. I hope this isn’t what they imagined but I don’t see what they could’ve thought.

As I ascend the wall, my breathing becomes more labored. I have to use my arms to help propel myself upwards. My feet slip a few times, but I always manage to catch myself and continue. As unlikely as it is, I begin to hope—hope that when I reach the top I’m going to see thick, beautiful, ripe land. Maybe a meadow. Or perhaps a forest. Anything to prove this wasn’t the end. Maybe I would even find a society free to join. There would be no worries about me stealing their air because they’d have plenty. I’d show them the seeds I had, and we’d plant them to help further the wealth. It would be good.

I reach the top and gaze ahead. My heart flutters. I see a small patch of trees—more than I’ve ever seen up ahead—and my excitement swells. This is what I’ve worked so hard for. I half run towards my salvation. Sand hardens, then turns to dirt as I approach. I’m sweating and can hardly breathe but that’ll cease soon enough. For when I finally arrive, I will hug the inviting bark and inhale the sweet oxygen. I can taste it already.

I continue to run despite my leg’s protests. I realize, though, that I haven’t made any progress. The patch still seems as far away as ever, and I blink. The trees disappear, replaced by the all too familiar desolate brown terrain I had come to loathe. Tears roll down my cheeks. Hope can prove to be life’s greatest illusion. I collapse to the ground and pound the dirt- for my feet had not deceived me.

On my knees, I feel dizzy now. My father had talked to me about oxygen starvation. Over my last year, I had come to think that perhaps I was special. Maybe I had evolved to not need as much. I withdraw the air-tight bag of seeds and finger them gently with my thumb and forefinger. A subtle breeze is in the air. It smells… wet, but I don’t really process that. I’m at the end of my ropes. So, I’m telling my story to you, my seeds. Perhaps you can fly in the wind and share my story. Find a nice place to grow and help rebuild. Perhaps not.

Despite my fogging mind, when I look down, uncontrollable laughter shakes my body. My head sags and comes to rest on my all too familiar, brown pillow.

---

 

I hope you enjoyed the story! I’ve been working on short/flash fiction as I work to finish off BOOK 3 in THE KINGDOM Series. It’s a BIG project but I love it.

Feedback is always welcome. 🙂

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