Creative Writing 4 #3
You dream of living in sunlit hills, where mounds are covered in jade. The land breathes in deeply, then exhales, gently coaxing emerald hair to movement. There is a whispering noise of buzzing engines that sound closer to the ear than realistically possible. Your feet sink into the dark earth; the thick soil envelops your toes and you experience the uncomfortable sensation of trespassing. With curious hands you reach out -grasping for things that were never meant to be touched-and feel confusion when they pull away. Waist-high flowers are dressed in colorful apparel: pink frocks and red boas, blue skirts and yellow jackets. They mock you with their dance, showing you their hearts, only to cover them up again, denying you any contact.
You feel a feathery brush across your cheek and turn your head. Pollen swirls in front your eyes, laughs, then rushes away. A smile spreads across your face at their flirting and you give chase, even though it is futile. The wind encourages this pursuit with forceful hands pushing against your back. At one point you swear that you are flying as you hurry down a mount.
But suddenly the wind stops and the pollen fade from sight. You fall to the ground and look around you bewildered. You hear another kind of whisper now, one spoken with words.
“Murder”
“Murderer”
It becomes a chanting of many voices. The flowers are not dancing and the land holds its’ breath. Heat is an uncompromising courier of the high sun. You begin to wonder, when did it become so hot? Sweat runs its clammy fingers across your forehead. You are fearful now, fearful of what you have done, fearful of the consequences.
It becomes a chanting of many voices. The flowers are not dancing and the land holds its’ breath. Heat is an uncompromising courier of the high sun. You begin to wonder, when did it become so hot? Sweat runs its clammy fingers across your forehead. You are fearful now, fearful of what you have done, fearful of the consequences.
“Why”
“How could you”
Misunderstanding, it must be misunderstanding. You have done nothing wrong and you would never hurt someone…never….
You speak out against their accusations, “Life has always been valuable to me. I’m no murderer. I would never-”
You don’t finish your sentence because the whispers have turned into screams.
“YOU’VE NEVER CARED! YOU’VE NEVER NOTICED!”
You should have never come here. You face grows hot in anger, you can’t listen anymore. You will not. You run again. But this time, you’re being chased. Chased by shrieks and allegations, you run until you are gasping for air. You tear through the valley as if your very life depended on escaping, leaving your attacker behind.
When you reach the end of the valley, you collapse at the edge, desperately sucking in oxygen.
“You don’t even notice…murderer.” Something whispers in your ear, pained.
You sit up in terror. You are trembling. With anxious eyes you look behind you.
It lies on the ground, staring up at your face. Its arms have been torn off, strewn about its’ body. The leg is broken and cannot hold the body any longer. The petals, the beautiful petals are crushed. You let out a cry of horror and raise your eyes to looks across the hills.
It begins at the bottom of the hill and extends to where you are standing now. There is a path of carnage, decorated in torn flowers and broken blades of grass. In agony, they cleave to the ground, the Mother which gave them birth. She absorbs their tears, she listens to their cries. But she can do nothing for the children that you took away, except hold them in her arms until they breathe their last breath.
