The Last Walden

      Sun blisters the empty sky, baking an already dry, arid landscape. No life, green or otherwise, survives on the barren plains, save for a few spiny dry bushes, sticking out of the ground like thorny blemishes, thrusting themselves defiantly at the sky. Distantly, the ocean waters stir, though not through any aquatic creature’s means. The deep waters are as dead as those above it, diluted and oily; it’s a wonder wave’s still crash onto the dry, cracked beaches, the chapped lips of the world. Rivers stink, teaming with garbage and materials that refuse to dissolve. They do not flow, but instead waft gradually downstream, the movement of the current undetectable if not for the unsavory debris that choked it. There are no such things as lakes or ponds anymore. Muddy basins entrench the Earth, crater like in their emptiness, despondent and hollow, they sing of death and echo of life. Gusts of wind run the expanse of miles, unfettered as they once were by the great forests and large mountain ranges. Neither exsist any more, only the bleak arid terrain resumes, not even the dessert creatures able to cope with the harshness of its realities. The building blocks of ecology have collapsed, the foundation weakened and crumbled from the pressure exerted at its highest point, the tremors it caused felt throughout the system briefly felt by all in a moment of free fall before those on the bottom, too weak to support the tremendous pressure from above gave way. And one by one they fell until even the last, the top tier, their guile useless with nothing for it to target, and instead turned inward upon itself as whole, the snake that swallowed its tail, they too succumbed to oblivion that they wrought upon themselves and all the rest.

         Among the wastes there remains one haven, however. A small patch of forest greenery, a luscious color in comparison to the dead dirt brown contrast. Trees, large and small, thick jagged oak and slim smooth yew, flowers of all colors, ranging from bright soft yellows to exotic purple blue hues. Though the refuge is too small for any lakes, multiple ponds and small drinking holes exist. Small fish shyly poke around in the waters recesses, scales as colorful as the flowers and shimmering with their own intense beauty, while frogs and toads leapt on its surface, other amphibians preferring to writhe their way along the muddy banks. Birds cluster in trees, little harps playing their sweet songs, and orchestra of sound, a symphony of nature. They feed on the insects, whose short little lives were intolerable in the rest of the world, but now flourished in their new home. Here a colony of ants worked, building their mounds tirelessly, a single driven thought amongst them, there a hive of bees produce their golden honey, and the workers zoom amongst the foliage, unaware of the pollen they are spreading and their own contribution to the life of their home, dragonflies with translucent wings and their glittering, emerald like eyes skip low across the water’s surface. Small mammals scurry on the forest floor, little furry paws treading moist ground; they scamper through the brush, always aware of the hungry fauna around them. Few carnivores inhabit this utopia, however. It is too small to hold all but the starting beginning of life. Even the pygmy people, what few remain, eat strict diets. Excess is a commodity no longer affordable. Their lives are expressly linked to that of the forest, and they cannot let this link be weakened, for if it does, it will break, the chain of birth and death unravel, and then be lost forever.

         Alarm. Cries are shouted, birds squawk and mammals chatter. The animals sense it before the people, but they too feel it in the air. Abandoning task at hand, they run brazenly, ducking limbs and leaping trunks, they find their way to the edge of the forest. They stand just underneath leafy eclipse, and watch the everlasting horizon. It’s not long before they see it, a dark smudge first, like a dot of water on a new canvas. Gradually, the dot takes hold and then begins to engorge itself on former canvas, feasting and rolling across its unfettered expanse, becoming all the more defined with the more it consumes, and all the more horrible as the picture clears. It is not an abomination, but rather a pack of monstrosities. The once blurred dot is a horde of rusty metal grinding forward on worn treads. Above it is an ever present smog, clinging to its entrails like wispy tangents, ghastly cloud bats. The metal behemoths unleash a constant barrage of noise, a cacophony of grating screeches and sharp whistle blows, groans and creaks, wheezing cogs pushing against gritty gears and steam engines vibrating angrily and jostling about. It is the husk of civilization and the shell of a self consuming humanity.

         Back to the haven, instincts take over. The older pygmies have experienced this before, these same beasts that drove them from their homes in a sea of tears. They know what is coming but they do not flee. This is not a valiant last stand, but the only stand. Nature’s first instinct is survival, but there is no other place to run to. There is no other home.
Screeching in rage, the little people thrust themselves out as far as they dare from underneath their canopy. The shield that once dulled the sun’s harmful rays is no more, and no layer of dermis proves match for it. Staying in the brim of the shade, they go hoarse with fury, throwing rocks and clumps of barren earth. The missiles sail far short of their miles away target, but it is the act itself that is important rather than the success of it. The wild things know something is wrong as well. They can sense the change in their once pristine lives. A group of howler monkeys stay true to their name, lemurs chatter in rapid rabid manner and serpents hiss hostilely, arching their backs and looking to lash out. All about anger takes root the injustice soon to be delivered.

         The rusty machines, however, stop their progression; seemingly pausing midway. They are still too far away for the people to see clearly what is being done, and the pygmies fanatical zeal dies down in place of a piqued innate curiosity. They peer outwards cautiously. Around them the animals follow suit, and an awkward quietness quite unknown has grasped the niche. Silence reigns supreme and its tenure goes undisturbed for some time. The pygmies look at each other, befuddled.

         And then it starts. A thump followed by a long piercing noise reverberates around the open landscape. It is the first in a series, and several thumps follow. Then there is no noise. The entire forest has gone deaf as shell after explosive shell crashes into it. With each passing shell an ocean of flames envelops the trees; sparks and smoke kick up, dancing about in cruel humor. Ravenous red, orange, and yellow demons clings to the flora, racing up and down the easily consumed plants, the term wild fire ghastly appropriate. Trees groan and fall and the creatures inhabiting them scream before being swallowed up in flames. The pygmies are scattered about, many already dead, few still able to move, the air sucked from their lungs, throats burning and raw. The haven begins to cave in on itself like a dying star, drawing one last breath before it implodes, belching hot ash into the air. Long after the place reeks of nothing but death and soot, the shells cease their constant barrage. The cacophony resumes and the gears turn. The metal hulk rumbles through the defunct paradise, crushing burnt carcasses and charcoal under metallic heel, they continue their pursuit of the horizon. The burning embers are snuffed and even sacred remains ground into dirt as the treads roll over them, careless. Moments have past, but eternity spoken.