Skip to main content

Leave Your Aspirations at the Dump

Somewhere in the south pacific putrifying under the unrelenting tropical sun is a vast peninsula composed of the discarded scraps of civilization. A steady stream of colossal barges continuously added to the mass causing it to expand in every direction.  The churning heap was a steadily shifting form. Uneven growing mounds of decaying mass mortared together around iron heaps. Each new layer accumulated held the scraps tossed away by an insatiable world. Like a malignant sickness, its poison seeped into the surrounding land.
Plastic forks, prayer cards, monuments, Digimon, batteries this is where everything was valued by the most impartial of standards, its utility for survival.
Living in the shadows of revolting spires that had accumulated refuse piled so high only the squalling seagulls could reach the summit were the scavengers was a little girl nearing the end of a harsh, obscure, and brief existence. Like the birds and rats, the bacteria, and the mold she subsisted on decay.
Physically she resembled a human child, but her existence lacked any uniquely human aspect. She had no family, no dreams, not even a name. She was just another wasting body counting down the hours until her flesh would become part of another scavengers bounty.
There were three people walking towards her. Thier clothes were a patchwork of well worn protective items. Thier hands were covered by tattered yellow dish gloves. One of them wore a soldiers helmet while the other two had baseball helmets and their faces were obscured by surgical masks. They were pushing a wobbling cart full of scrap. The little girl leaned against a doorless fridge and obliquely looked down at her feet. The scrap men seeming unmoved by the emaciated child silently wheeled past her.
She was quietly looking for a place to wind down her final moments in relative quiet. She shuffled along until she found the gutted and rusted remains of an oven built into the base of the wall. She squatted down and looked inside. The back was cut out opening up to the other side of the colossal barrier.
Activating emergency physiological mechanisms, she found the will to crawl through to the other side to look for any life-sustaining morsel that would help her maintain a tenuous link to earthly existence just a little longer.
 Painted on what looked like a bulbous and wingless airplane was a mural of a bright red ball with the words
MISSION TO MARS wrapped around the crimson orb. Even more prominent on the hulking wreck were giant portraits of children, children of every skin tone and dressed in an array of traditional ethnic outfits. They all had aesthetically perfect smiles with straight gleaming white teeth.
“FOR US!”
Was painted above the mural.
Attached to the back were four giant bell-shaped appendaged. The weary girl climbed into the dark crevice, she curled up her body and listened to the high pitched squalling of the birds,  and the dull thumping of a hammer against steel. She closed her eyes listened as every sound reverberating from the world around her she heard with new clarity. She listened to the world until it petered out into eternal silence.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

There are no closets in foxholes

Private Stuart Breyers had joined the marine corps during peacetime. The plan was to use his two-year hitch as a transition period into becoming an independent young man. Not six weeks after his 19th birthday the boy’s limited term of existence had been significantly curtailed. He had no more years to look forward to only mere moments.
He walked in a single file line with his comrades under the darting eyes of their Japanese captors. His fingers were laced behind his head, and he didn’t dare move his hands to shield his eyes from the blinding tropical sun or the salty sting of his sweat. Breyers had spent his life in the vast cornfields of Middle America where the grey skies of winter lingered for months on end. The Pacific sun turned his flesh a pulsing red. The Japanese fleet loomed ominously in the still crystal blue waters. The massive steel barrels of their guns had returned to their resting position. Occasionally a grenade blast in the thick jungle rattled the birds out of the tr…

The Borderline Angel of Death

I would like to thank Burning House Press for featuring this piece!

At the age of thirty, Daniel Lufto lived alone in a single bedroom apartment. In his first thirty years on Earth he had made very few lasting connections, and at this point, his existence had virtually no perceptible impact on anyone else. He was just another recurring face on the bus ride to work, a vaguely remembered customer in the local liquor store.
As a human being, Daniel existed on a strictly interim basis. His home was even on a month to month arrangement. On any day he and his meager belongings could be swept out and with that almost any trace of Daniel's corporeal existence.
Daniel wasn’t so solitary by choice. He and the world around him could never find the proper way to engage each other. Daniel grew up, but he never developed into a fully fleshed out human being. He had no particular interests or hobbies absolutely nothing could captivate him. It was as if he had been deprived an imagination and was…

The Bronze Bull

After the Mormon army armies reached the east coast, they set to work salvaging and restarting the long-abandoned foundries scattered across the landscape. The blast furnaces once again were swollen with molten steel, and the towering brick stacks erupted with volcanic ferocity. The forked flames lashed at the clouds and the billowing smoke blackened the sky heralding the ascendancy of the continent's new masters.
Roaming bands of scavengers had been picking at the bones of New York City for decades. THe nibbling quickly turned into a full feeding frenzy. Legions of landless farmers and rootless laborers descended on the ruins. They worked as ceaselessly as termites to hollow out the steel carcass.
John Nelson had traveled a long way to get a look inside the old city. He was a Captain Edler in the Bringham Young regiment an outfit that had spent the better part of a decade fighting across the continent. The spry young Captain was an avid student of history, and even though dead o…