Apocalypse
It all started with a gust of cold wind and the rain. The rain was a sign. It was a true sign of things that had been and things as they would be; soon.
The rain had barely ceased when a series of spikes starting running the length of the land, over and over again; as if Atlas himself was trying to find a soft spot in order to impale the very globe he had been carrying for years now.
All this time the Berber was circling the area, searching for the right spot to begin his evil operation. An unknowing descendant of the North African tribe, this man was more a ZooZoo than a Zizou. Finding the spot in the rear, he started with a cursory inspection, gauging the length of the stalk.
It is time I mention where he was. The story is set in a lush field somewhere far, far away. In the field lie millions of tall plants. Make no mistake, these aren’t any redwoods, but they’re longer than your average sapling. This land of beautiful, black fauna was meticulously grown by the Farmer, who spent day and night nurturing this field, away from home, often relying upon sheer strength of will to watch his plants grow.
The farmer was away at home, to spend a few days with his family, when news reached him that his undefended field, the very meaning of his existence, was under threat from these vile creatures. He had left it undefended, for who would want to destroy a thing of beauty, a joy forever?
It was too late for him to do anything, though. With his harrow and shears in his hand the giant Berber inched ever closer. The plants, now smooth and yielding because of the rain, fall about his fingers as they move through the wavy confines.
And then it started. He cut, he hacked, he slashed with a crescendo never seen before in the world. As he sheared his way through the field, first this way and then that, he was the figure of efficiency himself; smooth, knowing full well the consequence of his butchery. One wonders how this man and others like him sleep at night; knowing full well their deeds of the day.
When it was over, the land lay barren, the stalks reduced to a tenth of what they had been barely fifteen minutes before. The farmer reached late, too late to do anything but weep, lament, and start anew the labour of his life.
(Author's Note: In case anyone's wondering; I got a haircut today; and I DID NOT WANT TO)
The rain had barely ceased when a series of spikes starting running the length of the land, over and over again; as if Atlas himself was trying to find a soft spot in order to impale the very globe he had been carrying for years now.
All this time the Berber was circling the area, searching for the right spot to begin his evil operation. An unknowing descendant of the North African tribe, this man was more a ZooZoo than a Zizou. Finding the spot in the rear, he started with a cursory inspection, gauging the length of the stalk.
It is time I mention where he was. The story is set in a lush field somewhere far, far away. In the field lie millions of tall plants. Make no mistake, these aren’t any redwoods, but they’re longer than your average sapling. This land of beautiful, black fauna was meticulously grown by the Farmer, who spent day and night nurturing this field, away from home, often relying upon sheer strength of will to watch his plants grow.
The farmer was away at home, to spend a few days with his family, when news reached him that his undefended field, the very meaning of his existence, was under threat from these vile creatures. He had left it undefended, for who would want to destroy a thing of beauty, a joy forever?
It was too late for him to do anything, though. With his harrow and shears in his hand the giant Berber inched ever closer. The plants, now smooth and yielding because of the rain, fall about his fingers as they move through the wavy confines.
And then it started. He cut, he hacked, he slashed with a crescendo never seen before in the world. As he sheared his way through the field, first this way and then that, he was the figure of efficiency himself; smooth, knowing full well the consequence of his butchery. One wonders how this man and others like him sleep at night; knowing full well their deeds of the day.
When it was over, the land lay barren, the stalks reduced to a tenth of what they had been barely fifteen minutes before. The farmer reached late, too late to do anything but weep, lament, and start anew the labour of his life.
(Author's Note: In case anyone's wondering; I got a haircut today; and I DID NOT WANT TO)
Comments
You continue superceding yourself!
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