Here is something I decided pretty much on a whim to do. I have written out this short story idea about a year ago and never did anything with it. I came across it in a journal, handwritten and rough and fell back in love with the story. It’s written in first person but as a diary entry instead of a narrative. I thought it’d be a fun exercise for me and maybe a treat for you if I wrote a short entry every couple weeks of what is happening in her world on the same day of the year but 307 years in the future. Her issues deal with some things I am very passionate about, food production and safety, genetic engineering, medical advances, pollution, etc. I hope you enjoy reading about Faylinn and her journey.
Wednesday, August 10th, 2318
I was just a girl with the Land finally died. So young I can’t recall the true green of a leaf nor the yellow glow of a daisy. To speak of these things is forbidden now and would be lost to me if it hadn’t been for the midnight whispers of my father’s gruff voice.
“Faylinn,” He’d say, “remember these things. Remember what I have told you.”
Though I can’t recall the twining of vines or the smell of fresh grass there is one thing I will never forget; the rumbling beneath my small feet and the soul piercing moan as the Earth gave up and died.
It had fought long and hard but like ants overpowering a beetle, it was no match for the blight set upon it.
Humans. People. Men, women, children. Twenty-nine trillion souls packed elbow to shin sucking life from their only home.
I’ve heard the stories. That three hundred years ago they knew this would come. They fore casted, predicted and studied concluding that one day the Earth would cease to live. Scientists screamed it but they were ignored. How could my ancestors have dismissed these claims? How could they have allowed the land to be swept away under a sheet of never ending concrete? The Rivers are black with poison. The only animals left are scavenging bugs. Perhaps if they could see us now, they would have changed. Perhaps they would not have been so short sighted.
But I wish for something that cannot be.
I’ve learned long ago to let foolish dreams die. Perhaps that is what they did, too.
Last week my father died. He got sick on a Thursday and by Saturday morning his lifeless body was encased in a medical bag and taken away. They told me it was The Ice. A super-virus immune to all our advanced medicines, one that had errupted like a silent, invisible volcano pouring over the Earth when the polar caps melted. Too much sterilizations. Too much dead, processed food. Too many medicines, preventatives, vaccines have left us weak. Left us susceptable to this ancient disease. At least, that is what my father said at midnight.
There were so many things he told me. Wondrous, mind exploding things that seem too fantastical to have ever been real. Did you know there had once been a creature, quite small in size to us, that could glide through the air on long bending arms? I didn’t believe it either but my father had seen it once in a book. Their hollow bones and bodies were covered with thin light things called feathers that helped propel them through the sky.
A sky, that, he told me, had once been blue. Can you imagine that? I laughed aloud at the ridiculousness. My heart still holds the dream that maybe, one day, I will see a real bird. Not a machine made of metal and plastic.
Though I know the gray cloud that hangs in the air, choking me, will never again be blue. If it ever had been.
The day before he died my father told me I was a Seeker. I don’t know what that means and I dare not mention it to anyone but he asked me to write my story down. To chronicle my days and to write down his stories, too. I have a separate book for those memories. One I’ve made sure is well hidden. A book of the past and one of the present. It seems fitting.
Lights out is only moments away so I must go for now. I will cry. I will dream. Of birds and blue skies and gruff, scratchy whispers; things no one will know but me.