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Thoughts on the Horizon
Chris Ballard
13 Mar 2003
Thoughts on the horizon, swimming in an ocean of orange. Like memories cast
forth, silhouetting the objects of present. The shadow of the Sun, flowing
through the image of now. It finds its way to the broken surface of a black
abyss which echoes the twinkle of the light much like tree leaves, glimmering as
they twist to the ground. A stillness drifts over the scene.
The slight breeze stops and the trees forget to sway. The last leaves to break
away find their way to the earth. They finally stop to rest on a thousand
generations of old, together coloring the forgotten forest floor like rust. The
damp, decaying smell rises up to fill the nostrils of the sky, which holds its
breath as somber clouds creep up, collecting for the night. Dark entities,
standing out against the nothingness behind them. They cover the land, Gods on
the horizon, casting shadow over a once golden field. Unseen within the field,
a small creature scurries toward shelter--the discarded piece of some worn out
machinery.
Worn out and thrown away. Much like this land; barely surviving. Just a
collection of secondary parts, left over from what was not pillaged. A dirt
path that winds down to an abandoned home, not kept for years. Weeds have
reclaimed the road and flowerless vines have overtaken the structure. Sweet
sounds of jovial play are lost, the laughter replaced by the occasional battle
cries of skirmishing rodents. The voice of the song bird is no longer heard,
nor is that of the owl, both have abdicated, in favor of the silent droning of
termites feeding on the wood of the lost trees. The few trees that do still
stand do so in isolated pockets of nutrients, surrounded by the rubble of fallen
empires. Even then, in their small communities, they are subject to famine,
everyday appearing more and more like their deceased brethren.
Yet, the Gods above them take no notice as they collect this night. They toil
away in dreaded silence preparing their punishment, like witches mixing a potion
in their cauldron. It is anticipated among the inhabitants of the land. Even
though it cannot be seen or heard, it can be felt and everyone knows it is
coming, although none know why. An eerie silence becomes the night as everyone
waits for their conviction to begin.
Without warning the sky exhales and the peoples' end flashes through the air,
stretching to every visible corner of Earth. Simultaneously, like the crack of
a bullet, a roaring explosion blasts away at the Earth, causing every being to
tremble in fear. Then it recedes slowly, becoming an echo of an echo of an echo
again leaving the world to its deathly silence. It wasn't until they began to
question the effectiveness of the strike that they realized its intent. Parched
tree trunks ignited without further coercion. The fire burned the color of sin
and smelt of boiling flesh. The whipping of the fire blazed through every ear.
A billowing smoke swirled into the air, hiding the escape of the storm clouds.
Devouring everything in its path and erasing all the records of past giants the
conflagration blitzed over the realm. Until eventually, blocked by the placid
lake, the fire died out, exhausting the fuel of the forest. After a long,
inperceptive stillness, the replenishing tap of rain was felt on the scorched
soil.
Thoughts on the horizon, watching the last of the rain clouds to leave. A
careful light peaks over the land. Memories of the past replaced by the
promises of the future. Dreams form into possibility. A pink horizon
illuminates a towering oak that quietly stretches its arms and one barren field
seems to have turned, almost, back to gold.
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