It reeks.
Everything simply reeks to the point where breathing becomes a chore as your system struggles to filter in and out what's good and what's bad. Have you ever seen those tiny human inventions? destructive to the core, efficient with death.
It's a minefield.
In a literal and metaphorical sense, bombs make a home out of the land and also to one's heart (they can rage, then be suppressed, or they can quietly burn into ashes).
It's false hope.
Centuries to decades later, humans continue to claim dominance, then make up laws and promises of protection as if the whole world would jot out silence and could only nod and agree to all hidden agendas and profanities aside (if you wish to be a specimen of our odd little curiosities, why not come? we'll welcome you gladly).
Though quietly, this land continues to fight back too. We just never thought they ever did that (we might call it a natural disaster, but in the end, who gets the last laugh?)
Exhibit #4: What if I were chosen to convince aliens not to invade this land?
YOU ARE READING
a collection of odd stories in jane doe's head
PoesíaWhat of life? What of death? Here we have an unnamed character swallowing different kinds of worlds through her imagination. One question rises in her head, then another. It's quite a tale, isn't it? None like no other.
