The CHronicles of Stupidity

BLAEBERRY FARM SHENANIGANS

If it was not for Mother's greed, she would not be sitting on this cold hard chair, inside a cold dark room interrogated by cold, heartless detectives at 3am in the morning. If only Mother had not always been a greedy woman. She always wanted what she didn't have and then desired more than what she already possessed. In her youth she would abandon lovers, friends, and colleagues if the smell of money was promised to her, without blinking an eye. It was a selfish past that Mother considered long gone, or so she believed it to be. For one week ago on a golden fall morning when her baby was born to her, while studying her child's features, she felt it to be so. Walking home from the hospital, the autumn wind whipped her hair frivolously, her week old baby cradled in her arm on the path to her Blaeberry Farm. In her head she mapped out a plan to pick the berries before the appearance of winter became too violent on the fragile berries. When in the corner of her eye she spotted a man holding a large black bag, crouching in the nearby forest. She stopped in her tracks, held her baby tighter, and approached the man, suspicious as to what business he had in such an uneventful place. Upon meeting that man on that autumn day she discovered that inside the bag was an unfathomable amount of money, a beautiful fortune that could be easily obtained in exchange for the warm bundle in her arms.

"You're involved in these sickening acts aren't you?!" The detective yelled loudly, thrusting a newspaper headline into Mother's face.

'Shocking stories of Mother's willingly endorsing in black market infant organ trafficking' It was the outrageous story that was circulating through every ear and mouth of the townsfolk, and Mother's missing baby a week after birth, ultimately pinned her as the suspect. Shows there's no better way to bring together people than when pinning someone as a scapegoat. The people who were her friends neighbours, and family members were all crowded outside the shabby police station demanding justice for her crime, all turned her into a scapegoat with no feelings. Leaning down to Mother's level, the detective muttered quietly for her to begin talking or he would let the mob have their way with her. She cocked her head upwards, meeting his hard glare with hers at the mention of the townsfolk's' betrayal. She began her fable with the fleeting steps she once took on her way to pick Blaeberries.

I had left my baby lying on the floor of the forest to start my yearly harvest of Blaeberries; there were no other ulterior purposes. I had simply waited till my baby's eyelids were fully shut, so no cries would be heard once I left its side. Sleep leaving a lasting peaceful expression to grace its face, and then I turned and left my newborn lying wrapped in a blanket, on the endless floor of the forest. For I was not concerned of the safety of my child, similar to everyone else, I had lived in this town all my life and was assured of the safety my homeland contained. Trading a breathing bundle for my basket, I set upon the vast expanse of Blaeberry hedges, filling my fingers with their delicateness before trudging on to the next bushel. Time passed through the continuous drooping of the sun's light and the weight of my basket pulling my weighing my body awkwardly to one side. It was only until my hands became illuminated not by golden rays but by the beaming moonlight, I realized something was amiss. I gripped my basket in a fist of worry, and ran back to the edge of the forest where I had left my baby sleeping peacefully. Reaching the spot, the patch of grass that was once indented by the weight of my child was now nonexistent. The sound of my breathing turned into a familiar tune, becoming all I could hear over the panicking thoughts in my head. The basket slipped from my hands as the very first raindrops began to darken my garments; I ran to the walking trails that leading to the large Town Lake, searching the ground for any traces. My hurried steps splashed in the muddy trails, I watched them intently, too scared to trip. I paused only once pausing in my anxiety to examine fresh small prints in the ground, my heavy breathing ceased momentarily, replaced by a hopeful silence. Only once the imprints fully basked in the moonlight, the outline of webbed brown otter feet became apparent and I sank back into despair. The cold winds whirled around me, urging my soaked limbs upwards and to run faster down the trail towards the Town Lake. Raindrops streamed down my face, blending with the tears that continued to escape, my vision soon becoming encompassed by the glimmering lake. The waters bathed and glistened in the soft moonlight, complementing the multiple swans that paddled gracefully. They floated across the surface, necks outstretched in the night and wings fluttering away raindrops. Swans were all I discovered that night on the lake, and never a trace of my baby.