A Bag of Peanuts and Imagination

A Gift From Above

The afternoon sun is blazing.  The cracked, dry earth radiates the sun's rays of death off into the air, casting a magical wispiness.  The illusion casted so prominent, one could mistake it for the chill of a lifesaving breeze that tickles the tops of trees and works it ways around the earth, wanting to see it all.  The sea further beyond the tallest hill, crashes against the stony black beach, skeletons and bones of fish litter the edge of land and water.  Its murky, grey surface slowly carving away at the land, slowly reclaiming what was lost.  The orange ball of flames in the sky grows dimmer, and larger.  Its fiery skin tears into the horizon, slowly mixing back into the aether of the air.  When the sun if halfway torn apart, it marks the return of my father.  A short, stocky old man, tough skin, rough posture and a warm heart to the life he lives.  Many would assume plowing the fields under the lashings of the rays, barely a drop of life giving water falling from the skies would make even the toughest man bitter and cold, shut from the world and only look after themselves.  Not this old man.  Even in the gloomiest of days, skies blanketed with the wrath of the gods, tempting and playing with our joys for a blessing of rain or a minute of a cooling, soothing wind.  But long ago, the gods were angered, and punished the entire lands into a spell of water, death, and misery.  The skies only the same shade of the darkest gray, the tears of valkyries and angels flood the lands below, drowning the crops and weathering the mightiest of statues.  The droplets once thought of as light and pleasant now resembles a storm of spears, relentlessly attacking everything that was under the clouds.  One lone woman, weak, drenched, and fatigued, climbed the tallest hill and begged for mercy on the people.  Begged for the sun to return to nourish their crops and dry the clothes on their backs, dry the seeming endless barrage of liquid arrows.  The gods obliged, but told the woman to be careful for what they wish.  The crops that manage to break from their seeds would soon wither and die under the constant shine of the sun, crushing the hopes of those foolish enough to find any sort of salvation from this cursed blessing.  The suns brilliance dazzled, burning animals and plants except for the hardiest and toughest of them all.  Even with hope so lost, my father tries and tries, sowing the seeds for the future, as he says.

Then one day, my father blasts through the door, exclaiming he's done it, hope has been found.  The cursed blessing has ended.  As he runs out of the room and screams into the air as he runs further down the streets, more people are gathering in my fathers plot.  In the black earth, sits a lone seedling.  Its leaves the brightest of green and seems to emit energy of vigor and strength.  The plant is dug up very carefully, as if they are afraid of killing the god that infused themselves into the plant, and is placed into the finest clay pot that could be found.  Every day, under the light of the sun, the plant is cared for as if it was chief.  Everyday the plant grows bigger and taller, more leaves extend up into the air, as if it were reaching for the sun and challenge its everlasting presence.  The fruit it bears nourished the people.  But the fruit bears no seeds, and any branch cut off simply withers to ash, left to settle into the earth.  But the people view this plant as a gift from the gods, as the gods finally took pity and offered a small gleam of hope for the future.
Slowly, every day that passes on, the plant grows and grows.  Eventually being worshipped as a god itself.

The next day, as the sun mixes itself into the aether, my father barges into the room, exclaiming he's found hope.  There in his plot, lays a single seedling, its leaves the brightest of green, emitting energy of vigor and strength.  But the plant in the  village center is no where to be seen.  Yet when asked, no one remembers about any plant in the barren earth of the village center.  Only I remember the twisting vines and the nourishing fruit that brought hope for our people.  But what dawned on me, was that this seedling, was the same plant, and that the day was the same as before.  As my father leaves the room and screams into the street, I sit just outside the door, and stare into my fathers plot.  The food from earlier in the day starts to fight against my body, and wins.