I've never been one to hate much, but there's one thing that ruined my life. Or rather my mother's. She couldn't take the heat of global warming. The feeling is more like global burning, that turns your hopes and dreams into ashes and dust. But I ke...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Her fragile hands had never been hotter, or sweatier. They shook like broken, delicate butterfly wings, that wished to fly with the birds. But her heart was chained to the ground, as was her weak body. If there was a poem to describe the way I felt when I saw her, there would be powerful words. Sick, limp, lifeless look; it would be something powerful. My mother used to tell me, that before the Sun had come to close to earth, melting away the ice, causing floods everywhere along the borders, that people had things they would do to entertain themselves.
"Writing," she would say. "People could take simple words and create a master piece. They would have make believe people that thousands of real ones would feel a connection to, that's how amazing words could be."
Most people don't speak properly anymore. She say's ain't shouldn't be spoken. When I asked why, she just laughed and sighed.
"Oh Amethyst. I wish I could teach you everything," she said with a deep sadness in her eyes.
This was weeks ago, when I couldn't sleep because it was so hot.
"I wish we could build a giant shelter where the winds don't blow up hot dirt into your eyes. I wish the sun didn't burn your cheeks, and that the plants would grow millions of crops like they did before," she says.
There used to be juicy fruit that didn't rot right away. The sun was farther back, so food grew easier, and didn't waste away so quickly. People would have miles, and miles of fresh food. No one gaged on it. Finding food was easy. It wasn't even considered finding. You just traded pieces of paper, and different kinds of flattened out minerals, called dollar bills, checks, and coins. If only we could relax. My great grandfather was a poet. Rumor has it, people used to enjoy laying back in the sun. How that burning head could have been toned down to a nice temperature is unimaginable to me.
The luxury of activity sounded so relaxing.
" The words would have a way to grasp someone else's attention, and to have them holding on tight to the words," she explained.
But poetry isn't welcomed anymore. Neither is any other activity. I guess I barely know what writing is. Once I had seen a very old stone with one simple phrase. My mother told me it was called a line of a poem. The phrase was to respect someone who had died long ago, when lives typically lasted longer.
But that was a long time ago. I wasn't even alive when poetry was still being written, and read. Right now I'm feeling empty, in a dying forest with loose sand blowing around. My crippled mother crumpled up on the ground.
Tension fills my broken heart each day. Orange snowflakes gently drifted to the ground. But gentle never seems to last long. We all know it will very soon turn to hot, fire temperature blizzard.
When the sun's orbit had slightly shifted, things only got worse. The sun kept coming closer, and closer to earth. Everyone has to wear special goggles so that our eye sight doesn't get to bad.
I keep my hand in hers.
"Promise me you will take Quarts to the Testing," she says shakily.
"I promise. I swear," I tell her, as tears start dripping down my cheeks.
"If I were a poet," my mother said, letting out another weak smile. She sits up, leaning towards the sun. She tilts her head towards the red sky. Her frail hair hangs down on her face, but the wind blows it back a bit. "I would describe the sun as a ball of fire." One little dandelion grows in the dirt. She picks it, looking happily at the little white fluff. "In sight the sun is bright, but in our heart and head, the sun has never been darker." People used to pick these little flowers, and blow on them, making wishes. She uses all of her energy, blowing the little wishers. They float around in the sky, like little white lights illuminated by the sun.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I didn't understand what she said. The sun isn't dark. The light is awful, and causes deathly diseases. Plus, an object can't be light and dark at the same time. I don't question her word choice though, or the fact that you're not supposed to talk about poetry in general. I let her blab on about whatever she feels. She slowly lets go of my hand, letting out a sigh, collapsing onto the sandy ground. She always sighs when she feels sad, which is quite often.
When I look back down at her, her eyes are closed. There's an odd expressionless look on her face. I touch her hand again, but she doesn't take it.
"Mom?" I say. "Are you doing okay?"
She doesn't answer.
"Mom, please answer me."
I wait for anything. Just a sigh, or a breath. My mom doesn't sigh. I don't even hear her breath. I clap my hands together in front of her face, hoping she flinches.
"Snap out of it!" I yell. "Don't leave me!"
She doesn't flinch. She doesn't respond. She just lays there motionless. Wiping sweat, dirt, and tears off my face, I shake, and shake her until my muscles ache. I scream out, moaning. Dandelion puffs fly upwards. Some fall back to the ground in her strawberry blonde hair.
"Mom..." I moan. "Mmmm."
Whenever I cry hard she just sighs and hugs me. Not this time. My mom doesn't sigh.
I moan and moan. My head is dull, my heart broken in a million pieces. She doesn't sigh. I feel sick. My eyes are wide open. There's nothing I can do. My mom doesn't sigh. I just crumple up into a ball, and cry. All I do is cry to the point where my eyes sting. My tears are hot like the sun. My mom doesn't sigh. My mom doesn't sigh.
