A satire of dysfunctional politics and economic disparity.
Chapter VI: Day/Page 50 CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY. . . .
Chapter VI: The Blue Planet
“Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed.” ― Dwight D. Eisenhower [1890-1969]
Early on a Friday morning, precisely 9,381 years ago, a small dim light appears high in the nighttime sky above the Blue Planet. The light grows brighter. A red, fiery tail flares behind the ball of light when it strikes the planet’s atmosphere, searing off electrons and igniting a trail of scorched ions to the rear. As the flaming object cuts through the sky you hear a crackling, hissing sound, and immediately afterwards a sharp loud BOOM!—then silence. The fireball streaks low over the stygian sea, emblazoning the dark, agitated waters in brilliant light; and then nears land, skims close atop a rocky cliff, slows, dims, and drops silently into the tropical jungle.
A faint, blood-red glow radiates from Sofia’s pod, pulsating gently and steadily like a beating heart, nestled in the damp lush ferns. In through the darkness flutters a large grey moth with two black eyes painted on the back of its wings. Attracted by the pulsing incandescence, the moth alights on the glowing pod, sparking a flash of kinetic energy. The grey wings flare crimson red as if set afire; and the emblazoned black eyes on the wings are now liquid pools of emerald green. The pod slowly opens, closes; the pulsating glow fades and goes out, allowing darkness to once more creep in and envelope the jungle.
In the distance, barely visible through the serried growth and trees, a light flickers from a small lean-to shanty lashed roughly to the base of a great banyan tree. The sturdy vertical roots of the tree form the back wall of the tiny hut, while the side walls and front are made of motley faded soda-pop cans that have been hammered flat and stitched together with hemp and wire, forming an aluminum patch-work quilt that is draped from the great tree’s branches to provide protection against wind and rain. Withered, leaky thatch bedecks the crumbling roof, and over the sodden muddy floor is a spongy carpet of rotting banana-tree leaves. The only items visible in the lean-to hut are a dented cooking pot, an old broken fruit crate with missing slats, and a lump of plant wax, crudely fashioned into a sputtering candle burning atop the crate.
Drawn by the sad feeble flame, and something more. . .
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW. . . .
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Gregory James
All rights reserved