Wasteland
TITLE : Wasteland
WORD COUNT: 317
SUMMARY: on the wasting of things: gifts, time, spirits...
WARNINGS: none - other than that I might have taken the "pointless things" in the sticky post too seriously)
A very short story for this prompt picture written for wordsinthebrain
Wasteland
“This is what Men do? This is how they treat what they have been given?”
He kicks at a rusty metal pole that might or might not have been a pipe, at a time long ago. Then the tip of a soft boot cautiously pokes at the one wheel that still stands upright, and recoils as the blackish material yields to the soft touch, gives a squishing sound and then oozes a small rivulet of reeking, oily water.
“It is no marvel the trees are dead. The ground is poisoned, it reeks of…” He glances at the queer conglomeration of waste littered on the decaying ground. He has no concept of which use that torn and rusted waste once had, even though the wheels point to some sort of cart, as useless as they now seem in their wobbly state. They stink, like the rest of the litter, their odour is strange, outlandish, unnatural. It reminds him of evil things, of the forges of Isengard, but nothing he has smelled in the thousands of years he has lived compares to it.
Devastation, it strikes him then, it reeks of devastation. Of consumption, ruination, annihilation. How the trees survived as long as they did, he does not know. Their death must have been gruesome, he can still feel traces of their suffering when he touches the grey barks.
“Ai, father,” he moans softly. “Where are you? It is time you depart; your fëa is wasted here where the trees are dying from some evil that seems darker than the Shadow ever was.”
There is no answer, of course there is none. And Legolas turns and walks away, briskly. He will not linger pointlessly-he has but three days, that is all the Valar granted him, and now he has seen what Men made of Arda, he is more determined than ever to bring his adar home to Valinor.
WORD COUNT: 317
SUMMARY: on the wasting of things: gifts, time, spirits...
WARNINGS: none - other than that I might have taken the "pointless things" in the sticky post too seriously)
A very short story for this prompt picture written for wordsinthebrain
Wasteland
“This is what Men do? This is how they treat what they have been given?”
He kicks at a rusty metal pole that might or might not have been a pipe, at a time long ago. Then the tip of a soft boot cautiously pokes at the one wheel that still stands upright, and recoils as the blackish material yields to the soft touch, gives a squishing sound and then oozes a small rivulet of reeking, oily water.
“It is no marvel the trees are dead. The ground is poisoned, it reeks of…” He glances at the queer conglomeration of waste littered on the decaying ground. He has no concept of which use that torn and rusted waste once had, even though the wheels point to some sort of cart, as useless as they now seem in their wobbly state. They stink, like the rest of the litter, their odour is strange, outlandish, unnatural. It reminds him of evil things, of the forges of Isengard, but nothing he has smelled in the thousands of years he has lived compares to it.
Devastation, it strikes him then, it reeks of devastation. Of consumption, ruination, annihilation. How the trees survived as long as they did, he does not know. Their death must have been gruesome, he can still feel traces of their suffering when he touches the grey barks.
“Ai, father,” he moans softly. “Where are you? It is time you depart; your fëa is wasted here where the trees are dying from some evil that seems darker than the Shadow ever was.”
There is no answer, of course there is none. And Legolas turns and walks away, briskly. He will not linger pointlessly-he has but three days, that is all the Valar granted him, and now he has seen what Men made of Arda, he is more determined than ever to bring his adar home to Valinor.