We don’t need a story.
Our city, once vibrant and bustling slowed, little by little, step by step, almost to a standstill. The peaceful solitude of the Garden, designed with a radiant cacophony of greens, faded and dried. It sighed, when before it would sing.
We were deaf to it.
Busy overtook thought. Frantic overtook calm. Impatience soared higher than the mirrored-windowed buildings reflecting the sun, projecting its brightness onto the tips of our shoes, bouncing its warmth off kerb stones and statues. Bin collectors came on Tuesday. They dropped a tin can from a bin that day. A crack appeared in the church wall. Petals fell from flowers left on gravestones. The window cleaner didn’t show.
And so the glow didn’t reflect as much.
Our eyes became accustomed to monochrome hues as the neon bar sign flickered. Colours blurred as we blinked out the sleepiness of morning on our way to work. Walking, single file, robotic in stature, precise in our movement. In time – losing our sense of time. Losing ourselves in time.
Moving together in time to the sighs of the Garden and the tin can rolling beside us.
The bin collectors came later in the week. A dumpster overturned, left trash across the street. We walked over it. A single brick, from the church wall, dislodged and crumbled to dust on the air. We breathed it in, unawares. The flowers disintegrated into the headstones, an imprint of the love that put them there, a highlight of nonchalance descending.
The neon sign creaked on a broken hinge. The air seemed colder. Insanity seeped in-between.
We normalised it.
Devastation without realisation. A test of awareness and spirit. They cried at the end – begged those who tried to fight, to try again.
They’d make amends.
They’d hold their heads up high.
Clean the mirrored-windows in the sky.
Allow the sun to shine
– back onto the pavements. Back onto the tips of our…
The sighing died, the robotic movement stopped, the tin can crumpled, the church bell fell, it clanged loudly on the ground, reverberated for miles, unheard. As the dust settled, it was quiet. A nice quiet. A necessary quiet.
We walked from the dust, spread our wings wide, wrapped what we could find inside and took to the skies.
We used our minds.
We weren’t confined to concrete and stone. We built a new city. High rise alongside traditional church spire. Gardens of greens never before seen, mixed with science never before used.
We improved.
We grew. We knew. We had to look after this one – or we’d know what we’d become.
We don’t need a story. We are the story.
Notes:
I wanted to create a dystopian/sci-fi feel to this and almost write it in the style of lyrics using intermittent rhyming throughout.
I used the opening beats and words from a few songs on the list, immediately inspired by the atmosphere as each song kicked in.
The first part of the story is inspired by
- the words ‘It’s cold outside’ from Big Science by Laurie Anderson and the opening beats of In Dark Trees by Brian Eno.
The idea of uprising and rebirth is inspired by
- the opening of Yume No Shima Shinen Kouen and Kaval Sviri by The Bulgarian State Television Female Choir.
Listening to new music made me revisit some old stuff and so I also used some inspiration from the music and lyrics of Intro by M83.
Jaime‘s love of writing grew during her time at Cambridge University while studying a B.Ed in Drama. Whist her day job sees her successfully writing and directing stage productions for children, at night, her other writing life concentrates on sci-fi, fantasy and some darker themes. She surprises herself sometimes where her characters take her and loves how deeply involved she can get in creating the visuals for new worlds.