One shard has had to describe its identity by how the others' lustre looked after the fracture of the shard when she was born. she was the smallest of them all, and had to join a group in order to be noticed. She never had a chance to be at the top of the order. She was always, too quiet to be noticed, and too different from the others. Her fascination for the men and women in livery was a curse. She was intrigued to get out of the casing of her being only by the English and Scottish pride, but she was a Portuguese, and it was a taboo.I moan and stop mid-step; my legs in motion suddenly confused. My arms move, waving, but I am unseen. 'Who..? Where am I..? What – ' The sound of my voice echoes in the void.
Stepping forward, I try to move my legs again as the world lights up around me; a vista of unfamiliar green, and yellow earth below, patchworked with brown and black sidewalks. Standing taller, the world is suddenly filled with tall buildings and shimmering windows on houses that spring up from the ground. The trees upon them are moving with the wind; the branches and leaves all interlocked into living blankets of green.
The birds have a different story, than the ones on television.
Oh, the birds, colorful and obese, nesting high, high up on the trees, they have a different story, than the ones on television. They have to be careful what to say - because their thoughts are read, or worse still the gruesome red-and-black, ray-gun - things that stalk the sky. They're built for chasing and shooting down nosy birds. Once upon a time they were built to help people who were lost or in danger, from the truth, but that was ages ago! Now they are used to protect other secrets and to keep a leash on the people.
All around, the trees grow large and terrible. Many seem dead, with twisted limbs or half rotted trunks, but somehow they are alive, and their leaves are voices, they talk to one another. Their leaves tell stories and they speak of the red-and-black things that scour the forest, trying to keep them quiet.
The red-and-black things have stories too, they whisper to the people, of a world that died long ago when the sky cracked and the red and black things flew across the ocean, filling it with fire, smoke and metal. The people never questioned the flying-and-shooting-red-and-black-things, they were too busy grieving.
They stopped talking of the cracked sky long ago, it would upset, upset the red-and-black things.
During the grey nights there is always a helping plant, they grow alongside the red-and-black people, to light the way and to prepare food, but not all is as it seems. At night the plant light is a silent lit candle, instead of a bright flame.
During the cold mornings there is always a helping plant, several grow next to the red-and-black-things, always silent. The red and black things know what is there, they know full well, yet they keep silent, they are building up their anger inside, and they threaten the helping plant. The helping plant knows their desperation, and tries to help.
They share a story of the first man, his difficult moments, his sorrow, his despair. All along his trail, the suicide tree cries and murmurs, for a long time, refusing all their help. They make the man tired, so tired, he cries, so in despair he is forced to his knees, and hopes to die.
The helping plant feeds the man, but the man does not know this, it comes after him. Then it all changes. The man understands and after many days, he follows the helper on his path, and falls into the water. A boat is waiting for him, on the other side of the river.
The helping plant watches the man, after his rescue, in dismay. The man has kept his lands to himself, he elevates himself above the other men, yet has to share his lands with the red-and-black things.
