Still

Chloe Jeon

I remember clearly when Aurora awoke that fateful day, gentle hues of night melting into bright yellow, the brilliant sun first peeking over the horizon before climbing up into the sky, a chorus of larks announcing the arrival of spring, the coolness of morning and the hopes of day ringing in the air, and a small seedling taking root in the ground, waiting to be set free from the confines of the earth.

At last it was free, unfurling its delicate tendrils of soft green, climbing higher and higher, finding an old abandoned wall to lean on, growing and growing, a magnificent vine laden with fruit of fiery red and royal purple, reaching for something higher, something greater, something more.

The Sun beat down, its golden rays once nourishing but now painful, hot red slits threatening to burn the poor plant, which grew on and on, not wanting to stop, but the Sun only beat down with greater intensity, intent on its utter destruction.

Until one day, just a little bit too much heat, and something sparked on the smallest tendril of the vine, at first imperceptible, but it quickly spread, filling the air with thick black smoke, tearing the vine off the wall, ignoring the tremble of the now blood-red sky and the silent screams of the earth.

And now, nothing is left but the cold, blue-gray wall, as if nothing had happened, save for the snow that falls, the pitch-black snow that tells of a different story from the wall that stands there still.