Post by Anna on Jan 25, 2008 0:21:26 GMT -5
Hey everybody...doing a novel version of my short story. I'm not sure if the plot will be the same.
We had it coming, that much I know. Ten thousand years, maybe more. Humans had been wrecking the planet--no, the world--for at least that long. Would it have happened if everybody was special the way we were? If it hadn’t been my idea in the first place? There are too many ifs that I can’t answer. All I know is that I trusted my sisters, beyond anything or anyone else in the world. But it eventually all boiled down to one thought, one idea, one question:
Was the world worth the four of us, even if it was the cause of our destruction?
I guess plants don’t have much to worry about, other than dirt and water and getting picked, so they would probably pay attention to that stuff, even when we didn’t. When I was four, and a lily first slapped my cheek and chastised me for picking it, I turned to Aurora, astonished, and exclaimed, “It hit me! It talked!”
Aurora, being the older, wiser one, seven to my four, snatched it from my hand. “See? You killed it,” she said, staring at me as if I were an alien. She poked it back into the dirt, stroking the stem, not having gripped yet the understanding of solid life and endless death. But it wasn’t just the two of us: once Katie could print, she wrote down complicated conversations between herself and our plants, and Batsy talked to bushes before she talked to us. Somewhere down the line, Aurora must have discovered the consequences of spilling to someone, because she ordered us to stay quiet. What were we supposed to do? We obeyed.
By the time I was twelve, plants were a regular part of my life. I took it in stride, along with everything else. Grumpy teachers, too much homework, talking flowers—it was a routine. And on October 26th, nothing special was happening.
“Anna, do you have your homework? Anna? Anna?”
I pulled my eyes into focus and stopped staring out the window. “Sorry, Ms. McKinnley. What?”
“Do you have your homework, Anna?” She held out her hand for my worksheet
I fumbled in my notebook. “Um, here.” I didn’t mention that I hadn’t really done it. I didn’t see the point in school, and, as usual, I’d enlisted the help of the vinka patch. What was the general idea of school? I wasn’t lazy, and I loved learning, but I couldn’t wait for the memorization and repetition to end.
“Thank you, Anna.” She checked me off on her list and handed me back another sheet of paper—last week’s essay on photosynthesis. A neat ‘A’ was penned at the top. “This was great. I was especially moved by your paragraph on what the effect would be on the environment if all photosynthesis was stopped. Very analytical! Excellent.” She strode to the front of the room, clapped her hands. “Okay, everybody. Listen up! I went over last week’s essays, and they were, on the whole, quite good. But I saw that some of you were having trouble understanding the impact of photosynthesis and the carbon cycle on the world as a whole. Now, one student suggested in their essay what the impact would be on all living things if photosynthesis stopped entirely, and I thought we might brainstorm some ideas.”
I smiled to myself. I wasn’t a star student, nothing like Aurora, but I could analyze anything to death, and I often used this to my advantage when arguing with Katie. “Produce prices would shoot up,” I pointed out, only half-raising my hand.
Ms. McKinnley smiled. “Very good, Anna. Can you explain why?”
I sighed. “Farmers wouldn’t be able to harvest any crops.”
“Right. Anything else?”
My best friend Ella’s hand shot up. “There would be less oxygen in the air. A lot of people would be fainting, it would cause a lot of medical problems.” This was what I hated about Ella—she was smart and knew how to get down to things. She was confident and bright. She was so easy to love—and hate. I hadn’t even thought of that, but it would reduce oxygen levels.
“Great, Ella.” Ms. McKinnley clapped her hands again. “Okay, everybody. Don’t forget to finish reading Chapter Five over the weekend. See you on Monday!” There was a screech of chairs, soon followed by the banging of lockers.
I slung my backpack over one shoulder and pushed my chair under my desk. “Hey Ell,” I said. I knew she was behind me. It was a game we played, trying to sneak up on each other. It never worked—we knew each other too well.
“Don’t call me that.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “Darn it. I was so close!” We started down the hall and out of Cassandra Clark Junior High. “So, do you think you did okay on the bio quiz?”
I poked her playfully. “Why,” I teased, “are you so obsessed with grades?”
She swatted me away. “I am not.”
“You’re right. You’re just a compulsive overachiever and an anal retentive.”
“You say that like that’s a bad thing,” she giggled, swinging her arm over my shoulder as we started the long walk home.
I shrugged her away. “Stop it. This backpack puts enough strain on my back already. I don’t need you adding to it.”
I could feel the hurt radiating from her, and immediately felt guilty. Ever since her older sister had died the year before, Ella’s confidence had been shaky. “I’m sorry, Ell. I didn’t mean it.”
She sighed for the second time that afternoon. “It’s okay.”
“Ell?”
She didn’t answer. We walked in silence the rest of the way to our street.
We had it coming, that much I know. Ten thousand years, maybe more. Humans had been wrecking the planet--no, the world--for at least that long. Would it have happened if everybody was special the way we were? If it hadn’t been my idea in the first place? There are too many ifs that I can’t answer. All I know is that I trusted my sisters, beyond anything or anyone else in the world. But it eventually all boiled down to one thought, one idea, one question:
Was the world worth the four of us, even if it was the cause of our destruction?
I guess plants don’t have much to worry about, other than dirt and water and getting picked, so they would probably pay attention to that stuff, even when we didn’t. When I was four, and a lily first slapped my cheek and chastised me for picking it, I turned to Aurora, astonished, and exclaimed, “It hit me! It talked!”
Aurora, being the older, wiser one, seven to my four, snatched it from my hand. “See? You killed it,” she said, staring at me as if I were an alien. She poked it back into the dirt, stroking the stem, not having gripped yet the understanding of solid life and endless death. But it wasn’t just the two of us: once Katie could print, she wrote down complicated conversations between herself and our plants, and Batsy talked to bushes before she talked to us. Somewhere down the line, Aurora must have discovered the consequences of spilling to someone, because she ordered us to stay quiet. What were we supposed to do? We obeyed.
By the time I was twelve, plants were a regular part of my life. I took it in stride, along with everything else. Grumpy teachers, too much homework, talking flowers—it was a routine. And on October 26th, nothing special was happening.
“Anna, do you have your homework? Anna? Anna?”
I pulled my eyes into focus and stopped staring out the window. “Sorry, Ms. McKinnley. What?”
“Do you have your homework, Anna?” She held out her hand for my worksheet
I fumbled in my notebook. “Um, here.” I didn’t mention that I hadn’t really done it. I didn’t see the point in school, and, as usual, I’d enlisted the help of the vinka patch. What was the general idea of school? I wasn’t lazy, and I loved learning, but I couldn’t wait for the memorization and repetition to end.
“Thank you, Anna.” She checked me off on her list and handed me back another sheet of paper—last week’s essay on photosynthesis. A neat ‘A’ was penned at the top. “This was great. I was especially moved by your paragraph on what the effect would be on the environment if all photosynthesis was stopped. Very analytical! Excellent.” She strode to the front of the room, clapped her hands. “Okay, everybody. Listen up! I went over last week’s essays, and they were, on the whole, quite good. But I saw that some of you were having trouble understanding the impact of photosynthesis and the carbon cycle on the world as a whole. Now, one student suggested in their essay what the impact would be on all living things if photosynthesis stopped entirely, and I thought we might brainstorm some ideas.”
I smiled to myself. I wasn’t a star student, nothing like Aurora, but I could analyze anything to death, and I often used this to my advantage when arguing with Katie. “Produce prices would shoot up,” I pointed out, only half-raising my hand.
Ms. McKinnley smiled. “Very good, Anna. Can you explain why?”
I sighed. “Farmers wouldn’t be able to harvest any crops.”
“Right. Anything else?”
My best friend Ella’s hand shot up. “There would be less oxygen in the air. A lot of people would be fainting, it would cause a lot of medical problems.” This was what I hated about Ella—she was smart and knew how to get down to things. She was confident and bright. She was so easy to love—and hate. I hadn’t even thought of that, but it would reduce oxygen levels.
“Great, Ella.” Ms. McKinnley clapped her hands again. “Okay, everybody. Don’t forget to finish reading Chapter Five over the weekend. See you on Monday!” There was a screech of chairs, soon followed by the banging of lockers.
I slung my backpack over one shoulder and pushed my chair under my desk. “Hey Ell,” I said. I knew she was behind me. It was a game we played, trying to sneak up on each other. It never worked—we knew each other too well.
“Don’t call me that.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “Darn it. I was so close!” We started down the hall and out of Cassandra Clark Junior High. “So, do you think you did okay on the bio quiz?”
I poked her playfully. “Why,” I teased, “are you so obsessed with grades?”
She swatted me away. “I am not.”
“You’re right. You’re just a compulsive overachiever and an anal retentive.”
“You say that like that’s a bad thing,” she giggled, swinging her arm over my shoulder as we started the long walk home.
I shrugged her away. “Stop it. This backpack puts enough strain on my back already. I don’t need you adding to it.”
I could feel the hurt radiating from her, and immediately felt guilty. Ever since her older sister had died the year before, Ella’s confidence had been shaky. “I’m sorry, Ell. I didn’t mean it.”
She sighed for the second time that afternoon. “It’s okay.”
“Ell?”
She didn’t answer. We walked in silence the rest of the way to our street.
