Inheriting The Earth

Trying my hand at a little fiction...and a writing contest

And Yet I Smile decided to post her entry into the same writing contest I entered, so I decided to follow suit and share mine. Hers is excellent, beautifully written, and just overall breathtaking. Honestly. Please take the time to check it out here.

But read mine first.

Because hers is way better.

I am not being self-depricating here. I am just giving praise and credit where credit is due. I don’t think my entry is awful, nor do I think it is prize-worthy. But I’m okay with that. I can acknowledge when something is superior, without falling into a shame spiral or imposter syndrome.

I’m okay with mine being what it was. I don’t often write fiction (outside of a novel I slogged through in 2012), as I find it far easier to just lay out all my flaws and what God is teaching me through them. So this was my first real venture into fiction off the top of my head, and we only had 24 hours to turn this around.

So anyway, here was the prompt that had to be seen in your entry somewhere:

There wouldn’t be a garden this year. There was no longer any water, and the only source of light now was from candles. The animals had all been set free to fend for themselves. She was sitting on the bench with her forehead on the rickety table when she heard footsteps on the porch...

We were invited to write a short story based on the prompt and it had to be no more than 840 words. The prompt specifics could be changed but it had to be evident that you incorporated the prompt.

So without further ado:

Inheriting the Earth

I sat on the porch, desperate for one more glimpse of my garden. Silent tears slid down my cheeks as I lamented this loss. I watched the water in the pool evaporate, leaving the air parched. Darkness had crept in, narrowing my world until I could only see what lay before me. The animals that once grazed from my hand had fled. In my grief, I could only rest my forehead on the rickety table my husband had built with once-sturdy hands. The gold etchings, which earlier shone with brilliance, were now faded. It was in this moment that I heard footsteps on the porch.

I didn’t look up. Seeing the now-dark horizon carved wounds into my heart. Time is a curious thing. It felt as if I had been gazing upon the landscape for eons. Perhaps only days had passed, but the hours blurred until I felt time crushing my throat—a heavy necklace I was now forced to wear. The light that once dazzled seemed to emanate from the air itself. The small wick I had fashioned flickered, casting the first shadows I had ever seen.

The silence seeping into my bones was the hardest part. After opening the Great Gate, I watched the lions trot away. Their manes, once golden, were now dulled and matted. The birds no longer sang harmonies. Instead, their chirping became a sound that grated fissures up my spine. I had to let them go. Something had changed. I understood somewhere deep in my soul that I had caused the water to retreat into underground pools, never to be seen again. The four rivers had simply sunk in. The earth held only dirt now, dry and demanding.

I kept my forehead against the acacia wood. This table was a clumsy thing I had asked Adam to build as the Great Shaking subsided and the silence began. It was crafted from a branch that had snapped when the earth first trembled—a broken limb from a tree once filled with an electricity that leaked into everything around it. We had never needed a place to sit before, but suddenly, our legs felt as heavy as our hearts felt hollow. It was the first dead thing I had ever touched. It was rough and splintered, a tiny spike piercing my finger as I watched something red trickle around my skin. Though I didn’t have words for it yet, somehow, it felt honest.

The footsteps grew louder. They weren’t the rhythmic steps of the Creator. These were heavy and dragging, conveying a sense of dread that permeated the air.

“Is it time?” I muttered.

“It is,” a voice replied. It wasn’t the Voice that walked in the cool of the day. It was deeper, and it filled me with fear. I recognized the voice of the Watcher. I finally lifted my head. The Watcher didn’t look like a warrior. He looked tired. His wings were tucked tight, covered with gray ash. Shame filled my heart. The Watcher wasn’t holding his usual flaming sword. Instead, he held a bundle of coarse hair and a heavy skin of something wet.

“He didn’t want to be the one to do it,” the Watcher said softly. He looked out at the dissolving borders of the grove. “This plane is folding, Eve. You cannot stay. The Creator is already planting a new garden, further up and further in. But you cannot reach it anymore.”

He handed me the bundle. “Sheepskin,” he explained. “You’ll need it. The air will move tonight and it will be cold.” I took a sip from the leather skin. I expected the honey-sweet nectar of the River Pishon. Instead, it was flat and metallic. It wet my tongue, but it didn’t nourish my soul.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Water,” the Watcher said. “Just water.”

I stood up, my knees creaking. It was a new and frightening sound. I looked back at the porch and the table. They were losing color, turning translucent like a fading dream. “We are being kicked out, aren’t we?” I realized the truth.

The Watcher shook his head. “Where there is Choice, the Garden cannot exist. You chose the Earth, so to the Earth you must go.” I stepped off the porch. My bare feet struck a jagged stone. It was the first time I had ever felt pain—a sharp, stinging brightness that made me vibrantly aware of sensations that were new. I reached out into the dark and found Adam’s hand. He was waiting at the edge of the clearing.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice cracking.

I looked at the flickering candle one last time before it vanished into the void. “Ready,” I said.

We turned our backs on the Paradise where we were born. Heads hung in shame, we began the long walk down into the world.

___________________________________________

Jamie

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