The Garden
by Erika Hata
The green grass and blue skies, the spark of mother nature no longer. Verdant grass ripped from its roots, soil suffocated with synthetic asphalt in its place. Skies perpetually gray, perhaps from the years and years of oils and fumes humans so carelessly emitted or perhaps as a punishment from the ones above, a punishment for taking earth’s beauty for granted. No snow comes, no sunshine, no cool breezes of fresh air. Mother nature only making an appearance out of anger and spite through hailstorms, pouring rain, and hot dust-filled gusts of wind.
The overpopulated cities can no longer be romanticized. No more neon lights or flashing billboards or the bustle of life that once held our fascination. There are no more breathtaking pieces of architecture to marvel over with intricate carvings and tall marble pillars shooting up towards the skies. Instead, The City contains rows and rows of buildings made of cinder blocks and ballistic glass. The array of once identical buildings has given away to nature, turning some thinner and shorter and weathered. Some have been consumed by the earth, caving into the ground as if it has become too heavy a burden to carry. The pressure from the weight of the buildings has created a network of cracked asphalt around it, like shattered glass.
In The City, vibrant hues have become a mere distant memory. For some, their absence is felt every day. But others, they only know stories passed down about the reds and blues that once used to be. Technology silently orchestrates our every move in a manner incomprehensible to humankind. Polished machines in shades of gray, like diligent sentinels, dictate the city's rhythm. The residents, too, adhere to the unspoken decree, wardrobes filled with various shades of muted cotton. As the world around them grew bleak, so did they, their colorful complexions bleached into tones of gray. The prevailing ethos was clear: the more distance from what once defined humankind, the more esteemed they were in The City's silent hierarchy.
Yet, it is not a true society unless there is talk of rebellion, which of course, there is. Rebels live in the slums in conditions worse beyond human compatibility; there is no real hope for true revolution. Yet, there, creativity is cultivated and change is being heard. Proudly refusing to color their skin to ashes and wearing hues of blue and red and green and purple, reminiscent of the old world.
There is a back ally, unusually narrow, framed by crumbling walls of concrete and dust, teeming with the city's overlooked inhabitants. Their lower-than-low status renders this hidden enclave a refuge from the prying eyes of technology. Next to a crumbling building under some rubble and pounds of dust, a small garden grows from the fissure of asphalt. Whether it can even be called a garden is debatable. The so-called garden is a pile of uncovered soil, spanning the length of the crack in asphalt. Much like roots, the asphalt has fractured into small, jagged segments, where the fresh soil breathes for the first time in a millennium.
In this garden, a sole flower blooms. Petals in hues reminiscent of love, blood, and war, extend from golden pods that proudly cradle its head. A sturdy green stem persistently thrusts its fruit higher and higher, towards the sky, out from the dust and out from the rubble, greeted by acidic rain and bleak skies. Nevertheless, the flower holds its head up high, unfettered by the unwelcome adversities, resisting the wind attempting to steal away its ruby petals, acid threatening to mar its precious bloom. Perhaps it would have been safer under the dust and under the rubble.
From deep in the abandoned parts of The City, a rebellion boils. Sometimes, their protests echo through the streets in the dark of the night, only to become the topic of hushed whispers the next day. Whether they voice protest and revolt, or surrender, fear, and anguish remains uncertain.
On a bleak and rainy day, a young girl briskly walks through deserted streets with an unusual absence of the hum of surveillance and the presence of watchful eyes. Perhaps she had taken a wrong turn, her less-than-stellar sense of direction misleading her into a part of The City her parents had warned her about. Or perhaps it was fate beckoning her, led by the whispers of the wind. She trudges through the sloshy streets, not bothering to walk over murky puddles, shoes squishing with water with every step. Heavy plastic bags in hand, with handles stretched out, so thin they look like they could snap at any second, brimming with jugs of water and canned provisions. Her head is down as the acidic rain pours down her ashen face, and her brown-gray hair is a testament to poorly boxed hair dye rather than age. Her hands numb and battered, blood circulation cut off from the weight of the plastic bags and the unforgiving winds. From her peripheral vision, a fleeting glimpse of crimson registers, though, she has never seen red. Nor blue or purple or green or yellow for that matter. Her brisk pace never lets up, moving down through the alleyway without a second glance, her footsteps leaving a wet, sloshing trail in her wake.
The next day swelters with heat, despite the perpetually looming clouds above. The girl, once more, passes through the same ally, a decision made subconsciously or consciously remains a mystery. Clinging to heavy plastic bags in hand again, this time threatening to slip right off her sweaty fingers. A drab dress clinging to her skin, damp with sweat, beads of perspiration down her forehead. Once again, her eyes catch sight of the vibrant petals, prompting her to slow her brisk walk to stare at the flower in curiosity. She believed her mind had played tricks on her yesterday, a mere figment of her imagination amidst the pouring rain. It seems not. She’s never seen anything like it. Nothing like the carmine petals emerging out of their golden core, begging for attention, craving to be seen. Stark against the rubble and dust threatening to push the flower down, a challenge. She feels an inexplicable pull towards it, something about it feels so right. She tells herself she needs to catch her breath, feeling hot and fatigued, and she is slowing down for that matter, nothing else. Obviously not the strange flare of color in the otherwise bleak world. After a brief pause, she resumes her journey down the narrow road, yet the memory of the flower lingers with her throughout the remainder of the day, tucked away in the back of her mind.
On the third day, she finds herself in the store putting an extra jug of water in her cart. As she walks down the crowded roads, she feels different, the added weight should make her feel uncomfortable, but for some reason, she has never felt more at ease. She walks until the crowd starts to thin, and then until it is just her, the sound of her footsteps, and the rustle of her plastic bag. She stops in the alleyway, right in front of the lone flower, and casts a quick, cautious glance around the area. Setting her bags down on the ground, she crouches down, eye level with the flower. Carefully dusting away the debris and dust as if the flower would break or shatter or disappear with the slightest touch, she sees the flower in its full form. Its green stem, and leaves, the crack in the asphalt, the soil underneath. She traces the fracture, watching as it extends in different directions, gently pushing away the debris covering it as she goes. By the time she has unveiled the entire garden, her hands are grimy, her dress soiled, and slightly short of breath. Wiping her hands on her dress, she then carefully rustles through her bag and pulls out the jug of water. Slowly, she waters the soil around the flower, meticulously tending to every inch of the exposed earth with care until there is no more water left.
Day after day, this cycle continues. The extra jug, the detour taken, the garden nurtured. Every day, the girl wakes with the excitement of visiting her garden, her secret, her quiet resistance against the system. The garden gives birth to a raw, untamed life amidst the urban gray. Resilient blades of emerald grass push through the soil every waking day, their vibrant colors reclaiming a space forgotten by progress, with a determined will to survive. Scarlet flowers bloom, initially as mere buds, then growing taller and taller. After months of dedication, love, and care, the garden is in full bloom, every unexposed crevice of soil bursting with life and color.
Rallies of rebellion can be heard in the streets. There is an urgency, a beat, a want. The vandalization of machines patrolling the streets, crushed with the same bricks they once built to be cages before being splashed with the vibrant red, a color of resistance, of power, of rebellion. With forgotten color sprayed against formerly drab buildings, the city is more alive than ever. The air is charged with an unmistakable sense of hope. A hope for change, a hope for a dream of life to become a reality.
Until one day, that feeling is no longer. The streets stand deserted, with no remains of any revolt. Gone are the streaks of color that had adorned the streets and buildings mere hours ago. It's as though it never happened. Defiance dissipates, replaced once again with blind obedience, and The City returns to its former state.
The girl visits her alleyway, the same as every day, she knows the way by heart. Her walk is brisker than usual, groceries swinging haphazardly rubbing her wrists raw. She doesn’t notice. There’s a pit in the bottom of her stomach, an uneasiness, a gut feeling. When she turns the corner, to the ally, which should reveal her beautiful garden, there is nothing. Nothing but asphalt debris and a narrow road framed by buildings that could topple over at any second. Where the garden used to bloom, where the asphalt split, giving away to the soil, away to nature is now gone. It was as if the crack had never existed, the garden had never existed, the asphalt in perfect condition. No cracks, no color, not one trace of life. The girl drops to her knees, clawing at the asphalt. Clawing until the skin around her fingertips gives away to blood. Clawing as if she could somehow bring her garden back to life. As if she could rip away the asphalt and her garden would still be full in bloom. She sobs, curled in the alleyway, over the grave of her garden, her wine-red blood, seeping through the crevices of the still-warm asphalt.
But somewhere, hundreds of miles away from her heartache, a lone flower begins to bloom from a gap in the asphalt road, standing tall.
