unconditional

flash fiction

all the beliefs the boy had came to a point and had fallen like a leaf into his palms. around him the dry mountains of the appenines loomed like sad giants and above a strawberry moon hung sweetly. it dripped a slow, dark gleam of colorful curses. each pulse dropped a thick pearly juice from the sky, and it began to envelop him. they were the same curses that froze the pagan gods along time ago, that ended the country, that sent the people away, putting them into a deep feverish sleep. their glittering crowns were the only things that were left now. they reflected a pink jeweled hue down into the valley. whatever it was, was a baptism. his mind had turned into ball. over the years it had stayed put, thrown its seeds into the earth, and toiled. he let the winds shape him, the rains flood him, and the sun dry him, and now he felt cold. the dry ground cracked underneath him as a cricket hopped softly across into the sea of tall grass. he had told her how he felt. how he was hurt. how she hurt him and how he had kept these things in and wished he had told her earlier. it hurt him. the olive tree that stood alone in the field suddenly shook. a slight breeze came through. it startled him. he watched the thin body of the tree shiver and then go quiet, finding its warmth. its branches then lay frozen back into the air. its body was so frail that he believed anything could knock it over, where it would be left to die on its side, but he also knew that nobody ever would. every tree stood like that here. in the mountains of central italy, standing sacred and protected. it was if the earth and her soil respected its antiquity. respected what it gave to her. acknowledging that it let the wind drop its self into that place, giving up its freedom, and when it got old letting the wind make it come alive again. this land respected the dying. it respected love. as he watched the pink moonlight illuminate the olive tree he yelled into the void off all the wars and history that had been spilled there. the blood shed, the glory, the loss of self. they were in the ground. forgotten. nobody heard them. nobody heard the gods either. they were just silent and cold. the olive tree was heard. the mountains were heard. the wind was their tears because it knew death better than anybody. “do you hear me? do you even hear me? why the hell do you not hear me?” said the boy, and he wept bitterly.