The Palm

by Max Van Den Boogaard,

UC Senior Secondary College Lake Ginninderra

 The Palm stood out as a pimple in the brown and grey mix that covered the landscape. The Palm was more than a city, it was a fortress, an oasis from the rest of the dying world. The ones in charge were also known as The Palm; they were the city. Outside was almost empty apart from the sickly beings who dwelled in the shade. Most people stayed inside where it was safe and if they did have to go outside, they could take a Frost. There was heat but no shining sun, just clouds of black sludge that hovered in the air as a reminder of what it was like outside.

I met a traveller from an antique land. He told me of how it used to be before. Before the government became The Palm. They told me how it was before the grey. She told me she was sorry for the state the marble was left in. Sorry that we didn’t realise what we had until it was gone. People vaguely knew about the ancient past but didn’t know what it was really like. They didn’t understand how good it was because this was the new norm, as it had been for a long time.

 Signs reminding people to use Frost or Solar littered the exits of every building in The Palm, but sometimes people had to risk the danger outside, like the shadow dwellers, if they couldn’t buy or steal any. The people who could afford it were plugged in when they were inside. People were only happy when they were plugged in. But was it real happiness? I wonder. I decided to see if I could find an answer. Someone who knew about the world. About the past.

The traveller taught me about the good green that let them breathe, cleaned the black smoke, cured disease and kept their stomachs full. But the Palm choked the good green with giant machines. I asked why and he said for what they thought they needed, for the bad green.

The ground was murky with the things that people no longer needed. With the occasional person running through it as if it were invisible because we were used to it always being there. I looked up to see rows of windows that were from the same mould. No faces stared back at me. People didn’t need to stare out windows to ponder the state of the world because this is how it is. This is normal.

The traveller said that some cared about the marble and that they knew they had the responsibility to keep it safe but most didn’t even care. He said the ink that came from The Palm through pipes used to be blue, clear and alive. The blue wasn’t The Palm’s but they took it like everything and everyone else.

As I continued down the streets of shadow, I saw the giant machines leave for the day to keep digging and breaking the forever shriveling marble. The members of what would become The Palm thought that instead of trying to stop their ‘progress’, they would create something to let people survive. Lines of people queuing to buy Solar and Frost filled the road like a swamp of frogs trying to catch the same fly. People should have to pay for someone else to keep them safe, right? As the buildings became shorter and the shadows ended, I took a Frost and stepped into the heat.

The traveller said that the ancestors of The Palm called it ‘progress’. And I didn’t understand when she said they ignored all the signs along the road even when there were people who lived in the smoke. People who lived inside and were safe, and people who did not that were ignored. And there were people who had their lives drowned because of the ‘progress’. Why?

A few times a week, people were forced to stay safe inside and plugged in. This was to keep us safe. After the danger had passed, shadow dwellers would be laying across the street… silent… asleep… but the next day they would be gone and things would resume as normal. But is normal safe? Is normal good? Does normal mean happy? I walked to the edge of The Palm. There was a small building that was held up by sticks. I had never seen it before. Maybe this was who I wanted to find? Maybe this was someone that could tell me about the world, someone who could help?

The traveller said that the ancestors of The Palm didn’t listen even when there were huge, moving walls of red and orange that destroyed whatever it touched. They just said it was normal. That it was fine. I didn’t understand how that was ‘fine’ or ‘normal’. She said, “I know…”

There was someone sitting inside the strange, small house. They greeted me as if they expected me to be there at this exact moment. They invited me in to listen to their story so I huddled into the house with the traveller and listened.

The traveller continued by saying that the ancestors of The Palm wanted to find a new marble to live on. One that was a desert of dust. “Why would they want to do that if the first marble was so much better?”

He replied with a shrug and said, “Progress.”

No one knew who the members of The Palm actually were; no one knew who was in charge. People just accepted that they were doing what was right and what had to happen. Like how they went out each week with large machines and came back with lots of Solar and Frost. Or like how they kept us plugged in. Or how they told us to ignore the shadow dwellers. Or how they told us about how bad the past was. They said that this was life, this was living, this was… happiness… maybe it wasn’t…

The traveller taught me that people used to breathe fresh air and would sit outside when they ate meals. No one I knew wanted to go outside to eat and I couldn’t imagine air being ‘fresh’. He said that they used to care about where the things we no longer needed went but then they gave up and just funneled it into the streets. No one walked on the streets anyway.

They were lying to us! You have to tell everyone else, you have to help us!

The traveller said in a solemn voice, “Sorry but the last grain of sand fell long ago and you can’t turn this clock upside down.” She picked up her house and put it into a bag.

No, don’t leave! Please… you have to help us!

Please…

…

This… is it…

This is the end.

The traveller walked into the grey and disappeared behind the ash and smoke.