When it's not double-spaced the story's about a page and a half on Word. It's not as long as it looks (or sounds), I promise. Anyway. This was an old story I wrote in sixth grade. I titled it "Universe Common Ground" but I'm not so sure I like that title. I'm not fond of the ending anymore, either, so I'll probably change it and save the story with the original ending and the different ending. Here ya go. Enjoy.
It was fall. Golden-brown, red, yellow, orange, every color, spreading across the expanse of the land, as colors started their plummet, falling away from the trees, from life, until all was a bleak brown, waiting for the first snow. The snow would creep across the land, like a bunch of ants that would look around, wanting food, willing to carry more than their weight to get it to their home. It would move slowly, inching, waiting, ever gentle, chillingly soft. And then it would pounce upon the food, the life, the strength, drawing it from the land as it screamed, ‘DIE!’ and fought as fierce as it could, a violent and powerful force.
The trees were long asleep, sitting on the earth, having talked with it, as they did every year. The rocks and mountains were a force to be reckoned with, for they made up the Earth and without them, there could never be anything else. The land pleaded with the trees, every fall, as the first crisp smell of brilliant color crept in the air, and with it, a warning that it would fade. ‘Please don’t sleep,’ it would plead, ‘For I will be alone, and there would be not a soul to talk to.’
‘Sleep is our survival,’ the trees would always reply, ‘For that is how we are as ancient as you, all sharing stories of the land to one another.’
‘But you are a friend, and no other truly talks to me, no other can remember,’ the land would plead again.
‘We will return when Spring sets its hand on the land, and then we can talk for all of the Spring and Summer. We promise,’ the trees would answer every year.
And so the land would admit defeat and wait, fighting against water as the water tore at it. Water oozed death, a force that pulled at it. Though fire would kill, it always said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but I must.’
The plants would always reply, ‘We know, and we need you, for there are dead among us and those who cannot have seeds, and this will clear room.’
It was a mutual understanding among fire, rocks, and plants of death, but water tried to kill. Water was life, and it despised that, so it tried to be death. Everything needed it, everything alive. It was resentful, it hated that fact. If only it could be like fire, unneeded, giving death…
Winter walked in the land, gliding, graceful and sweet, a child with an elegance that came with adulthood and was always there. But then her brother would always come in, plowing his way, knocking the child aside. The child would fall behind, but made sure the transition was soft, as usual.
Spring would come in, letting Fall and Summer fight Winter away. Spring was the peacemaker, for Summer was always eager to come. Sometimes Fall would come early, letting Winter come early as well, and so Summer and Spring feared that Fall would join Winter’s cause, trying to kill, but Fall knew it only existed because of Spring, and Fall could understand. Winter never understood, never knew that without Summer it would not exist. Summer needed Spring and Spring needed Fall, and in a never-ending circle it would go on. Spring was the peacemaker for many reasons, for it is not just a giver of life, it is existence, it is hope, and it is all things beautiful and good and pure. Spring is ancient, always there, and in future times it will still be. Winter can’t exist if water didn’t exist. Summer is lazy. It would not fight without Spring by its side. Fall is sleep and sadness and that will always be.
But Spring, Spring needs nothing really for its nature is to just exist. It is the light at the end of every tunnel, for it is the spirit of good. As everything grew, as the trees woke up, they would say, ‘Here we are again! Let’s talk!’ and they would talk with the earth, telling the dream they had while sleeping.
The land would tell of the ones now dead, how it cried and how it wanted the fire to come so it did not feel the dead roots digging in its skin, lifeless, calling for nothing.
Fire always came saying, ‘The poor trees, it’s the saddest… They are ancient, and look what happened,’ and all would agree, solemn at that moment. But Spring required celebration and happiness would reign again.
The seasons, rock, fire, and trees spoke an ancient language, a language of life. Water - and thus Winter - spoke the ancient language of death, but all could speak the neutral language among them, and so the fight would rage on.
Spring, with its never-ending peace quest, would always succeed and so it will, on and on and on, because there will always be good in the world; for existence is good, progress is good, light is good, even darkness is good. And so every year, Spring would step in, gentle as could be, and succeed, though its fighting was meek. It was gentle because Spring feared to harm, and it won because good has always been and will always be and so Spring will be too.
And this, for those who do not know, it is the cycle of the Universe, the pulsating blood, the instinct of survival that exists in everything, nonliving and living. It is not an instinct. Rather it is a power, a magic of old somehow escaping the burial that always, except in survival’s case, came and forced it back, allowing new things. The instinct of survival. It was the one thing that everything in the Universe received and held tightly to.
The instinct of survival, yet, was even more than that. Spring was the soul of it. Most importantly, Spring was love.