Emma Smith

        Grass and dirt and trees and birds and sky. It all used to be a biweekly annoyance. Poke my head out the door for a moment or two. This little ritual was the only evidence I had to counter my mother’s claims that technology was the Devil’s work, cutting me off from reality and all. But no matter how warmly the sun burned or how lovely the dirt and animals smelled; I just couldn’t find the appeal in spending hours out in nature.

         I did enjoy caves though. Dark and cool, removed from dreaded reality. Onyx voids flushed with mystery and calming silence. Every breath of step taken echoes in tunes of air and tiny pebbles against the cave walls. Pick your poison: a sad flashlight purchased at Walmart or a hundred and fifty-dollar Fenix HP25 headlight. Either way, those thin beams of light are lone soldiers struggling through the murky abyss.

         Stalactites dangle like daggers from the ceiling, each one a colleague of minerals bonded together since before our grandparents’ grandparents learned to walk. Their spiked opposition sprouts from the gray soil below, the two eternally engaged in a fossil-paced battle. Pools of glassy water become invisible in the endless night, disturbed only by crystal balls of liquid slipping off the rocks above. Drip, drop, drip, drop.

         Wandering out of the void is an assault on the eyes. Blindingly warm sunlight rushes across your face and blurs the senses. Obnoxiously green grass leaves a certain yearning for the monochrome maze concealed below. Every animal, car, person, they all culminate their whispers and shrieks into a buzzing noise, leaving it impossible to locate the sources or silence.