MAJOR TOM

His eyes, specifically, sported dagger-like qualities, those that could tear holes deep into the nearest target, the smallest target, the longest, farthest, challenging target. He tore up streets and boulevards in a daze, everyday seemed like a horse race, a gambling game narrated by a soundtrack of grunts and stunt-driven swillings.

He was drawing a fine line, dividing his tone of sarcasm and sincerity to hit his target. In plain and short terms, his wit flew out of his hands and hit his opponents in the face, square in the jaw, bull's eye. He laughed then, sharp, everything about him from his prestigous reputation to his.

not liking major tom, his name's gonna be tom, and he's going to be a jackrabbit bitch, avoiding compassion and spontanuity, but he's not going to be described starting with his eyes. I don't think I'm going to describge him at all.

Seven hours into the operation, the green light finally blew out and the red erupted. Not just any old soft, mild indication, but an ignition that pounded the whole place to a stand still. The head, Tom, who was standing at the very front with his ax in hand against the last large tree, the bark still hugging the blade, stared at the ominous red light. What did red mean again? He looked blankly at the shining pool of light that flushed his workers, that made them look like faceless cattle. They also were holding axes, their tree’s were smaller, more precise in their roots. He, naturally, had taken the biggest but easiest to take down. It was about to come to, but the red light posed an interesting predicament upon the workers as a whole, to finish or to just leave.

They hadn't been stable, the mountains in the distance were all shining a crisp green light as well, after being flushed in soft pale reds for the last seceral hours, it was disorienting. The mountains, the holes, everything looked as though it was no longer covered in dirt but grass, lucious green grass, and it was full and primal and well-deserved, but nobody celebrated. They had failed. They dropped their axes, and evacuated immediately. The first to leave? Tom. He had snapped, his eyes snapping shut after a long paused stare at the changed light. He knew it then, that although his reputation of success had been impecible, he had lost.

But it wasn't just that, really, he was going to run far away from the mountains, his boots would not carry him as fast as he had wanted. His men thundered behind him, a stampede of cavaliers wishing to vacate the area, render the land immoveable, this was one mountain that was staying in solid ground. Their failure would reflect in the coming moments, months, decades. Their failure would resonate in the following histories to be written. Their failure would be the end to all disappointment, as nothing would live up to the dissatisfaction as theirs.

So they ran.

And the ground shook from workboots and the dust rose, sticking to sweat and hair amongst the floundering men, who had all realised their defeat and had begun to roll away from the scene, the only evidence worth leaving was that of the axes. All axes blazed with fingerprints and yet they all ran, a herd of wilda beasts ready for the firing squad, a challenge for the masses. They were hounding the ground so intensely that they did not hear them when they began their jounrey far off. They did not realise until it was too late.

And that was the end of that. The choppers rolled in, the guns rolled in. The utility-belt saviours of humanity, irrefuseably, stormed in. They hounded the mountains, and every work boot was stopped in its tracks. Every callused hand, every sweat-drenched brow, every dirty, unseccessful git hit the ground, and the thundering of bodies soon drowned out the noise of any other. Not the chopper's propellors nor the gunshots, the feet slowly came to decreasing levels, and soon the mountains were filled with the bodies of the men who had taken too long to finish what they had started.

They had definitely failed.



So that'd be the first part, anyway, and I was debating on continuing and maybe making this a flash forward, but I thought now I'll just keep their task vague and continue on with tom's story. He's going to get through, no magic realism just some very good politics interwoven...somehow. This is the beginning, anyway, probably just the beginning, maybe it won't make it, but for now the picture in my head is in film noir old western style.