Prose

The Rebel

written by: JustWaiting

He was tall, narrow cheeks, average lips, blue eyes, black hair, fair skin, well built with long, strong legs, and a chest like a cheetah; a runners chest and torso. He was good looking, and he was a rebel. There weren't many of those anymore. As he stood on the hill side, sighing like the wind weaving between his bare calves and flicking it's tail around his bare ankles, the city below him rose to the heavens in an opposite rain; red, rising, and fiery hot. He readjusted his gasmask nervously, pulling it back over his narrow, fair, handsome face for fear the toxins would reach him upon the hill overlooking the dark, burning city. He should have been wearing a hazmat suite, but he was rebel and felt a gasmask was good enough. Silently, he shifted his weight from his left foot to his right with his hip cocked a little. He crossed his lean, strong arms across his cheetah chest and hung his head. His dark hair fell to cover his fair face, making contrast like a chessboard. With another deep sigh, he lifted his head again and blinked. The fire reflected in his blue eyes was lava against ice until he blinked and looked to the ashen sky.

Stars poked through the sky like a child had taken paper and poked holes in it with a pencil, and then held it up to a flashlight. The moon seemed to be glued against that paper, unmovable and set in place for all time like the bones of those humans and creatures underneath him, underneath the earth and bedrock. Bones so old they may have been one with the glued moon and those paper stars. His eyes thinned slightly, and his eyebrows rose, and if he hadn't been wearing his gasmask, one could see he was smiling despite the city made of opposite rain below him. He was smiling like he had made peace with someone or something. And his smiling continued until he heard the soft shoop, shoop, shoop of a helicopter in the distance. He whirled around, his eyes suddenly wild, and saw the copter tearing through the sky like it was tearing through the paper and ripping the stars to shreds. Deep down he feared that the helicopter would unglue the moon.

The copter moved gracefully through the sky despite it's tearing of the stars, and headed straight for him. The lights on the sides of the large, metal bird cut through the air and burned it. He felt if the lights touched him, he'd burn too. As the helicopter moved closer he took off, his long, strong legs pushing him through the brush on the hillside. His black converse all stars became muddied when he skidded through wet ash and dirt. His cheetah chest pumped up and down rapidly like the sound of the shoop, shoop, shoop coming closer. His lean arms reached out for branches of the brush to catch himself when he fell. His gasmask came off and revealed his narrow cheeks and average lips, and he didn't have time to reach out for his with his large hand. Instead, he kept running from the metal bird that sliced through the air with eyes that burned the air.

He ran into his burning city, coughing from the gas and toxins. He began to regret not grabbing his gasmask back on the hillside. His blue eyes darted around and looked through his black hair for a way out. Everything burned, and everything was blocked by walls of the opposite rain and giant twisting and turning and morphing red leaves that changed into that strange opposite rain. Soon, his nose began to drip dark red drops like the opposite rain, but it fell to the ground instead. He ran past signs in his burning city that said things like, "Must wear gasmask at all times," or "Hazmat suite required," and sometimes he ran past signs that said, "Any person or persons thought of conspiring against the government will be marked a heretic and may be killed," or "Rebels spread lies. The Government spreads truth!" They all held pictures of encouragement, pictures meant to inspire the future, pictures meant to make the public feel happy about themselves.

He would have scowled and spat if he had the time and concentration. Instead he raced forward to outrun the helicopter. He would have thought about the landmarks that he passed as he ran. Instead he struggled to outrun the government. He would have thought about the place he was marked a heretic for trying to stop the government cult. He would have thought about the place where he learned about the lies spread from the government. They didn't believe that Earth could die. Rocks can't die was their view. Humans die, and humans go somewhere good. Rocks don't die, rocks don't end up somewhere good. He would have given anything to make the people believe him. To believe his tests, and his trials, and his results on the planet. To believe that he'd actually made it out of the city, unlike everyone else, and learned they were the last. He'd give anything to believe it himself. The planet would be better without him there, without any of his kind there.

Rubies still dripped from his nose, and his shoes began to melt. The helicopter was close now, and his cheetah heart beat rapidly in his cheetah chest as his long, strong legs pushed him onward, and his lean arms reached out when he fell. He made it to the center of his burning city and whirled to look up to the paper sky, which didn't look like paper anymore. It looked like ashes mixed with blood, and had little sprinkles of dull bone all glued onto paper with the moon loosely taped to it. He looked up to the metal bird that sliced through the sky and had eyes that burned the air and spread his lean arms wide and took a wobbly step back as his cheetah chest pumped up and down with ruby drops against it's fair skin like blood on snow.

The helicopter hovered in the air, it's shoop, shoop, shoop now louder than ever, and it seemed like the sound itself was moving his hair and not the wind that used to weave between his bare calves and flick his bare ankles with it's tale, but now flitted past with the flurry of metal wings that messed his black hair. Something in the sky clicked, and the air was filled with loud pops that came faster than the shoops. His left shoulder rocked back, then his right one, and his lean arms reached out like he was reaching for the slender, dark hand of one love forbidden and taken from him so long ago. He hit the ground with a soft thud around the opposite rain and twisting, turning, morphing leaves that faded into the opposite rain. The shoop, shoop, shoop turned and became quiet, and the only sound was that of his burning city crackling around him.

He was tall, narrow cheeks, average lips, blue eyes, black hair, fair skin, well built with long, strong legs, and a chest like a cheetah; a runners chest and torso. He was good looking, and he was a rebel. There aren't many of those anymore.