Silver Story
The Promised Land of the Dead
My home is not safe. One would think that a place that looked out on blue-gem waters and sat under a matching sky, that a child could live in freedom. But I cannot. The open sky means screaming fire. The ocean becomes a barrier that I cannot cross, becoming just another fence to corral my family into. When the sun sets and the flagstones cool I lay my body on the ground and imagine a tree growing around me. Mother Nature sheltering my life in her arms. No matter how suffocating every day is, there is an escape when I close my eyes. Most nights, I have the same dream. The one where I walk down a path lined by trees. The air is the cleanest I ever inhaled. A myriad of brightly colored leaves adorn the path in front of me. The sound of the breeze mixes with the leaves crunching beneath my feet, creating a symphony in my ears. As I walk, the seasons change quickly, and I feel the chill run its fingers across my skin. I feel everything so vividly. Like it isn’t just something conjured by my mind. More like a memory of something familiar that I have yet to experience. This place is real to me. Somewhere far away from the craters of corpses and sand. A paradise that shatters every morning as I wake to the sounds of sirens. A daily call to terror.
I continue my way down the path. The smell of sfeeha creeps its way in, the savory aroma carrying real memories along its wake. I hear my parents laughing. My aunts and uncles clapping and dancing to songs that illuminated our worst days. The sounds waft through the dream, joining the chittering of the leaves beneath my feet. I know it isn’t really them. Not after.... The wind turns into a mournful wail, the sound of a mother clutching her child. The sirens, again. Instantly, my uncle’s laughing becomes shouting. The smell of burning flesh and my own blood replaces chronic hunger. Even in the dream, this wonderful dream, my eyelids grow heavy again. I’m sure everyone is running. They’re always running. Away from danger. Towards help. Always the same outcome. No matter how far we run, our only escape is when we close our eyes. Everything is on fire. The trees around me are torches that rise into the smoke-filled sky, embers falling on me like gentle rain. But I feel so cold. It’s strange. Maybe I’ll just rest here and catch up with everyone later. I hope they don’t wait up for me. I don’t know if I can catch up. I lay down in the middle of the tree lined dream avenue, curling into my body, hope that my next dream will be a big field of flowers. Like I saw in those travel magazines. I would love to travel, but I don’t think my legs can move anymore. I worry that I won’t dream, either. I worry that I am too tired to dream. I only want to rest. I let my eyelids close.
I wake gently. I’m cradled by the roots of the biggest tree I have ever seen. Soft beams of sunlight flow through the leaves, projecting a kaleidoscope of green and white onto my skin. I look around me, and I see a sundry of colors painted across the landscape in every direction. Fields of bright green grass adorned with drops of every color imaginable. I am dumbfounded. My dreams have always felt real, but this was real. So much more than a dream.
“Where am I?”
I see a cloaked form beside me. Even though he wears a dark cloak he is almost completely transparent, as if his body was made of the curtains that once adorned my window. Linen, thin enough to allow sunlight into my room. I see tears falling from under his hood. Plant life emerges from each droplet as it kisses the ground. His tears are the seeds of life itself. He kneels and looks at me, rain lingering in his eyes. Eyes so unbearably sad.
He speaks, his lips quivering, his words brimming with solemn comfort, “You are free now. There is no war, and you can travel anywhere. You will get the remainder of time you never had.”
The storm I see in his eyes sends droplets of rain trickling down my own cheeks. I hold out my hands and catch the tears in my palms. My skin, the creases in them are clean. No longer soaked in blood and earth.
“You mean, I am finally free?” I ask him.
The man smiles. “This world is just for you. When you have seen everything you want to see, we will meet again. Hopefully under far happier circumstances.” The man stands to leave.
“What do I call you?”
He pauses. “You will know when we see each other at the end of your afterlife.”
“As a Jew by blood, the genocide in Palestine has weighed heavy on my mind. Constantly I find myself thinking about my own mortality. Pondering what death would look like as he greets me. That’s when the concept of this story clicked. Life creates the world as we perceive it. Death creates an afterlife for those whose lives ended too soon. Israel was said to be ‘The Promised Land’ for the Jews. Now it is The Promised Land Of The Dead. Those who live for violence. Those who crave it, so avidly, shall not find comfort in death’s embrace. For they are soulless even as they are living.” —Silver Story
Silver Story is a 26-year-old rebel with a cause and lover of all stories, whether they be anime, film, or an obvious favorite: written word. Stories move people. Story picked up the pen because this world needs stories now more than ever. His greatest hope is that his writing can not only create a better world for him but for everyone around him, so that everyone can find their way through these dark times together.