A taste of fiction.

Pretty, purple blankets of flowers litter the ground.Ubiquitous, the carpet of color stretches on for miles. It's difficult to see too far into the distance, brilliant sunlight blinding, streaks of sun, like strands of hair, filling up the majority of my vision with intesnity. A smashing, vibrant flood of colour flows out from the pretty little yellow wildflowers that blossom here in the bossom of the ancient earth. The ground itself is dry, red, dusty, appearance like sandpaper but texture like flour. Lacking moisture, it hasn't felt the rain in days, maybe even weeks, yet the flowers still bloom, as if defying all laws of weather conditions. A tall, elegant tree springs from the centre of my surroundings, perfect green leaves making a beautiful shade, shadow casted across the ground, it's bark a deep mahogany, soft and pretty to the touch. The sky is a pale, powder blue, middle of the day, fluffy clouds bouncing in the air, forming shapes which morph as they speed by.
It's peaceful here, and I am completely alone, other than the occasional song a cheery and lovely coloured bird offers as it flies overhead, or flutters about in the branches of a nearby, aching and dancing tree. I can hear my own voice joining the songs of the feathered ones, though it is fractured and ugly beside the somewhat perfect chirps and chattering. A particular blue and black bird, a small and delicate one, catches my attention as it hops across the dirt, through the wonderful flowers, headed straight towards where I am placed. Or more, considering I do not know exactly where I am located, it's form gets larger in my hazy and blurred vision. I attempt to imitate its call, but my voice is so cracked and it doesn't fit well at all, ruining the scene of nature simply by being there in this human form.
The flowers are sweet, attracting all manner of flying insects, yellow and black striped bees perching on the petals of the red poppies, getting their fix of the opiate. Their buzzing is subtle, a gentle humming to the calm and distant midday. An evil looking barbed wire fence stretches around this nowhere, a closure for Gaia, damaged and lessened by adventurous kangaroos. None of these furred creatures are present now, but holes and dirt baths give them away as well as the ruined fence. They've burrowed beneath it's spikes, marring them and managing to escape completely unharmed, a special skill they've developed from having to break into mother Earth's different realms. A shimmering black crow hops by, letting out a caw, it's jet black feathers radiating with heat and shine, my eyes attracted to it's gleam as if I, too, were a bird. A bower bird collecting pretties for it's nest. The crow raises his yellow eyes to lock with mine for a brief moment, a moment somehow like a warning, before he calls manically to me again. He takes to the sky, having better things to do then waste his time with the pathetic human being that had intruded upon his day.
The dirt is hot, and so is the air, dust circling around my body in a spiral fashion. I rest in the shade the trees offer, yet my fragile body is still penetrated by the scorching heat, and I let out a sigh of exasperation. There is not a hint of civilization or human life for miles and miles. I am alone, here, with only the birds for company, and they don't seem to want mine. I'm an unwanted stranger to this land.
I rise to my aching feet, thorns burried deep within the bare flesh. I pull at them, removing what I can, but it is difficult to do so when the prickles are of minute size and my vision is blurred. I would have to leave them to come out on their own accord. The most important thing was to sort out my crumbling body and my dry mouth. Perhaps I am dehydrated. I feel weak, my body heavy and yearning to be back across the ground where I'd found it. I fight with my exhaustion, fighting to stay upright, and after a few moments, I take a few steps forward upon my now slowly but surely bleeding feet, through the hot, dry sand. I don't know which way I should be heading, there seems no direct route, no paths or tracks, everywhere looks to lead to nowhere. I walk straight forward though, for if I remain here, in this temperature, I could surely die.
'Where the hell am I?', I murmer, and the utterance of words makes me realize just how dry my throat is. It hurts to swallow, hurts to move my jaw in anyway. My tongue is heavy and swollen, uncomfortable in the pit of my mouth. 'Water', I murmur again, seeking that liquid. There must be some form of water around, or else, how would all the animals survive out here? It was dry season. Very dry season. I realized that I was not at all adjusted to the earth I was born of, not at all at home in nature, without instincts or knowledge of the wild. I was a human being, and I'd left nature behind, damaged her, and now she was taking her devious revenge upon my pathetic human body.
There's a bizarre structure in my vision now, in my hazy vision. Not too far ahead, perhaps if the Gods would smile upon me for one moment, I could make it. It appears to be a house, or more, a shed. Small and worn down, splintering wood, cracked like the earth I currently stood upon. A pale, faded grey in colour, unhealthy wood that could crumble at any given second. As I approach it, I wonder how safe it is to touch the door, to place my hand upon it's decaying surface. It's hanging from the hinges, the lock laying amongst the earth, rusted and useless. Nobody has been here for some time, I know, and the whole thing could fall on me if I were to enter, but it's the best plan I have. The only plan I have.
I reach for the old handle, pulling as gently as I can at it. It creaks violently, and the smell of oil and rotting wood fills my nostrils. A peice of the aging door falls apart in my blistered hands, jaggard wood chips locking themselves into my fingertips and drawing dark droplets of blood as I yank them out swiftly. I suck at my fingers, tasting dirt and bitter blood as I crawl into the worn down, dangerous building. It's cooler in here then it was outside, but the smell is awful, like something has crawled in here to die and it's flesh has been melting away for many weeks. As I lean faintly against the fragile walls of the tomb, I wonder, perhaps it is a good place to die. As good as any other. There are a few old, browning bottles laying about, many of them appearing to be filled with oil, the smell strong and horrible, adding to my rapidly increasing migraine. I pick up can, after bottle, after cup searching for a drinkable liquid. 'Water', I manage to moan desperatly again, hoping something would hear me and assist me in my search for survival. I know I am still utterly alone, but my hope has not yet completely dissipated.