The Wild Ones (By: Eden Lewis)

The warm, dry air was disturbed only by a cool breeze that rushed through the trees and momentarily evaporated the perspiration on my face. The sun beat from above but the vibrant grass below was cool and soft and lush.  A stream steadily flowed, close enough to hear the gurgling and bubbling as the clear water flowed over rocks that had become smooth and round - but far enough that you couldn't smell the stagnant water that pooled along the edges, decorating the winding stream and providing breeding grounds for buzzing, dutiful mosquitoes and aquatic life. I walk slowly through this natural plot, coming ever closer to the end of the peace and beauty that only nature can replicate. The stench of plastic and chemicals begins to mingle with the scent of rich dirt and blossoming flowers, I'm regretting my decision already. I walk towards the suburbia of the end of my land. My lonely green pack of bountiful, beautiful land that is surrounded not by more beauty or even those appreciative of beauty, but by the bricks and wrought iron fences and expensive things that these people, these sad beings, these ever-lonely and emotionless robots surround themselves with to protect themselves, to make them feel less . . . less lonely, less hungry for passion, less lovely.