After the Fall

It starts with a golden ball. A smallish sphere. A dance in an opulent room. Of course, the ball isn’t actual gold, probably steel with gold paint. I can even see silver flecks sprinkled and shining across its surface where the paint has worn away. And the dance isn’t really a dance, but a glittering farce. Not very impressive, but it’s important to me.

Outside is dead. Grey, black, dead. Nothing grows because nothing is allowed to grow. The plants betrayed us, but we betrayed them first. Man got carried away. We spread poison all over the earth, supposedly to annihilate tiny, plant-eating insects, but soon the toxins seeped deep into the ground, spread by water, and migrated to places unknown. Finally, all plants contained natural pesticides. When scientists discovered this they thought it was a miracle, except there are no miracles in science; only facts. Grocery stores soon filled with naturally protected plants. This cutting-edge produce rapidly became the only acceptable form of nutrients. However, when people started dying by the truckload, when whole communities were poisoned, we had a problem. That miracle turned into an apocalypse.

Gold.

A color rarely seen by a people not permitted to revel in finery. I stand in line, one of hundreds waiting to enter the Ministry Capitol building. So many people and not one wearing any color. The Third Law of the New World dictates that everyone wear brown, boxy robes. By keeping us looking the same, the government thinks to extinguish individual thought.

“To prevent another scientific disaster of epic proportions.”

The room is large. No, not large; enormous. How this building has survived when everything else has crumbled is an actual miracle. It seems that every person in the city is crammed against the shining walls. What a scene we must make. Brown mud people swarming in a golden, ethereal room. They hold a “ball” for us once a month. Dancing is prohibited, attendance is required. They want to keep us happy.

Afterward, I walk alone down a dirt path, once called a road. Now, it lies unused, leading nowhere.

Despite the government’s plans, people still have original thoughts. They still have dreams and goals; however, most are simply resigned to never fulfill those ambitions. I know who I am. I am a girl, a small insignificant girl, but I can think. So, though this place is “off-limits” I still come here whenever I can.

This place is a small, stone well amid a forest of twenty-foot rocks. Wells are rarely used anymore because of the Community Resource Plan. “One resource for all”. Yet, I managed to find one that, though almost dry, still contains a little cloudy water. Probably poisoned. Yet, I feel safe here, guarded by my rock friends. I remember the brilliant golden structure belonging to the Minister, the ruler of the New World. While I sit amidst the stones I slowly become aware of a pain in my side. I shift my weight and realize that there is a stone in my robe, sewn into a secret pocket I’ve never noticed before.

I reach in and pull it out.

Someone at the ball must have slipped it into my robe. It would have been easy, as packed in as we were. The silver flecks mesmerize me. I’ve never held anything so precious, been allowed to stroke it. I sit for what seems like hours, just holding the ball in my hands. At first, I focus on its beauty, but as I hold it I start to wish that I had someone to share it with. Such a small object, just a stark reminder of how alone I am. Everyone I cared about is dead.

At the thought, my hand slips and I watch as the ball rolls across my palm, pauses slightly at my fingertips, and drops into the well. You know when something terrible happens and it seems like you’re seeing it in slow motion? When you trip and you can see yourself in various stages of fall? This isn’t like that. I sit and watch as the golden sphere drops into the black hole in the ground and wait until I hear the soft plunk of submersion before I start to cry. What have I done?

Green. Was that what it was called? It had been so long.

My one treasure is gone. A moment before I had held the world in my small hands, now all is brown and gray again.

His eyes are yellow.

He crawls out of the well not long after I start crying. Of course, I stop as soon as I see him. He scares me. Though he is only about five inches long and naked as a baby, I still think he might attack me. Then I remember, I had seen one of these before when I was a little girl. What were they called? Frogs?

He asks me why I cry.

Do frogs talk?

The frog stares at me blankly. “Why. Are. You. Crying?” He thinks I’m stupid.

“My golden ball fell into the well?” I’m not helping the situation, but I’m also talking to a frog.

He stares at me again, this time thoughtfully, perching on the edge of the well. I guess he’s been hiding out there, living in the shallow water. Most creatures like him hadn’t survived.

He proposes a deal. If he goes and retrieves my golden ball for me, then I must give him whatever he asks for. I warn him I don’t have much, but he assures me I have what he wants. So, I agree.

The gold ball. I watch eagerly as the frog slowly pushes it up over the edge of the well. Crying out with glee, I startle myself; It’s been so long since I’ve laughed, not since the Fall. The ball rolls toward me and I grab it, cradling it in my hands. The frog starts to say something but he’s cut short.

A crunch of gravel. Someone’s coming.

Running is familiar, it’s part of life. I run from the well, away from the frog calling out behind me. I don’t hear him. All I hear is the fear, my heart pounding in my chest. I have to make it back to the Colony, then I’ll be safe.

Later, I lay in bed, panting. I made it never knowing who or what had made that noise. Luckily, I live on the edge of the Colony in my own gray cement box. Twenty square feet for a single, thirty for a couple, fifty for a family. It’s enough.

Something hits my door. I jump up and fling myself against the rubber that separates whatever is out there from me, but after several minutes of silence my curiosity piques and I peek outside.

The green is on my bed.

The frog is angry. I’ve betrayed his trust, though I didn’t mean to. I was frightened.

He wants his reward.

“I don’t have much.” I remind him, gesturing to the small room around me. He shakes his small head, his eyes bugging out.

“All I want is for when you eat dinner, let me eat off your plate, when you drink water let me use your cup, and when you sleep, let me share your bed.” Yellow eyes stare. “And you must love me.”

I’m dumbfounded, but I did promise.

So, when I stand in line for my genetically modified artificial tofu, the frog shares it. When I drink water and sleep in my bed he is there. The frog is in my bed and I curl in an awkward position to keep from touching him. He is too real.

The next morning the frog is gone. Everything is brown and black and gray again. Almost comforting in a sick way. When you get used to seeing the same three colors a little green can make you crazy. Though I am slightly relieved that he is gone, I wonder what he really wanted. Just a few hours of companionship? Some semblance of love? Don’t we all crave that, starved as we are?

I don't have long to grieve. He comes back. The green is on my head, it’s in my food, beside my cup. When I go to bed he snuggles in my hair. I don’t push him away.

The third night he comes, he eats, he drinks, he sleeps. This time on my chest like a heart-shaped locket. I don’t mind it. I sleep better than I have in a long time. I dream in green. I smell green in the air. I taste it. I dream that the world is green, like my frog, and the air is moist and I eat plants. Real plants that crunch and leak juice all over my chin. I don’t die.

The next morning he is gone, I know before I even open my eyes. I get up, as usual, cupping my golden ball in my hand while I ready myself for work. My bare feet are calloused from working sixteen-hour days plowing miles and miles of dirt. The government wants to find clean soil.

A knock sounds at my door and my heart stills. I’ve been discovered! My gold ball, the frog…

I open the door, hesitantly. A man stands outside, wearing what looks like an old military uniform. One from the history books. He even wears pants. No one wears pants anymore. He’s tall, attractive, and clean. My breath catches at the sight of him.

Some experiences change you. I’ve never had one of those experiences.

The man proceeds to tell me that he is my frog companion. I blink at him, uncomprehending. He explains that he was once an agricultural scientist from long ago. He had been cursed, trapped by the Minister of the New World’s thugs before toxins destroyed the vegetation. The Frog Man had been on the verge of a breakthrough. He could have saved the world, but if his research had gone public then the Minister wouldn't have been able to seize control. So, he’d been trapped in a frog's body until the day when some free-thinking soul would come along and find it in their heart to love him.

I’d freed him and now he could save the world.

Had I loved him?

“Will you help me?” He holds out his hand, the look in his eyes breaking my heart.

I ask the Frog Man to wait outside while I retrieve the gold ball from where I’d dropped it on the bed. I gaze at the silver flecks, turning the ball over and over in my hands. Finally, I stop. I had found it, the one silver fleck that was too perfectly round and bigger than the others.

There’s no such thing as fairy tales.

I go back to the door and ask him again if he is really who he claims to be. Is he really the frog?

He is.

I take my gold ball and hold it out in front of me. “I know how to save the world,” I tell him. “Look.”

He looks.

Red.

I press the silver fleck. His head flies backward as the bullet enters his eye socket. His death is relatively silent, just a grunt escaping his lips. I watch as the Frog Man falls to the dusty ground, a golden bullet embedded in his head.

I watch the men carry away the body, leaving an unnerving trail of red on the black ground.

Fairytales aren’t real. Magic is nonsense. Mystery is forgotten. All thanks to me. I am inconspicuous. No one would suspect a young girl, just as no one would suspect a golden ball of being a weapon. A girl innocent enough to trick a frog. A girl clever enough to rule the entire world without anyone knowing she did it. A girl most people have never seen and yet practically worship.

The one they call the Minister.