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Unnatural Structure

Not your usual wall

By Rick PensionPublished about a year ago 4 min read

If walls could talk my voice would be the only noise heard in the empty field. My voice, and the soft whirl of the wind against my particular sides. My voice would not echo, nor would it likely be heard for another hundred years. By then, my structure will be weak, if not collapsed, and I would no longer be able to talk, as I would no longer be a wall. I reach only twelve feet, and unlike other walls, I have limbs. I have splintered wood, soiled by blood and a vomit inducing odor. Unlike other walls, I have flesh.

I do not have a story to tell that could ever satisfy anyone who would happen upon me, for I was unable to see my own construction before I was built. The few details that I recall were of small lights infesting the skies, the bitter frost biting at the touch of the breeze, the sound of shuffling among the high grass, and the dark figures blending in and out of the pitch dark background. Whispers emanated from the figures as the finished my erection in the field. Then, they left, becoming one with the darkness and leaving me alone. It was not a long night, only two hours before the sky went from endless small lights to one large light, transforming the color from black to a light blue. Grey clouds turned to white, the yellow grass was revealed in the light, and in the distance stood a wall of trees… though not a wall that could possibly speak back. In the sky, birds of many sizes and colors flew so effortlessly against the wind. A deer stumbled out of the treeline, slowly stepping further into the field before staring at me for a length of time. A noise captured its attention only moments before it retreated back into the trees. Other creatures found their way in front of me, occasionally inspecting me before carrying on about their day.

It was a beautiful sight to behold, watching nature go about as if nothing matter but the moment it was currently in. I felt sorrow to know that it was me that was spoiling the beauty of the day. With nature happening so majestically in front of me, three arms dangled from my wooden foundation. Legs hung from out my sides, and back. Wooden poles viciously and durably punctured the mangled bodies of those who had no eyes and no tongues. I was a wall of death and I tainted the land I sat on. Birds would perch me and peck at my foundation, creature would approach and sniff before scurrying away in disgusted horror. At my base, the ground was soaked in blood and the grass nearby painted a dark brown.

For all the while I sat here, I would’ve wept and cried out for my dismantle. Something like me should not exist. I am disgusting. I am vile. I am created with malice and hate and I hate it. I long for the day someone finds me and buries my remains, or when I finally crumble as the flesh rots away and the structural integrity of the bones deteriorate. It is not the bodies that make me so undesirable, it is the state they were left in, with such specific care, I question who these people are that make me. Were they evil, a plague of humankind, ready to infect and destroy with every movement? Or were they beautiful and generous people, who brought life and meaning everywhere they went? Who built me? Were they the opposite of those who were strewn about me? What was the purpose of my existence? Did my creation bring meaning? Or am I forever meaningless piece of structure?

I sit alone, yearning for my collapse, hoping that I am the only wall like myself and unsure what life means if my existence is real.


Perhaps I’m a beacon. A sign that is supposed to promote meaning and reason. It doesn’t matter who made me or who is part of me, it only matters with what I represent. I hope someone comes across me and sees me grotesque stature. I hope that someone studies my limbs, my bodies, my wooden foundation. I hope that someone is moved by the sight of me in one way or another. Beyond that, I hope that who ever does discover me spreads their experience of my existence to the whole world, to pass from ear to ear that I mean something. I will not have been made in vain, or in malice. I will be legend. I am the wall of death. I represent what life means to whom ever experiences a shroud of influence that I will infect on the world.

I sit alone, one of my kind, as a spectacular piece of art, ready to ensure that all of life is improved with the knowledge of me.

Short Story

About the Creator

Rick Pension

Writing has been a passion of mine since before I was 8 years old. I’ve evolved my stories in various ways since, and I only want to write for people to enjoy my stories. I don’t like to typically stay within a specific genre.

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