On the Other Side -Yishen Zhou

The sun sloshed its heat mercilessly upon the robust pavement, which soaked it up like a
dry sponge. It lathered the warmth thickly over the land: in the same manner as an
overweight man buttering his bread.
Summer spotted an exhausted ant on the pavement and pinned it down, forcing
the poor creature to its knees as it continued to stagger along a minuscule crack at the
speed of dial up. Attempting to hide away in the smothering furnace, it retreated further
into the shadowed depths just as the sun cranked up the heat another notch.
The sky reminded you of the inside of a hospital: it had been sterilised until the
surface was spotless: an immaculate blue. Those few clouds visible earlier on gradually
disintegrated like ripples on a lake; like vampires crumbling to dust under the glare of
sunlight.
I looked up from my work. On the other side of the glass, random trees beckoned
my sight to wander...
Four sentries stood guard in front of the house. Medals of lemon, lime and purple
hung proudly from their branches. Age-old moss covered their outer barks, and the
shallow juts were baked hard with stubborn lichen. Persistent roots broke through the
grass at erratic places as if an ancient Kraken had been aroused from the scalding earth.
Tufts of sallow grass wavered feebly like the hair on a bald man’s head: in perfect
syncopation with the royal leaves.
Those few who were outside in the oppressive heat were prawns fried on a
barbecue. Each action sapped at strength. Each painstaking step induced another bead of
sweat until the bright backs of T-shirts were soaked into a dull, degrading shade. Wading
through the labyrinth of heat was an escape from quicksand; a gravity that increased by
every passing second.
Then there was the cleansing smell of cut grass. Although it was a fresh smell, the
texture was harsh and crisp, and it resembled slightly over-burnt toast with a hint of
garlic. Some of it lay in mounds at the bases of trees, as if it had the power to stave off
Summer’s blood-thristy fangs.
It was so hot. So hot that the cheerful whistles and melodies of birds were now
monotonous drawls of off-pitch notes that lagged in your head like a computer glitch. So
hot, that they didn’t bother to fly from one tree to another: they simply hopped with
forced enthusiasm. Pathetic flurries of feathers in between each enervated jump.
That was summer.
Winter, and the harsh, hostile winds snap at your heels like a deranged wolf hot on the
trail of its prey. Each time a gale ripped past you, the air rippled as if it were the aura of a
demon. The snow covered the landscape like how a beauty queen suffocates her face with
cosmetics.
There was no sign of life.
Nothing, but black skies.
Nothing, but the soft, yet biting snow that was everywhere – like an angry mob of
maggots, slowly devouring everything what Winter could not dominate.
And the nothingness –
Glancing out the frost-glazed window into the night, I pull my woolly blankets
closer and snuggle comfortably. A fire crackling near me gave the room a homely,
luminous feel: my only companion for these long, winter nights. In the open, the air was
cruel and coarse against your skin, like invisible vultures ripping at your flesh.
I hear the cringing of the trees outside. No movement, but the swish of curtains
being drawn and the flickering of lights being switched off.
And I see those four knights stripped of their ranks and their honour, their
branches bare, their bark battered with the endless cold – patients undergoing
chemotherapy until death. No more were the lush, rainbow leaves, no more were the
myriad of colours, no more did they stand straight and tall – or with dignity. Their leaves
had long gone, buried in the metre thick snow – or torn away by the wind.
“Hey there.”
Some dumb bird zipped across my window with dazzling speed, but a juggernaut
of air pummelled it backwards – impaled it against the fence and snapped its wings like a
chopstick.
Shnap…
Like a priest, incapacitated from Satan’s breath.
Perhaps Nature was feeling merciful, for now there lay a flimsy blanket of snow
on the soldiers' shoulders, shielding them from the chill. The fabric had once been
flawless – emitting a heartwarming, pure glow as drizzles of moonlight tiptoed across...
But this was not a true act of charity. Bony fingers clutch desperately at the
frayed ends draped over their stick-thin arms, offering meagre protection against the
bitter world.
Their branches, bent countless times by the creatures of the air, had scars twisted
around them. Like disgusting strings of ribbon: signs of neglect from their own Mother.

And I sit at my desk, waiting –

Watching the world on the other side.