Growing Hope - Installment 11

“I'm gonna miss this place, you know?” Telson said as we sped-walked to the warehouse.

“Huh?” I asked in reply, slightly out of breath.

“The city. I think I'm going to kind of miss it.”

“Why?”

“Don't know,” Telson said, shrugging, “I just am.”

“Well, what is it? There's gotta be something.”

“Carol, I guess. Maybe, I don't know, the struggle... the fight, you know?”

“Why,” I asked, looking at him, “are you going to miss the fight? I mean, that's what we hate.” He thought about it a moment as we walked, keeping our pace.

“Makes you feel alive. Gives you something to wake up for. Never a dull day. You know?”

“No, Telson, I don't know. Which is why I'm leaving.”

We made it to the warehouse in almost record time. This would be the second to last foray into our home. The next one would be to collect our meager belongings that were worth keeping, and the seed we'd distribute, of course. It would be a short trip, much shorter than this one.

The hum of the grid faded as we approached. I could almost feel my chip humming in a converse relation. They call it the phantom hum. So subtle no human could feel it, they said. I didn't give a shit, I could feel it.

Rise of the chip, fall of the grid.


We hit the floor at a run. Telson immediately heads to the farm as I quickly inspect the comp terminal in the kitchen to make sure there were no attempted security violations. There appears to have been none, which is good enough for me. I follow behind Telson. As soon as I make it to the door a burlap sack is thrown at me. Hemp, real hemp. So rare. Telson is already making his way quickly through the rows upon rows of plants, going on instinct now. We need to check the plants every day, every time we come in. It's its own environment here, and it develops entropy if we neglect our negentropic qualities.

While Telson checks PH balances of water, I begin checking tomatoes. We need tomatoes. Tomatoes are high priced commodities in the quasi Barter-Land he and I live in. Tomatoes will get us well on our way to leaving this place, metaphorically and chemically at the least. I find a good clean one that's so close to ripening only Telson or I could tell the difference. Pluck it from the vine. Gently. Love. Tenderness. Farming is about understanding the flow of your plants, knowing when they want to be picked. I find another, and another, and another. So on. So forth. Telson joins the fray, begins inspecting and plucking. We move as quickly as possible through our artificial rows of plants.

As Telson inspects the ripeness of one child, I heft the burlap sack in his hand. Just before he plucks, “No more.” He stops before he twists. Between us we have the three quarters of a sack for the aurative.

We left the warehouse quickly, hoping to find something beyond our selves that night. The grid hums up behind us as we leave I can feel the rising and falling of the phantom hum.

Rise of the grid, fall of the chip.