Nomi Shira

Mr. Jones exited his low wooden cabin, ready to begin work in his denim overalls. His rugged brown skin and bleach white hair testimony to the many hours he had put into his beloved vineyard that lie on the green mile of land surrounding his home. Merrily humming a mellow morning tune, he pulled the twisted wood shut and turned to go work.

A gasp, and then his breath left his chest. 

Where once lie a precious, beautiful vineyard, with equal space between each growth, where once lie plump, shiny purple grapes filling the view against the endless blue horizon, where once lie the vines that snaked in designs round the poles in an ever so beautiful image – now lay destruction. 

It was malicious, evil intended destruction. Someone had taken a crowbar and hacked through the beautifully placed vines, had cut down the grapes and stomped on them and made purple splotches on the dirt, had purposely twisted his beautiful green vines and knocked down his perfectly placed poles.

The signature was pretty clear. There was a neighbor, a large, tough neighbor, who had recently moved in and made it pretty clear that he desired no competition with his own vineyard. When Mr. Jones betrayed no fear at the 6’3, broad shouldered, menacing man and his money, the neighbor simply stood from the round wooden table, said “There will be consequences,” and exited through the low wooden door. Mr. Jones had leaned against his post and apprehensively watched him begin the two mile walk to their own cottage they had just purchased.

Now, standing before his destroyed vineyard, the hints of anger began to travel his veins and the whispers of revenge began to appeal to his ego. 

Nightfall seemed to arrive particularly slowly that evening. However, as awatied times soemtimes do, this one did not dissapoint. The sun slipped below the horizon and soon only stars overlooked the miles of now black ground. 

Mr. Jones swung his crowbar over his shoulder and began the trek to his neighbors cottage, two miles away. As it began to appear on the horizon, anger surged within him once again and he hoisted his black crowbar higher. Perhaps it was the shading from the moon, but his face seemed to get uglier as he approached the shadows of his neighbors vineyard. Carefully opening the neat gate, he muttered with distaste at its beautiful repainted job. 

Then, 

he swung, he swung, and he swung. The splintering sound of the fresh white gate sounded simply delightful. The tearing of the vines was a special sort of satisfaction. He crushed, and crushed and crushed more grapes – and ate some, for good measure. The poisonous inner satisfaction began coursing through his veins as he watched pure destruction begin to take place. As with many poisons, he felt too satisfied with it to notice it killing him.

And once his long black crowbar was slung over his shoulder, his shoulder coursing with blood that carried through it the satisfaction of revenge, the satisfaction of the ego – he turned back to face his home. 

It lie there, unchanging, unbreathing. It lie there, as though no one had touched it: the same mangled, twisted mess he had left it before the revenge. 

Where once lie a precious, beautiful vineyard, with equal space between each growth, where once lie plump, shiny purple grapes filling the view against the endless blue horizon, where once lie the vines that snaked in designs round the poles in an ever so beautiful image – still lay destruction.