A Disaster

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Slowly and warily, the inhabitants of the area surrounding the volcano walk around it’s base, eyeing it with a mixture of caution, wonder and amazement, not quite sure what to make of it. A few adventurous souls dare to begin a treacherous climb up the side of this mountain, but many fail to reach the top. Very few get to feel the triumph of succeeding to stand on the rim and having the privilege of staring down into its black mouth.

I watch all of this taking place, assuming my role as a meager observer to these events. In these observations, I see the complete indifference of those that choose to stay on their flat land, some even ignoring the monstrous rock among their presence. After a quick glance and notes made in my mind, I grant them the same indifference that they choose to bestow upon the adventuring bodies above them.

These are the ones that I turn my attention to. First, I notice the ones that continuously try and fail at succeeding to reach the top. One by one, they make it halfway to the top, only to have something go amiss and end up back on the ground. Some even give up on trying indefinitely. A few end up slipping, just as they get to the point where all it takes is a bit more. Some of the more curious ones however, simply become bored and give up to find something else to satisfy their fast paced mind. This group gets pity and sympathy from me, especially those that seem to never want to give up no matter how much they fail.
To those who succeed in reaching the gaping mouth of the volcano, I give a silent applause. They have endured and triumphed at what many others have failed to accomplish. Now, as I watch these few make their merry way back down the slope, off to brag about their achievement, I myself stare into the pit of the volcano, grasping the bottle of water in my hand. I wonder to myself whether I should go through with my plan or not.
Aware that the volcano is so sensitive that even a mere drop of water would make it erupt, I weigh my options. One part of me says that I should just let it be; that there is no point in causing havoc and taking the lives of these inhabitants who unknowingly go about their peaceful day. The other part of me gently pokes and prods at my humanly desire to wonder what it is like to play god, being in complete control of so many things, including the destruction of lives.
It is a completely cliché shoulder angel and demon scene in my mind at that moment. The angel tells me it is wrong to take these lives and destroy their homes. The demon, on the other hand, slyly inveigles me, coercing my curious mind, while slowly and surreptitiously making his way to the angel’s shoulder, whispering in my ear even as the angel shouts above him in an attempt to drown out the evil voice. My brain takes it all in, failing to see how close the devil is now to the angel, his hands creeping onto his shoulders. I grip the bottle and with a maniacal laugh, the devil shoves the angel off my shoulder, plunging it to its demise.
I smirk and tilt the bottle just a little. One, two, three drops of water fall out and are engulfed by the volcano’s gullet. All too soon, just as expected, I see the liquid start to rise within the hole, and step back to watch my work. Quickly, yet slowly at the same time, the volcano erupts, covering the sides and ground with its life taking chemicals. Those who are still making their way back to the ground are the first to be demolished, soon followed by those that are on the land. A fair few manage to escape the burning liquid and proceed to flee to safe country. I watch as many lives are engulfed by the emission and cackle as I realize that this must be how God himself felt when he wiped out everyone except for Noah and his ark, finding a new found understanding for the great being.
As I sit and bask in the destruction I am causing, I am interrupted by an incessant noise; a woman’s voice, calling my name, informing me that I need to stop and come join her. I pretend to ignore it, attempting to regain my glorious feeling of control. Eventually, however, the voice gets to be too annoying to bear, and I succumb to its demands.
I pick up my toy pocket volcano, bid the ants a farewell, and follow my mother into the house for dinner, merely biding my time until I can set forth on my reckoning again. Another time. Another day. Another anthill.





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