I do not own Mad Max: Fury Road.
I am drinking loads of water, tho.
Out of Sand and Dust
Worth Fighting For
"Do you remember where you come from? Before the Citadel? Before you were a War Boy?"
She asks such difficult questions, the shiny, red haired, chrome one.
Such intriguing questions.
And his sickness damaged, fumed addled brain struggles to answer them.
Because, his grey matter whispers, the answers must be important.
Though he's not really sure why.
Creating new life in the post apocalyptic wasteland is not easy.
It's the dry, the near constant dehydration, the near constant starvation that takes away the proclivity to put forth effort to engage in reproductive activities.
Survival becomes so that much more important than fleeting pleasures.
Still and all, babies do appear on the face of the wasteland from time to time, born into the sand and dust.
And then keeping them alive becomes the real challenge.
Thirst, hunger, the daily crushing pressure of pointless, endless misery becomes too much for many to bear.
A quick, suffocating, merciful death seems the most logical route for many until the deed is done and it's too late to take it back.
Happens as much as you'd think, maybe more.
And so children, living, breathing children, are a precious, rare commodity.
And a continous challenge to keep going.
You don't dare care too much about them for fear they will crumble and blow away like chaff on the dry, harsh wind.
And you definitely do not dare to actually love them.
The dusty, sandy expanse of nothingness seemed to stretch on forever in every direction . The boy stood in the middle of it, oblivious to the heat and dry. It was all he had ever known.
He stared at the arid emptiness because there was nothing else at which to stare.
"Boy."
He turned to see the man in ragged clothing and poorly shaved face
The two shared little resemblance save for one feature .
Bright blue eyes .
The elder man's were hard chips of ice buried deep in his his leathered, worn face.
The boy's were brighter, less hard, set lightly in a face that had endured much less hardship and witnessed much less misery .
There were eyes that still held youth and hope.
His scraggly dark hair was thick with sand and grit, even as his mother reached out a roughened hand to brush through it.
He was her only child, the only one of several to survive the harshness of their wandering, brutal existence. And so he was valuable, of great importance to them. A well constructed, even featured male, strong and healthy and viable.
Perfect, according to his mother, in every way.
And she loved him.
As did his father.
Which was a rare thing in the Wasteland.
And something worth fighting for.
Hey, wonderful people! Thanks for checking out this story and giving it a chance! Thanks especially to the 1upguy (once again reading something he's never seen), DinahRay (also reading the unseen), and brigid1318 for speaking up wit those reviews. You guys are great!