Uninhabitable by Paige Mongon

It should have been home to none. The land had nothing to offer, nothing to give. It is here the days blend
into weeks, blur into months, bleed into years until time ceases to have meaning, ceases to exist. Naught but
the fever trees and marulas and aptly named whistling thorns may grow, albeit sparsely, their scrawny sun-
darkened limbs hesitantly reaching to greet the eternal dawn. It is in this place the sand has long ago molded
into a solid mass, and unforgiving and harsh it yields to none. Cracks run across its expanse, crumbling bits
of sand into motes to be spun around by the fury of the wind. 

Inhospitable.
Here the days give rise to nothing but half-hearted winds and temperatures so sweltering they render the

already harsh land all but uninhabitable. The nights offer little reprieve, the cloak of darkness masking all
former signs of warmth a little too well, drawing the land into a frigid embrace. Water is even scarcer than
the starved trees here, a cherished commodity seldom doled out by the selfish clouds. It is in this land that
water is naught more than a memory, a thought, a fleeting wish. 

Inhospitable. 
Yet nonetheless they came, enduring the climate and the wind and the barren earth. They came in hordes,

on the backs of animals heaving for breath, the sheen on their skin attesting to countless fortnights of travel.
Soil and assorted filth coat their matted hair, their clothes riddled with holes, their worn rucksacks. More
ubiquitous than the native cloth they use to coat themselves, the intruders appear disheveled, though not
altogether starved. This land shall remedy that. 

Inhospitable. 

Without delay they begin to develop the land, laying waste to what little life this place hosts. The marulas

are chopped down and stripped of their greenery, their fleshy fruit tossed aside to be consumed later. Trimmed
until they are naught more than a mere trunk, the remains of trees are erected as bare posts, posts which will
be used to restrict herds of cattle, suppressing the wild in beasts which belong anywhere but here, beasts
which already lay dead or dying for a lack of resources. It has been many moons since a decent meal, many moons since there was enough water to slake their thirst. Now what little the men have is more carbosulfan than anything, an insecticide they brought with them in hopes of encountering an oasis from which to coax crops- oases which in this land are but mirages. 

Inhospitable. 

While little time has passed since their arrival, many lay suffering. Famine ravages the populations of both
human and cattle alike, merciless in its hunger. Death begins to enshroud the hasty camp like an old friend,
enveloping many. In a land of sky and wind and earth and sand, there is no room for Man. 

Inhospitable. 

A pride of lions wanders through the land, driven by desperation and hunger. Nothing lays within miles of
this place, yet scarce prey populations have driven the lions where few have wandered before. And for once,
the land rewards the living, procuring a bountiful feast for the pride in the form of tamed cattle.

Inhospitable.

With such a feasting come more, drawn by the scent of a crimson and russet massacre. Regal creatures,

kings of the forest, haunt every nook and cranny of this land, for it now has much to give. These creatures

offer the humans and cattle no respite, preying eagerly on the weak. All are dying, suffering- all except for

those with the manes of gold. 

Inhospitable.

In retaliation for the murder of their herds, the formerly nugatory carbosulfan is injected into the meager
meals of the cattle. Poisoned, many already dying cows cease to suffer any longer, passing on to an
undeniably kinder world. When the prides of lions next saunter into the camp of men to sate their voracious
appetites, it is not only lean meat they ingest but poison as well. 

Inhospitable. 

Kings are reduced to peasants as animals lay twitching on the ground, froth foaming at their lips, their
eyes reeling wildly. Golden cats lay bucking, twitching, suffering until they, too, die like the cattle and trees
and men before them. And so many a lion lay dead, and once more the land is silent excepting the intruders
and what little remains of their cattle herds. 

Inhospitable. 

The passage of time, while having long since ceased to mean anything, has only grown, a fact which the
countless carcasses strewn about the ground can attest to. The stench of the dead has become overpowering,
seeping into every crevasse and nook and crack, sparing nothing. Thus, lured by the scent of death, the
vultures swoop in, ravenous for a decent meal. Undeterred by the suspiciously large number of dead, they
set upon flesh laced with poison, begin to guzzle the marrow from bones saturated in toxins. And so too the
vultures suffer then die, much like the lions and cattle and trees and men before them. 

Inhospitable

Swarms of flies and mosquitoes permeate every inch of the land, buzzing over prone bodies. Festering
carcasses have become the land, have become its present, its identity. All it knows now is death and pain and
suffering and torment, torment which the flies and mosquitoes only aid, for they bear fatal diseases. Malaria.
Cholera. Trypanosomiasis. Those who haven’t already succumbed to starvation succumb to disease- the
camp shakes with the moans and grievances of the ill. 

Inhospitable. 

The land echoes with a deafening silence. The last of the intruders have passed, their cattle with them, and
the flies and mosquitoes have slowly receded, once more seeking a land more hospitable than this. And so
the land is as it was once more. Naught but the fever trees and marulas and aptly named whistling thorns
may grow, albeit sparsely, their scrawny sun-darkened limbs hesitantly reaching to greet the eternal dawn. It is
in this place the sand has long ago molded into a solid mass, and unforgiving and harsh it yields to none.
Cracks run across its expanse, crumbling bits of sand into motes to be spun around by the fury of the wind. 

Uninhabitable.