Part of my writer's craft class was to write an intercalary chapter for the end of Grapes of Wrath. This is my chapter 31, trying to keep in style of the book.
The concrete highway, long, narrow and hot, was edged with faint signs of life, buried beneath dust and a tangled mat of dry, broken grass. Insects hid in the tangled growth, seeking sanctuary from the bright sun. As a light truck drove by, carrying machine men to their tractors, bright red in colour, it tossed and stirred the heavy dust, showing to the sun the peeking heads of plants in growth. A family of three tiny wild oats rose from the dust and dirt and broken grass, strong and determined, a thin stem supporting spearheads with pincer ends. They stood, silent and swaying with the wind, tossing their heads, ignorant of most everything but the torrid sun, the powerful wind, and the refreshing water the roots sought within the dry, dusty, cracked ground. They knew of each other's presence where their roots crossed, where their shadows fell upon each other, but no man could say whether they took comfort from it, though man knew he would if he were one of that family.
The wild oats stood as cars and people passed, and were separated. Children came, product of the machine age, the tractor man, and they had no relationship with the land, no respect for it, no love for it. They came ignorant of the land, and ignorant of life. Laughing loudly, dragging sticks and bashing the beaten grass with them, they came. Stomping on struggling plants, chasing frogs and grasshoppers from their hidden homes, they came. One of the machine children grabbed one of the wild oat trio, grabbed its fragile connection to the earth, and tore it from its life. Then, as a machine child was wont to do, tossed the tall, spearheaded structure onto the road, uncaring and ignorant of the waste that it created, with no respect for the loss of life, no thoughts as to the loss of potential. They carried on their way, laughing, stomping, grabbing other innocent plants, and tossing them away, wastefully, ignorantly, not one tear for the life they had shattered, and the two wild oats that were left could not mourn.
Days passed of only cars before another walked the road, but this man was different from the machine children. He walked cautiously, carefully, watching where he set his feet, careful to avoid setting his weight upon the growth of life, careful not to crush the life out of the world around him. He mourned when he saw the jagged-ended stalk amongst the pair of wild oats, recognizing that once there were three. He knew the land, loved the land, and recognized the pain and loss as if it were a member of his own family that was gone, and in a way, it was. The land was his family, his love, his life, and it hurt him to see it in pain. Fearful that another of the oats would be torn from the ground, he carefully dug around one of the stalks, careful to keep the roots together and cause it no harm.
Carefully, he wrapped it in his shirt, and hurried home, where he carefully planted it in a sheltered area where the wind was soft and the sun less harsh, a place protected from the machine children, where it could grow strong, and give birth to more life. Carefully, he watered it each day out of his dwindling supply, knowing that he would survive if the land would survive, and knowing that if the land did not survive, he would have no reason to survive.
At the side of the concrete highway, one wild oat stalk stood, its siblings gone. It braved the parching sun, for it had no other options, and fervently sent its roots further into the ground in search of salvation, in search of the slightest bit of essential water that it craved. It stood strong; fighting in every way it could to survive. And the rains came.
Water fell from the sky, so much at first that the ground refused to accept it. It beat at the base of the wild oat stalk, trying to erode the dirt surrounding it, but the roots were deep and clutched the earth. While it had no voice to say so, it planned to endure. The roots, deep within the ground, caught the water that seeped down to them, drinking it in with anticipation, so that the plant could feed, could live, could thrive. The rain fell in sheets, pelting the earth, soaking the dust into mud, and the plant drank it in, refreshed. It had waited so long for a drink, and the rains seemed intent to drown it, but it stood strong, swaying in the clashing winds brought by the storm, knowing that this was just another obstacle, another hurdle to be overcome in its life. In a sheltered area, mere miles away, a man rushed to the side of a wild oat stalk, carefully making sure that the rains did not wash it away. As the rains fell, he stood beside it, as saturated as the plant. When he was satisfied that it would survive the downpour, he left it to drink in the water it desired, then set out pots to collect water for himself.
The rains began to wane, dwindling to a drizzle that comforted the plants, for it spoke of rains to come, the end of a season of dry. As the sun peeked from behind grey clouds, the plants rejoiced, for now they had what they needed to survive. They knew that there would be more struggles, but for now, they were content.
The concrete highway, long, narrow but cool, was edged with lush green. Rain dripped gently from the sky, barely leaving puddles on the road, the ground already moist. The sounds of crickets began to fill the evening air as the clouds moved to show the setting of the sun in a palette of majestic colours. A magenta glow framed the tall wild oat as it stood strongly at the side of the road, its spearheads ripe with seeds. It waited, knowing that someone would come to help spread its seeds, be it man, animal or wind. And over the grass at the roadside a land turtle crawled.[1]
With fresh, youthful eyes, she examined the concrete barrier. She had never encountered such a barricade before, but knew that it would not stop her. She struggled against it, straining to lift herself over the man-made distraction. As she reached the top, a car drove by, startling her into her shell. With legs no longer holding her in place, she slid backwards down the slope, landing with a bump against a wild oat, shaking the seeds from the spearheads. Several fell into her shell, but she did not notice them. After a few moments, she peeked out of her shell, and set off on her way again. Again she reached the point of the barrier, but this time was able to struggle over it with no surprises. She crawled across the cool road, and reached the other side. The seeds shook out of her shell as she climbed down the bank on the other side of the road, and her shell scraped dirt over them as she passed.
In a sheltered area, mere miles away, a man stood by a tall wild oat, taking note of the lush growth and seeds. Holding a bowl beneath it, he shook it gently, carefully catching the seeds in the wooden container. He moved a few feet away, knelt down in the moist earth, and poked holes with his fingers in which to place the seeds. He dropped three in each hole, then covered it over with a satisfied smile.
----------------------- [1] This line is from page 19. Since this is supposed to be a continuation of the novel, it seemed right to put it here. Credit is given to the original author.