November 15, 2009

The small town by the stream in the valley depended on the plant for employment. The plant was the very heart and the very soul of the community. Without it, the young people would have no alternative but to seek employment elsewhere. The old people would be eventually doomed to walk a Main Street of boarded up businesses. No plant, no work. No work, no economy. A ghost town in the making. Meetings were held. Petitions were signed and sent to the state capitol. Politicians made speeches, governor high to alderman low. In fact, as things turned out, it was during one of those speeches being given at the band shell in the town square that a young man came flying down the street while shouting, “The plant! The plant! It’s all over! The plant!” The townfolk streamed to follow the young man back to the plant. They slowed and stilled, gathering to peer through the wrought iron gate. It was true. Shoulders sagged. Tears crept down cheeks. The plant was dead. Its petals were strewn lifeless on the ground. Its stem was bent, brown, brittle, broken.


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