Calla Smith

Our Land

They didn’t have anywhere else to go, so they went to the green grass banks on either side of the train tracks far from the edges of the city. They didn’t know who the land belonged to, but it didn’t matter anymore. It was theirs now. They brought their families and lived around the warmth of campfires, basking in the glow of the ashes as the first brick structures went up. They didn’t care that the clothes they wore had long since turned into little more than brownish tatters, or that their hair was long and tangled. The only thing they really wanted was a place to call their own.

More people followed, and the grass gradually disappeared, giving way to the red dusty walls, dirt roads, chicken coops, and smoldering piles of garbage. The small stream was soon nothing more than a muddy, diseased tongue with white pieces of trash floating around it like sores. Nobody could do anything about it; there were too many of them now, and the squatters stayed and multiplied because even if there was no potable water to wash the smoke from the firepits off their ashy skin. 

As their number swelled, there was only one obstacle that prevented them from truly feeling they belonged there: the thin lines of tracks and the trains covered in chipping blue paint that crossed through their territory every thirty minutes. They lit fires over the rails, and they picked away at any spare metal they could get their hands on for the cash, but the trains kept coming and coming. They hated the metal monstrosities, with their regularity, sharp whistles, and plumes of smoke. But most of all, they hated the passengers.

Unlike the squatters, the passengers on the train had somewhere to go, someone waiting for them. They could move easily in the outside world, and no one would insult them or treat them like thieves. The squatters weren’t thieves, no matter how many things they stole. They were only trying to survive, and they had a right to that and every square inch of land that the train refused to give up. As their numbers grew and it became harder to feed them all, a plan was formed, and a wall was erected.

They would take turns. Some would sit on the wall, and others would bring them big and small rocks, hard stones that could cause some real damage. If they managed to stop the train, they would swarm onto it, taking everything they could and guaranteeing their survival for many days to come.

But even if they didn’t make the metal beast shriek to a halt, they could harm those people they hated so much, and the thought of red, sticky blood made their palms sweaty. If enough people died on the trains, they would stop coming, and the squatters could fit more families on the abandoned land. They could put up walls and turn their attention to the rest of the sprawling metropolis, and do what they wanted, because there was no law that would ever find them in the heart of what they all knew was their homeland. 

And so, it started. Their aim wasn’t good. The rocks dented the already damaged metal, revealing the deep reddish rust that hid under the pain. But the missiles didn’t penetrate. Even so, the first day there were casualties inside those cars; they were sure of it. They smelled the fear, and they stayed up until late in the night, adrenaline rushing through their veins.

The next day, the windows were all closed. There were now policemen patrolling the trains. If they were strong enough, though, they could still scratch the glass. One day, they were sure, one of the passengers would forget, or the engines would fail as they so often did. One stone would hit its mark. It would be all over for the outside world then. Everyone else would learn that they would have to just leave the squatters alone or face the consequences.

END

Calla Smith lives and writes in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She enjoys continuing to discover all the forgotten corners of the city she has come to call home. She has published a collection of flash fiction “What Doesn’t Kill You”, and her work can also be found in several literary journals .