It was during one of the best summers in living memory that the destruction of our village began. The tremors came first, echoed by rumblings of public fear. Soon visitors arrived, seeking to bear witness to our doom. Arrests were made as families barricaded themselves into their homesteads. But the momentum became unstoppable. Elders prophesied the monster was an incarnation of the god of chaos, Cuadzilla, who lured innocents to their deaths with visions of waterfalls of gold, before the terrible leviathan of the deep earth broke through the heavy rock and fine soils of our lands to wreak its havoc.
The thin ridge of houses along the top of the moor I always saw as a scar along a smooth body. That blackened body. It was so obvious what they had done. The exploitation. The pit head gone, perhaps, and them tiny men back and buried in them tiny miners cottages. Sometimes I felt sadly proud, a happy sorrow.
The conditions of brutality change. No one likes scars and scabs. They drill for shale now. A deeper trauma. Cleaner, they say, but I couldn’t be sure. When summat’s not here it’s likely elsewhere. We await the tremors, the aftershocks, unawares.