Welcome to Gaia! ::

The following is based off the flame birds described by Ray Bradbury in "The Martian Chronicles", chapter 2: 'Ylla' I just looked it up and I haven't re-read it in about a year. I think I did a decent amount of editing...can't remember. Please leave constructive criticism. "That's really good ^.^" or "Dat sux, u retard!" are par for the course but actual critique "Try and limit your passive voice" (a problem I do have) is much appreciated. Lay it on me, it's okay I'm in college, I'm already downtrodden and dejected.

Hopefully, Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The red Martian landscape lay stretched out below, immaculate in the gleaming, golden sun. Its imperfections minimized by the great altitude of the flying beasts. To the strangers this land was harsh and arid. A land of extremes. A world made bitter cold by the vast, empty chasm between this world and home, matched only by the red fires of the sand that burn ceaselessly so that one may never rest a foot on the foreign soil for long, lest the alien sand mark forever one's sole. But to the pair of flame birds scorching a path across the sky, trailed by a dozen green ribbons, the last remnants of their former lives, the plains of Mars were plush and inviting, like a mother's arms the red sands would cradle the birds to sleep each night, embraced in warmth from their own fiery plumage.
A single pair, two.
The last survivors of the invasion cry out muted, piercing screams of anguish and loss, muted not in volume, but muted by the deaf ears of their dead companions, calls absorbed by the empty land and sky before them, never to be returned. Even to the invaders their calls are inaudible. For the human mind can twist and alter perception. Winged balls of fire crossing, arching across the sky called to mind the myths of ancient Greece and in a time when all of Mars was viewed in terms of its future potential, the pullers of Apollo's chariot were anachronistic intrusions that the mind struggled to put in place, and, failing to do so, eliminated any trace of them. To these new stewards of the planet the flame birds twisting through the air, entwined in an embrace that held the last hope of a dying species, a dying planet, were nothing, as dead as the crackling ashes of last night’s fire, wispy black leaves that scatter in the gentlest breeze.
So they flew on alone. Shunned by the newcomers who could harness their own fire in giant metal tubes. Separated from their families by an even greater chasm then space, a chasm much easier to cross, but only one way. Confused by the green fields spreading like leprosy across their beloved landscape. They flew.
Completely. Utterly. Alone. Except for…
Together, claws locked in a desperate grip they fled from the changes, from the destruction of their way of life, to the ancient mountains whose names came from the rocks, beaten and battered by unfettered winds and from the rivers of icy water that sprang frozen from the belly of the peaks. Rising high into the inky blackness when the flame birds were still miles and miles away the mountains did not loom like giants waiting to tear the birds apart with their jagged teeth, but were pillars of strength like the steady father beaconing to his crying children, ready to embrace them in his protective arms, wielding the power to wave away all danger. It is to this fortress of hope the flame birds fly. They soar to his buttresses, green flags flapping and waving the colors of a friend not foe, seeking sanctuary in their stony father’ walls.
Hours pass by. The earthling sees this as sand in a sieve quickly falling from his grasp, each ragged breath and shallow heart beat pounds the story deeper and deeper into his soul until it pounds right through and the meaning is lost. Money and power cannot bring back the lost time, that is what the hole would have said. A point reinforced so much it drives straight through a person, and that is why they come here. They travel millions of miles, astronomical distances to try and capture the future. They think the future is the spaceships they’ve built but the metal objects are already the present and the past. They think the new colonies are a wave of the future, but they are built upon the ruins of Martian cities that now have no future from houses that belong to the past. In trying to capture the future the people from Earth destroy it with the past they refuse to give up on. So, another world is slowly filled with empty people trying to fill the hole with more emptiness until nothing remains and the next person can step forward to fit the human-shaped hole of his predecessor. To the flame birds this sense of time is meaningless. Time is not lost, it is gained; creatures are filled with time. Every crimson feather turned silver-gold with age and furrowed brow upon a fiery crest represents a moment in the flame birds’ life, a snapshot of a life lived, a physical memory that has not drained out of the soul, through a self-made hole, but has been added and incorporated, building a more brilliant portrait.
No longer is the path straight and the sky clear blue, the mountains have been reached and the twisting and zigzag patterns of their movements become necessary to avoid the rocky cliffs. The hard rocks, cold and lifeless to most, provide a spring of unexpected hope for the pair. Their calls are not sucked from their mouths the moment they screech, but reflected, echoing with a spark of life drawn from the very air they breath, sent onwards in a scattered cry mimicking an entire flock of flame birds. At first the flame birds break apart in the glory of the discovery of their found brethren, calling more frantically and receiving the same frantic replies, but their calls die down and so do their hopes. They realize that they are alone again. The mountains lose their warmth and the glowing fires of the birds die down. And then the echo begins anew. An echo can’t start itself, their must be an origin, another lost soul or more! Running from the disease that has marred the planet the unheard cry of the soul is heard louder than any sounds. The call of the winged ones has been answered.

Yeah, I just re-read it myself and I realize that you might need some background to grasp the full meaning.

The Martian Chronicles describes the colonization of Mars as a colony of Earth. The first three missions end in failure for the humans, but also spread disease across the Martian landscape. The flame birds were described in the second chapter of the book entitled Ylla. They were harnessed by green ribbons to a carriage of sorts that they would pull through the sky as a means of Martian transportation. The flame birds in my story are wandering around following the death of their Martian masters and many of their own kind. Frequent themes in the book are the ideas of progress and escape. The humans flee the politics, death, and destruction that are prevalent on earth, but they don't leave behind their way of life, effectively bringing their problems with them. I interpreted it as a desire to metaphorically "fill a hole". Martian culture, on the other hand, was described as very scientific and artistic. The names they gave the places reflected the nature of the land. Mountains and rivers would have names that described the way they flowed or cut the sky. Not like "Iron Town" or "Smith County" prototypical names in western society.

That should be a good background for ya. Hope it helps.

That's so much more helpful. ^^

And Sci-Fi rocks!!