"Almost Green"

"With Crippled Wings"

Tired was the world.

Tired of the endless storm roaming its barren plains. Of the way-worn sock puppets chasing after treacherous bundles of words, coddled for generations only to rise and drop the shackles of comfort in favor of war-banners and steel.

With each of their steps came a nail driven into the world’s heart. 

With each of their lies came a trail of mucus spilling from within the core, seeping out into the open.

Bubbling.

Hissing.

End, growing nigh.

Yet, the sock puppets cattily decided to prevail.

To build rafts atop the warm magma.

To plant the seeds on platforms with many legs, to let their cities sprout atop the beasts of restless iron and deathly fumes.

To use the planet’s last line of defense as fuel for their own, sicklish needs. To lock the killing essence inside machines of everyday use, to cast away anyone grasped by their cancerous vines, which hungrily latched onto any glimmer of life, eager to dim it out.

Fortresses built on suffering and pain.

One such settlement stood out from the sea of stranded souls. A city-state far more independent than any other, yet spreading its roots all throughout the land. Brightening the way onward with glowing eyes of neon, pushing the earthly mass aside with thousands, upon thousands of steel spades and paddles. 

Biting into the world’s skin with each miniscule move, each attempt at avoiding Mother Nature’s righteous wrath. Crawling through the night like a vicious beast stalking its prey, yet also tranquil and mild as a mountain. The gentle giant tore through the land, onward, towards a destination revealed only to a few, chosen by the steel creature itself.

Upon the fields of steel laid a bustling forest of sky-scraping towers, split with clearings of artificial green, crossing a fine line between the high life and the mucus-splattered mires that spread for miles on end - the treacherous slums. Endless rivers of concrete connected it all into one, living, breathing organism. Split into sections, united under one name:

Lungmen.

Taking a walk through the city, one might find themselves traversing the lively streets of the fancier sections, passing by towers of glass shooting high up into the sky, bright neons, eager to sell you a finball special, and the never ending traffic jams, with each vehicle wailing away in impatient unison. Be careful not to get too lost in the artificial lights, or you might miss your turn and stumble into one of the shady alleyways hiding beneath the pretty surface.

Shabby residential blocks, all with hundreds upon hundreds of empty eyes watching your every step. A few shady scowls from the rag-wearing, oripathy ridden slum dwellers might encourage you not to dawdle in their humble abode for too long, unless you’d like to find yourself bleeding out in some rusty garbage chute. Delve too deep, you may stumble upon a circle of drunkards, eager to squeeze the blood from your body to the tune of a chorus made of metal pipes clanging against bone.

Hurrying off, hearing bottles breaking behind your feet, typical Lungmen swears being thrown at your head, one could scurry away into the copper-smelling industrial area, where grandiose huts of twisted steel and high-rise chimneys line the empty streets.