The world is still and strange. Tingling soil tainted with red, while deep cavernous skies yawn overhead. Small and large creatures alike shrink with the shadows, obeying the rise and fall of the fiery sun. They shrink until they're swallowed up by ink; sinking into piles of fur and bones.
Unforgiving heat beats the parched soil, mocking the rain that has yet to come. And when the rain does come it is no ointment to heal. It aggravates the wounds of this scarred earth. A putrid mix sloshing in the crevices cut by the storms before it.
Animals scamper treeline-to-treeline, weighing their odds. How much poisonous storm bile must they drink to live? And, more importantly, how much will it take to kill them. Whatever it is, they don't leave the treeline. They avoid the ruined cities with its stalking buildings. Burdened with rusty cars and the pungent smell of death.
Death, who roars down the streets unhindered. Death who parades down the cracked alleys, abandoned streets; proud owner. Reaper of the human race, deemed gracious destroyer, end.
They once said that's how the world would end - whimpering while cradled in the crook of death's loving arms. It was not, more the search for life that wilted the flower. Humans, who emptied out their years in search for something they never found. Humans. Now a decaying rose drifting away on hot wind as specks of brown.
Silence ruled in hand with death, because that was the end.
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Scraps of A Mind
General FictionUnder my feet is the earth, above my small form is the sky. Both seem endless and vast, stretching onwards forever. In between these things are thoughts, rattling around in my brain like a landslide with no direction. Here are some thoughts, the one...
