Dystopia


Which is more beautiful a sunset or sunrise? I had often pondered that throughout my life. It is a subjective question. Every sunrise and sunset is different and varied in intensity of colors and cloud formations. The sun is setting now. To me the darkness that follows is like death. I pray to survive till the next morning's light, the birth of a new day.

Darkness.

The candle flickers. Other than daylight and fire, candles are our only source of light now. In our temporary refuge its light casts ominous shadows on the walls. We have become nomadic. Wandering from place to place, scavenging anything useful, anything edible.

I peer through the stained glass window towards the city in the valley below. The site, a painful reminder of the present reality. I am scared. We have lived too long in the somber belief that what we can't see can't hurt us. In societies case, we choose not to see the obvious. Like ostriches oblivious to the happenings surrounding us, our heads are in the sand. No one paid attention to the lions amongst us.

For a moment I thought I saw movement outside the window. A shadow. A chill runs down my spine. No, no, no, there's nothing there. There are no monsters. A least that's what we were told to believe.

I turn to the others. There are eighteen of us now. We had been as many as forty, but with each day, life grew more difficult and more dangerous. Some had died in attacks, ambushes or traps, while others had either split off into smaller groups to avoid attention, or worse, brought their own lives to an end in the plight of a hopeless future. It has been nine months since what can only be described as mass insanity swept across the nation. Life as we had known it was over.





About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)