It would seem, through the years, that a certain west wind blew across the deserted landscape with diurnal accuracy. It first swirled about within itself at the foot of an ancient oak, then dispersed wantonly with floods of sand: the sandstorms of the Sahara. Amongst the grains, at the eye of the storm, it looked almost peaceful. Had anyone approached the wind cautiously, holding their cloth turban to their face, they would see nothing more than a mere shadow of some strange yearning. Then they would turn away – there was but dust for them here.
And so on trudged the travelers, weary and tired, until their legs gave out underneath them and they fell as marionettes with cut strings. The sand would sweep over them. Once more, the Earth had claimed its prey. The end was waning, at least for the two-legged homosapiens. What an ironic ending, the skies would breathe as it wept down on it all. The very apes who had built up the empires were destroyed by their own wickedness - the Tower of Babel rubbed raw and Noah's Ark in the grand scheme of things.
Except there was no mighty flood by the hands of God, nor smiting nor quake. There was only the voiceless screams as the bright flash overcame country by country, border after border, the sound of flesh festering and the scent of heart wrenching loss. They should have known by starting a war such as this one that there were no winners.
The whisked air begin to slow, and gradually, it dies down, revealing an odd dome in the ground. Of all the mad men and desolate women left clutching at the seams, someone had retained their sanity - or at least for the time being.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Planetal Flesh
Ciencia FicciónBased in a post-apocalyptic Earth, most survivors are left to wander in the desolate landscape ravaged by years of nuclear activity. Few are sane, and any pretenses of civilization have disappeared. With the infertile land and the mass extinction of...
