Shape shifters flitting in the shadows, alleyway to doorway they stalk their prey, anyone who after curfew strays. Dogs bark in the fog of destruction, wasted planet of dis function, disfigured mammals roam the streets, looting what’s left to eat.
Black cars roll up and down the street; counting the numbers of people in retreat, the mas unprovisioned stampede to nowhere just a place in time, that didn’t heed the warning signs. Vapor spurts from disused silos, the kind of place where no one goes, what went on there, only a few know, we just remember the blinding glow.
Children piled two deep in the street as what is left of their mothers weep, while shape shifters creep taking bodies on the cheap, People of gods pray in the street to have mercy on the crops and wheat. radio signals crackle to life, some have made it and kept their lives, no music to stream just recalled screams of a world on its knees.
Streets of deserted homes, fires still burn at the edge of the street, no water for the flames to meet, just an unsettling intense heat. More metal falls from the sky mushroom clouds, flashes burning the eye. in the distance, a baby cries its last tears, it probably won’t make it out of here. Men in masks arrive to burn those are not alive. Riding the streets an epidemic risk the actions are brutal and very swift.
It’s time to leave this forsaken place and take my chances in a land of waste. Hiding by day and scouting by night, making use of anything that I find, using whatever comes to mind, constantly watching for signs of life, or attacks from behind. no one is kind, they are all for themselves, smashing windows and looting shelves, lawless and powerless the rule of mob. No home, no food, no job; just trying to survive, to thrive in this wasteland barely alive.
©All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017
Rhythm of the Ink 