tlrenson
The smoke wraps tendrils around your legs and sinks into your skin. Dry coughs scrape their blunt nails down your throat and the smoke penetrates deeper, sliding a hand around your neck and s q u e e z i n g.
Everything is blurry now. Your breath comes in short, sharp bursts. You hear hoarse sobs in between rasping coughs. Blood and saliva drips onto the dead grass.
Too late.
***
It's always the quiet, unassuming events that foretell the end. That's where the movies get it wrong.
The world won't go out with a bang. It will slowly burn right in front of our eyes as we pretend that we like the warmth. Then when we finally come to our senses and we are no longer blinded by money and greed, it will be too late.
A collection of short speculative fiction and poetry pieces that explore the fine line between dystopia and reality.