SHiTE RiP OFF DYSTOPiA

Night Time.

Callum stumbled along the street up the hill. Strange figures loomed out of

the shadows that clung to the advert-clad walls, dying gasps of the hours of

darkness now departed.

Alcohol and escape, an evening like all the others, at first.

But then came the bright flashes now seared into the retina of his mind’s

eye. Then the sounds, and the scenes sealed forever somewhere within his

soul. He passed abandoned cars until he could see the city stretched out

below him. He was aware that the sun was starting to rise, but the dark

night hid the light of dawn.

Green Zone.

Carles strained to hear beyond the roar. Bells rang in the background, a

last ditch attempt by this abandoned society to cling to some semblance of

tradition. But flames and petrol fumes were moving in with the wind, and

the bells would stop ringing soon enough.

Ten years now since the Great Separation, since the government

announced it could no longer sustain the sprawling state. The elite

luxuriated in their paradisiacal Green Zone, whilst the discarded

generation wallowed outside, in the anarchic half-society that simmered

with the blood from countless splayed innards. Carles heard a shot ring out.

Supermarket Town.

“There have always been market towns. Now we shall open Supermarket

towns,” they had announced triumphantly.

Carl’s face was smashed by a hurled tin can. He spat out the contents of his

mouth: teeth and tomato sauce, blood and baked beans. It looked like vomit,

photoshopped improbably scarlet.

Upon founding this indoor municipality, with aisles for streets, those in

charge had put their faith in the compliant indifference of the apathetic

populace. But they’d reckoned without man’s dormant rage, and now the

supposed custodians of the tinned food sector were revolting, their chanted demands peppering the air as the disturbances spread and the veneer chipped away.

 

P.S. Pewis

 

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One response to “SHiTE RiP OFF DYSTOPiA

  1. Rat-board Sutra
    One mm of plastic sheet
    With nothing behind it
    Nothing for ever and ever.
    Empty rat-board cells
    Aranged in emptyness.
    Every one a winner
    Of the same empty prize.

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