Story One, Chapter Ten

I am an abomination. My lanky form walks past ever-burning fields, and mountains of trash loom above me. Atop these mountains howl terrible Beasts, and rats scurry from them. A burning raindrop falls from the vortex above, and washes a streak through the blood on my face. My destination is my small shack, humming with electricity and containing the last dying patch of beauty on its wall. As the storms of death begin again, I shut my door to the world. Lightning flashes, and the ground's diamond dust glistens in tiny whirlwinds. Then the rains fall, and the world is obscured. Forever.

Story One, Chapter Nine

My hair hangs down to my shoulders, ragged and blowing. It hangs into my face. I don't wish to know what I've become, and have long since destroyed every reflecting surface I could find. The particles still litter the ground beneath me, catching the flame's glare and reflecting it into my eyes. The shards fail to pierce my feet. They deprive me of the pain I thirst for to show I still live. That I am still human.

I don't think I am.

Story One, Chapter Eight

When I outstretch my hand, I recoil instinctively. It is a black and twisted thing. Like the world. Like my heart. Thin as a rope, yet long as it ever was, it reaches out. The skin is dry and tight, blackened with death, but hard as diamond. For a palm, it flattens at the end, though I cannot close it. From here sprout five fingers, each horribly long. They have four joints, except for the thumb which has two. From them grow claws, inches long, that nothing can remove. They cut and destroy all they touch. When I stand, my arms nearly reach past my knees.

Story One, Chapter Seven

Every day I wake, and every day I regret it. When I rise from the cold floor, I ache. There is no door, and I exit without pause. Then I search. Sometimes I find a rat, cold and shivering, with far too many limbs, but not a single functioning one. A piteous creature with patches of fur gone, writhing in pain. Emaciated yet bloated by starvation. Breakfast. Every day I tear off a head, and every day the blood pours into my mouth and runs down my face.

Story One, Chapter Six

I don't know what I am. I was human. I remember the past. I remember joy. Infrequently. The recollections are brief, and wake a thirst I didn't know was there. They pass, and I am the worse for their coming. I am left cold, and thirsting. A thirst that cannot be quenched.

Story One, Chapter Five

It is twilight. It has always been twilight. It will always be twilight. There is no breaking of day. There is no falling of night. The Burning Fields glow endlessly, the flames reflecting from the vortex above down to the scarred earth. The ashes rain constantly down, and coat everything. Everything is a black brush of ink against a pulsing, sickly background. Occasionally, the world is illuminated by lightning stirring above. The air becomes charged and a roar sounds forth. Then everything returns to silent twilight.

Story One, Chapter Four

There is a picture on the wall. It shows a boat on a lake. Before the boats all sank. Before the lakes all dried. Every day it is obscured by accumulating smog. Every day it is cleaned. Yet some things can never be removed. A darkness oozes forth from the corners of the painting, and every day the lake shines less brilliantly; the sails show more wear. When they are no more, hope will die.

Story One, Chapter Three

There are things in the walls; within the foundations of the hovel. They scurry about in the night, and gnaw throughout the day. Despite their abundance, they are never revealed. Perhaps they are smaller relatives of the Beasts that prowl. Perhaps they are simply rats, living in what shelter they can find; feasting on their own weak and old. Perhaps they are malevolent, waiting for a chance to come and devour all that remains alive on this god-forsaken rock.

Story One, Chapter Two

They smell of ozone. It emanates from them, as does the humming. Every so often, when the humming grows, it can almost overpower the pungent smog that flows from the Burning Fields.When the wires give off a puff of smoke, it rises and soon joins the ominous rotating mass above. We pray it never rains. It happened last month, and even the putrid air could not conceal the stench of death.

Story One, Chapter One

The wires hum. Endlessly. Every moment of the day. Every second of the night. The droning wears on the brain. There was no start. There is no end. They hum. And hum. And hum.