Horror story 5

an opposite kind of meemies somewhat the same

It was like that dusty world all over again in that first tale, but rather contrary, if you had sanity to still think about it. The debris, ruins, and dusty ash were gone, as were the thin sorry excuses for cover, shielding, and protection.

The same muted noiselessness, diametrically past the usual careless voices and handling in production, was prevalent, a descended colourless shroud everywhere. Breezily shrouded by its weightlessness, we trod padded back to relief camp. It was deceptive peace, when tortured screams could not be heard in the background, because the culprits were vacationing elsewhere, a gilded hell of expenditure and supposed leisure elsewhere.

Magic in the form of unmeasuarable festive spirit was everywhere, almost as artificial as it had been whe before we were born, a pushy inertia of opulence passed down decades, generations, centuries, searching for a relevance in lands, waters, skies trapped in the past of ages long left when the century turned. We were the only sparrows flying effortlessly in thick murky soup of clear, bright nights, still painted as evenings.

As bats we were not lacking gratitude. Blood did not have to keep being sucked to maintain our warm bodies, unlike reptiles who slowed with the freezing cold furthest from sunlit day. We did not end up slumbering undead sleepless, of dynasties firmly forgotten, or so was hoped; or of unformed futures that did not even threaten to be abortive, as they never became viable.