Insurrection

The unmistakable smell of burning flesh drifted upon the rising currents. Taken high, soaring from the death, the sinister wind attacked the senses of the crowd. They were armed. Not in the conventional sort. They were armed with despair, with hopelessness, and with the eyes of nihilism. Long ago the people learnt the values of the uncaring. It sheltered you from the horrors of life, of war, of death, and of cruelty. The ragged vestiges of religion attempted to save these people from total de-sensitisation, using the power of their gods, of their holy books and hymns. They failed. They all failed. Despair took over, and the people degraded into demons. A scholar once said that to love one must be alive. These people could not love, dared not, for they were dead inside. Nothing more than withered husks, dusts blowing in the wind of hate.

            The crowd breathed deep, the caustic hate filling them. They came out of curiosity, out of fear. The men dressed in black threw corpse after corpse onto the mass pyre. Above all flew the detested flag, an absolutist flag, symbolising the oppressive government which ruled. The National Purism Party, referred to as the Goats, ruled with a fist harder than iron. They crushed all opposition with a fanatical fervour, grinding them to dust.

            This town, once, long ago, had been a major hub of export and import for the country, but had since degraded into a ruin of itself. The city had been vitiated, once sparkling fountains, polished walkways and well-kempt grass, now an icon for the despotism of the dystopia. The majority of its inhabitants had tried to revolt, tried to bring around an insurrection, to overthrow the ruling congress, and bring about blissful anarchy. They met their end in an igneous grave.

            As sparks reached their glowing tendrils into the sky, the crowd roared. 

The End

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