Clang. The doors opened, bringing with them light. He put up a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the light till they got used to it. This was how it had been since he had gotten here. The place was locked down at seven at night, light out, or no light out. The doors slid shut with a heavy drag over the stone floor. They were locked twice, from the inside, and from the outside by the two whose eyes held the keys. At seven in the morning, the doors would open, other than them, there was no source of light. The guards would be waiting outside, with batons, snipers would be ready on the towers and walls above, steady hands holding long rifles, lasers all pointing at the ground. The prisoners shuffled out, the guards braced themselves, they couldn't help it. This set of prisoners, in this prison was rowdy. They had been getting into riots all the time. They would come rushing out, uncaring whether the snipers shot them, not knowing that they wouldn’t, because it would be a publicity disaster. Unless the prisoners were doing fatal harm to the guards, which the prisoners usually didn’t. The guards braced themselves, they couldn’t help it.

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A brief solemn silence was shedding itself over the park. It would be the first of many. Brief, because the elements would continue their tantrums soon. They were just taking a break. Solemn, because the elements would continue their tantrums soon. Lamplights flickered on and off. The plants had been abandoned, machinery continued to run them by itself. But the electric plants were starting to fizz, and overheat, soon they would explode. Soon. the two men continued to play chess. Pieces worn and torn as if the board had coming from centuries ago. That was inaccurate. This was the One Board. The first in creation. Made for Creation, with a capital C. Creation and its story was penned down in the board, if people had the eyes and mind to see it. Very few did. Most of those did not know about it, were not looking for it. But the story was being played out right now, in this park, as it had been for months now. Fire raged all around, smoke colored the air, thunderstorms gave light to it. Trees were withering, but waiting for the game to end, before they could die. This game would determine the course of the planet. The future. This game was a plurality, a series of games. Many had been played. They had sat down before the events

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The soft hum of the sprinklers was calming, comforting, his only companion in these empty, quiet mornings. All around him, there were green, slowly sloping hills, lush, verdant. Spotted with white sheep. All around him, there were clear empty skies. When he had taken a year off to travel, when he had decided not to go on a Eurotour with his classmates, it would have been expensive anyways, he had rolled a dice. Five times. Each roll a coordinate. He didn’t know why he had that idea, but it was definitely something. Five times, he waited with anticipation, writing down the numbers. When he put them into google maps, he accidentally added a minus, trying to delete the other numbers already in his open tab. He was glad he had. The globe spun around the world, to place a red pin on the other side of it. So he had packed up his one suitcase and spun around the globe to come land on that large island, to take a ferry to this small one. He was glad it had. This was one of the greatest, if not the singularly greatest experiences of his life. Just working on this farm the last week.

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Was it right? In hindsight, it was still hard to tell. What was right? What was wrong? The feeling in her stomach was overwhelming, the sense of something telling her maybe she shouldn’t do it. She felt a little of it then, but that stemmed from a place of fear, more than anything else. Fear of him. It was a voice that whispered to her, telling her what she should and shouldn’t do. But the voice that would later come to be misinterpreted by her progeny, was telling her what he would or would not like. What would incur his wrath.

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Rocks. Gunfire. Labored breathing.

The valley used to smell of tulips, it was colored like a dream, especially come spring. Fresh air lazily floating, bringing scents from one garden or orchard to another. Cherry trees, peaches, pears, plums, all in bloom. A dream. More than a dream. More beautiful than reality. Chilly cozy air stringing through the sky. The best of paintings could not compare.

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Mommy tightened her grip. Mommy needed her now. She had to be brave for mommy. It’s what daddy would want. She gripped back, opened her hurting eyes, and looked at mommy, who had a wrinkled forehead, most of it from worry. The bad feeling started to waver. Like it was going to sleep. She smiled, mommy smiled back weakly.

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It began with a girl. Acqlimia’. Olive skinned, slender arms, her eyes glowed like the light from the heavenly sky. She smelled of flowers and trees, and even of that sacred fruit, the apple, and she felt like home and hearth. She made no sound when she walked over the earth, glided, floated almost. Her hair was dark, and gleamed with secrets and glimmered with sweet nothings. Her lips small, red, tempting.

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She shook her head, eyes still closed. She had closed them twelve minutes ago, six minutes before the pilot made the announcement that made mother so worried. She had seen it coming. Ever since they had left home for the flight, she had a bad feeling in her stomach. Like when she was sick, but worse. It had started before Timothy whined and whimpered, his tail between his legs. A little before, but he felt it too.

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The world may be coming to an end, but at least some things still went on. The government had considered banning the festival but they could not. For one, the people would have swept out onto the streets, protesting. The government already had enough problems as it was. For another, it kept the people happy. Why ruin a perfectly good thing. Maybe they should have cancelled it. They did not have the heart. It was also a good decision to keep it going.

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The difference a day can make is tremendous. Today, there was joy in the air, bustling, thriving signs of life. Men walking bakras with thick ropes tied around their necks. The air smelled of wool and fuzz and unawareness, obliviousness. The sun was shining down hard, cheerfully burning. The newer sellers were in ironed shalwaar kameez, the older jaded ones had wrinkled woolen versions of the local dress. Everywhere, there were sheep and goats, braying and neighing. The smell was pungent, hitting you as soon as you left your car or came within walking distance. Like a blast of hot humid air on a warm summer afternoon. Everywhere, there were sheep and goats, speckled between them, managing their herds were the sellers, sometimes with kids running around, kids they had brought to show them the trade. People came up on motorcycles, dust swirling as they stopped, the engines roaring, the livestock taking no note, just grazing studiously on the piles of hay their owners had brought. Some came on cycles, to take note of the prices, a few came in old, small, worn down cars. The first group would take the animals back to the houses they worked at. The second would report the best price and then come back in a motorcycle. The third would buy here, masters of themselves. Not enslaved by an outdated system kept in place only for people who wanted to feel superior.

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Small tendrils of green peeked out from the gravel.

The sun shone hard and dry on the place. It smelled of death, and reeked of fear, and was poisoned with blood. The buildings were stone and marble and concrete and cement, yet they felt hollow. They were empty. The inhabitants who gave these buildings purpose had left, taking all that life with them. They stood as silent guardians, sad watchers, waiting for the day people would come back.

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The car rolled up the sidewalk. It was old, on the right side were a bunch of scratches, the windows were caked with dust, on the left window in the back, there was a heart and an arrow  through it, drawn in the dust. The engine stopped with a loud splutter. The exhaust pipe belching a heavy few seconds of fumes.

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The wind was cool and calm, yet she knew the farther up they went, the colder it would get, the more abundant, and yet also more sparse, the stronger the air would whip around and yet there would be less to breathe. The ground was a soft blanket of grass and it was nice to walk on, the farther you looked up the path, the more it thinned out, until eventually it became grey gravel, and at the peak, there was white virgin snow. The only sounds were their boots crunching over the ground, and the wind whistling as it whipped by. It tasted cool, pure.

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The bus pulled away after the last of the last batch of passengers had disembarked. The bus driver smiled and waved. It was still sunny out, but the company did not accept any more after a certain time. It would become too dark, it would become too dangerous. They were very rigid and to the dot with their safety and protocol. There was a man hair starting to show the first signs of ageing, a few strands visibly greying. Three young men, exchanging jokes, high fiving one another, generally in an overly excited mood. A young couple that had a lot of palpable tension between them, the man trying to appease the girl, the girl stoically, bravely, ignoring him. A woman with greying white hair, retired and seeing everything her beautiful country had to offer. She had worked hard for thirty years, now it was her prime, her time to settle down and enjoy.

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Fields, as far as the eye could see, meeting up at the horizon with the sky, both briefly touching, a golden warm light bathing their embrace, the light green joyfully meeting the bright blue. Specks of white, fluffy and lazy moved the grass, speckling the fields. All was silent but the whirring wind, dancing around, grass swaying in the breeze, scents blowing from one place to another. Here was the scent of unearthed mud, here the soft smell of fresh grass, here wisps of wool floating around, overwhelmingly, the smell of joy, and peace. Tranquility flirted with the tongue.

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The sounds of silence pierced the calm night sky. Stars twinkled high above, hung on the pitch black canvas of sky. Grass sighed and rocked from side to side as it slept. Leaves fluttered, long snores as they too slept. Trees stood guard over the clearing. She had not ceased dancing since it had began. They were her silent guardians, her watchful protectors.

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The wall was green, prickly, speckled with brown branches creeping here and there. Mostly, the wall was the green of the bottom of the ocean, when it caught the light, it had some yellow, and some bright green of freshly watered grass. It smelled good, heady, breathing it in like a dose of pure oxygen, which it kind of was. It had carefully crept up, slowly, taking its time, up the wall over the course of a few hundred years. At the start they had not noticed, then they had not bothered to fix it. Then they had left it. The place, and by extension, the wall.

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It took a while to find them. But they were found.

When the world had started to tip sideways, people had existed in one of a few states. Denial, anger, grief. Few people had taken initiative. Had thought to go where no one would find them. Recently, more and more people followed.

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The grass was starting to wilt, the tips of leaves bowing in defeat and resignation. Turning yellow, some had turned brown. The trees were rotting, some had cracks running through them. Branches had fallen off, and they were brittle to the touch, they looked as if a wind would blow them away. The park, which a few weeks ago had been bustling, crowded to the brim was now empty. The animals were either crouching under shelter, shivering in their homes, trembling from miles away, or were dead and decomposing. Silence was the order of the day.

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The pot hissed, cackles coming from the fire below it. Bubbles forming on the water. It was huge, about the size of a grown man’s stomach. The man with one eye opened the lid, leaning back, and poured some salt in. Hens clucked as they waddled around. Behind a particularly fat one waddled a score of bright yellow chicks. The ground was littered with dust and wrappers from packets of crisps, and cigarette blunts and boxes. The man with one eye undid the knots on his shalwaar and peed on the wall, whistling to himself. The slim, tall man seated on the chair watched. The man with the blindfold, tied to the chair fidgeted.

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