A micro-story.

the birds chirped through the cracks of the storm shelter high in the old blue, the dying light in the sky that had been getting dimmer and dimmer these passing years how many had it been, the count on the wall was given up on long ago the cave paintings of line etched into the crumbling foaminess of earth around it the whole foundation was beginning to fall apart like this, in clumps of liquid soil that seemed to run like waterfalls around them. they were all hideously deformed, infested warts of incurable sizes sieged their naked bodies preventing free movement they lay all six of them in a mesh of diseased flesh on the floor keeping warm with what little energy they were permitted from, feasting on each other, gnawing like children to the binky to the point of piercing skin, their gummy mouths and underdeveloped teeth sucking and coddling to what little blood remained. the sun was dying this much was true, days were dark and nights were darker but they knew never to leave the safety of their shelter, that what the world was once is gone, that the tainted air through the slits in the shelter door were what caused their mutation. why would they ever leave now? what could the world offer but a curiosity before certain death? no, generations had been taught the rules.

//jf 11.11.2020