Yasdnil Redlog

How the World Ended Twice

Ever since the world ended, Jamon hill was my favourite place to relax. From its high vantage point, I could see over the towering, highly guarded stone wall that was constructed decades ago to shield the town from outsiders, but now protected us from the vast wastelands and fallout of the rest of the world. I was unsure if it was guilt or gratefulness that made me struggle up that precipitous hill every day, but I felt like I needed to see the disaster outside. Where once stood soaring skyscrapers now lay heaps of ashes the size of a modest home. The massive bridge that connected us over the water to the rest of the world stopped halfway. The great fields and parks that once surrounded the town that I would spend a great portion of my childhood playing with friends in, was now a playpark for the terrifying creatures born of the catastrophe, and who stalked the perimeter of the town, lying in wait for stray humans to sate their curiosity and wander beyond the wall. The creatures were spindly and almost as if trees and humans had been blended together and burned to a crisp. I missed the colours of nature. Green was now grey. Light blue was now deep purple. Brown was now black.