I lay in these fields as the wind kisses the skin. Gathered are the lost souls awaiting their peace in the light that comes to greet them. I must be a lost one for I enjoy this breeze that fills us with bliss as though we are loved by our own world which was made to suffer by our own hands. By my own hands. This lovingly gentle breeze blows through us, guiding us down the ruined road which we made with the fires of war, hate, and despair. Is our mother calling the lost souls home with this breeze or is our father showing us his retribution by giving us one last ounce of his love?
About the Creator
Midnight
60 seconds… 59 seconds… Time was slipping through his fingers, though he clawed at the falling grains of sand, he could not stop the hourglass from flowing. Around him, the silence was deafening. He had taken over every screen in the command centre, putting the terrible seconds before the terrified eyes of his friends and comrades.
By Alexander McEvoy4 days ago in Fiction
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