WRITING: The Vote
Repeating this here from a writing exercise post at CW ’cause I like it; it may just fit into the hypertext on the boomer crisis, though I hadn’t wanted an apocalyptic bend to that one.
I personally find that normal with just a little quirk to it is scarier than the fantastical creation of the mind. Anyway:
In the new
democracy that took form after the war, when literally the dust had
settled and with the help of rains that dug themselves into lakes, the
ashes were molded into cities, flattened into roads and smoothly
grooved into parks and recreation areas and lawns. And painted
appropriately white and black and green; whatever they decided looked
the most like what it used to be. Sometimes an artistic soul,
emboldened by the relative peace and saddened by the perpetual grey of
daylight sky, might offer to shape some trees to soften the angular
environment. These would most often be painted green, but one fellow
down on Center Street was from the Northeast. His trees always were a
blur of oranges and reds. Very few in this area understood why, but
let him be. Color was welcome.In the new world order, every man and woman, every child of thinking
age was given choice. Sadly, many of the older folk who still believed
in God and promises of Heaven, looked around them, thought a while,
then chose to die.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology