#67 Red Grass

The grass is red and still. I’m sure it must have forgotten what it feels like to be rustled by the wind or flattened by some scurrying critter. Not that I really know what a critter is. They said the whole world was going to die, and it did, but what they forgot, or didn’t know, was that it would start to grow back, poisoned by the stains we left on it. Red grass, brittle trees, lakes that bubble up black and thick like tar. I think maybe we would all have been better off dead.

And then I think, maybe we are. Maybe this world, the one upon which I think I stand, is the afterlife. Would it be so unreasonable to assume that what comes next would be the Earth altered only in that it shows the consequences of our actions?

It’s hell either way.


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