Prompt: Some call it “the Moving City”, others call it “the City on the Back of a Beast”, we call it Home
Giant, crumbling stacks retch black smog, blotching the copper sky. The heart of our home endlessly feeds the deceased heaped against the scorched, arching dome, the massive conflagration giving purpose to the dead matter. Shelters crammed and congested, caked in ash and rust. Narrow alleys, only able to fit two shriveled denizens, snake through the behemoth’s back, all leading to the heart-stove by its head.
We breed for our home, birth for our home, live and die for our home. What other use do we have?
The desolate crimson desert beneath our crude and decayed legs stretches to all horizons. We wait for the oven’s call and pray it’ll give way to another place, another home. We wait for a purpose.
There’s clanging in the distance and know it’s time. Kiss my child on her bald, feeble head, wipe the oily tears away, smearing soot across her hollow cheek. You’ll be with me soon, I say, then hobble out of the shelter. More have been called and together we make our way to the flames.
We’re all smiling.
Read the previous prompt, “Some Secrets Are Better Left Unsaid”
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