Into the Wasteland

I trudge across a barren landscape dotted with blasted remnants of our once thriving civilization. I pray to find a sign of human life. Swollen tongue begs for just a drop of water. Stomach rumbles, angry at the emptiness. Skin reddened, peeling. A silo rears above the landscape. Its tilt reminds me of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Perhaps some untainted grain or a rain barrel. Wearily, I plod on. A chittering noise. Sound unexpected in vast cocoon of silence. A squirrel? Hard to tell with patchy fur oozing pestilence. Edible? Doubtful. Six days ago they pushed the button. Wonder who won? Either way, life after a nuclear holocaust does not seem to hold much promise. At least it's quiet.

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This Poems Story

A microfiction tale of life after the apocalypse.