4. Blankets of Colour
When I was eight, I found a beautiful flower peeping shyly out from a crack in the concrete. Granddad told me, that Great Grandpa told him, that before The Cataclysm, flowers used to grow everywhere. They grew tame in Gar-Dens and wild in great fields called Maid-O’s. They filled the world with a wonderful miasma of perfume, their hues and shades too many and varied to name. A blanket of colour upon a carpet of green, or so he said.
Granddad made up many fanciful stories; he liked to give me hope that our world could be something more.
Okay, this one, in particular that last line, hurt like dying. Wow. Just the way it’s told tells me the narrator wants to believe, but doesn’t dare, because if he did . . . he’d have to feel the despair of all that was lost. So, he tells himself it’s all just stories his Grandpa made up. Because that’s what allows him to get through his days.
Painfully poignant. Excellent writing.