Conchubhair

The Earth is dead. The human race is drawing its final breath through gritted teeth as it watches its ancient homeland, the life giving womb of its forefathers, slowly freeze as the intricacies of physics condemn it to a life in the void, aptly known as space. Ironically, this creature, crippled by its ignorance, has looked to this unoccupied area for just that reason. Although there are the lamentable perils of open space, it is an anodyne to the extreme danger of the Earth's storms which can remove forests like fire to paper, that can freeze you solid, like the chill of death; that can expunge an empire that not even time can decay. Over

The runoff poured down the metal roofs of our shacks, built by scraps and depris of nearby buildings, vehicles, and devices.  The flimsy sheet metal were the only barriers between the harsh ghetto life and shelter.  Pipes ran to each shack through the soft, polverised mud, created by the previous shellings and battles the ground endured.  The collected rain water filled the subterrainian tanks, yet its cleaniness was debatable.  With the turn of a knob, water began to pour from the rusting pipes, and I could splash the dry, dirt covered bone on my skull.  It was cool, soothing, and refreshing as I knelt and drank the murky liquid, quenching m