Apocalypto

It's not really called that, it's an extract from a short story I'm writing, set in post-apocalyptic times.

As the dust settles on the grave of another lightless day, the tiny particles’ plight falls heavy on the ash-veiled ground, and to an absent audience, graceful in descent. The great mountains, once so noble in their timeless ease now rise to meet not the gentle clouds of forgotten time, but instead vast coils of iron-coated cinder that cling to the edge of sunsets and hang low under the moon. The great face in the sky, once would smile over a thousand twilight secrets, now turns away. For what walks beneath the iron sky seeks not the counsel of the stars, nor guiding shadow of the sun, it walks in gloom and sees by the light of embers that burn within its chest, that crackle and spark but are too tired to erupt. The light, tonight, does seem brighter on the hills; yes, for any dreamer’s eye that still can see, there is silver in the air tonight, and a whisper on the breeze. Its words, soft as slumber’s tones lace survivors with the taste of hope, the expectation of man is not yet all but dead, for beneath the swirling skies and side by side with threat lies honour still; crushed, in need of dusting off and plucking from the bones of its wasted homeland. The breeze, the whispered echo in the silence and the heavy-hearted mountains, in their rest hope that below the broken sky are men trying to fix it, trying to listen.

Author's Note

First draft. This is part of a project which must be completed by May, so any reviews will be greatly appreciate as peer review counts towards my grade.

Reviews

[Woody]

you have an elegant pen. this is beautifully crafted. your description is amazing.
like it very much.