As he had predicted, so it came to be. The young prince, The Blind Boy Who Could See, foretold of a day when black rain would come and spawn evil onto their land. The vision having come to him in a dream.
Fifty years later on a dawn when their land was still being gently held in the arms of the morning dew, the bombs landed. To the lucky, death was instantaneous, carbonized bodies suspended in mid-scream was all that was left amid the ashen landscape, the colossal mushroom cloud carrying witness of their anguish and terror in its trail of smoke.
But many on the outer lands had survived. Yet, at what price? Seared bodies with disfigured faces beyond recognition walked the land in a state of shock. Many killed themselves unable to withstand their pain and fate. Three days later, the black rains came in the form of ebony tears falling from angry clouds that now covered the Sun. The world was thrown into further darkness and chaos.
A year later, a new generation was born. Mothers birthed babies conceived under an angry moon, babies born with gross imperfections that cried endlessly into the night in frustration at the sides of mothers and fathers who were helpless in their efforts to ease their pain. And as these children grew, so did their hatred. They formed gangs and became a family onto themselves because only they understood each other, their own parents seeing them as anomalies of life. The land survived on the resignation of a people who no longer believed.
Far away in a humble shack atop a mountain, a blind man sits before a crackling fire unable to stop the images of anguish and anger that hold his former land in captivity; the darkness holding them prisoners and denying them passage into the light. It was time. He said a prayer to the Divine to protect him on this most arduous journey, grabbed his cane and proceeded to venture into The Kingdom of Ruan.
For Trifecta Writing Challenge and Write on Edge
Photo courtesy of Deviant Art