It was a red, white, and blue day and the leaves waved in the wind, mimicking those stripes and stars, mimicking anything and everything that would set it free. Blasts of light and sounds that boomed, it was all for red, white, and blue.
I looked to the sky and the stars were no longer there. They left without a word, without a single goodbye but that was okay because it wasn’t the first time I was abandoned by stardust. Dust that settles, builds up, hits your nose and makes you sneeze, then spreads away to never return. It was once love until it was lost. Lost to the wind and blown away into a red, white, and blue day.
But it never mattered. Because when that day came, the air knew. It breathed it in and exhaled without forgiveness. It only brought celebration, it only brought pride. If it one day died, it would return from the dead to shoot off red, white, and blue stars of zombie pat, trying, on, this, mess. Or it could be patriotic, ness with a mess of brain and blood.
Red blood, white eyes, blue dreams that are so close you can touch them, live in them, but so false that real dreams cannot break through the surface. An atmosphere of fabrication so strong, so long followed, so long nurtured. Are there thanks to be given? Always. Are there tragedies to be forgotten? To be buried? Never. If we always give thanks and always remember the tragedies, then we always revisit our blessings with grace and our shortcomings with the pretense to shine brighter the next time. If we do not do this, then we fail.
Extinction will come. It always does. And when it does, what will you be remembered for? What will I be remembered for? And what will humanity be remembered for? There are far more important things than just the things we claim as our own. There are far away places that stretch off this planet with red, yellow, white, blue, and other spectrums that we cannot calculate upon simple vision. Simple. Vision. Yet, we make things complex, we complicate matters until nothing matters and we celebrate.
Red,dy. Why,te. Blew, away all that we fight for or win for or die for or pray for or stay for or leave for or wish for or cry for or love for. It was that kind of day. And, I was happy and sad and hopeful and mad and at bliss and at war. This was the day of our Independence.
Written by Sterp
I am Sterp. I write dark fiction and have a very unhealthy obsession with disturbing narratives. I am the author of The Cult Called Freedom House: Sophia Rey Book One. My short story The Lost Tea Cup is in Issue 26 of The Literary Hatchet. I am also a painter.
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