Pulsing cadavers rock about, they feel the beat of a pressure that grows with every second. The air is still and dry, pricking away at the remains as their hearts expand by every gracious sound. The one that lives, sends its condolences through channels of static. Pressing your ear to the speaker, hearing something ever so quietly but not enough to make out speech. The deaths were many, but their souls prospered despite the mess. Their sacrifice, it was mentioned in whispers. Silently, with breeze filled sighs like a struggling ship against the current. Would the music die off, where you’d no longer be able to hear their moans. Certainly not, certainly this wasn’t the end for them.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger