Afterwards the lies are crumbling. The sea is poisoned and through the smog the moon is a sickle in my blood. Sometimes I hear your voice:
“They told us it would just get better”, you said, “they said that our sufferings would be rewarded ten-folds”
“I still believe”, I said and felt your hand slipping, leaving me for dreams. For short-wave promises and for consistent beat of jazz.
And when we meet again I see, that we’ve been living on opposing sides of the same Potemkin town.
I see its mortar crumbling, but still I look in vain for truth.
This intriguing picture made me think of the cold war with its Potemkin lies, and the shortwave propaganda. With the emergence of digital warfare I’m afraid we are coming back to the this again.
Friday Fictioneers is ministered by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and attracts all kind of bloggers every week, trying to condense a story into 100 words.
August 19, 2015