And Her Name Is Jules 1b

Behind the white washed picket fence, and under the ground, there is something else. Something special. Something you should feel as it starts to rain. As you run down a hill at full gait and top speed.

Jules felt it then. Watching the darkness fly by, the neighborhood lights flew by more like funeral lights than beacons of hope from a world that most of us don't know. There's  no surprise, these lights aren't for us. We don't keep company with those that live this close.

When someone describes the American dream, the stereotypical Americana that everyone pictures is something else. It is not the grime, uniform buildings. It is not the soot covered children running across lawns covered with the entrails of the wealthy's previous-generation machinery. It is not loud screeching call of the carnivors that pick the bones from those who dare stand in their way. It is not the rotting metal bohemiths that disrupt any hope of a single good night's sleep.

And yet, in a moment's notice, the new landscape takes hold. Rain turns to ice, city lights fade, and the carion call echoes louder. This is death.