The Surf
The waves crashed and the world sunk. The Pillars of Hercules sat dormant and the Mediterranean winds passed, carrying with them the cold scent of the ocean, the surf and the sea.
What land remaining was waists, and the anarchy after abandonment remained. The rusted relapse of civilization remained on the shores, no more than a satellite tower peeking over the crest of the waves. Or maybe it was a bottle from distant lands, with a love note scrawled in child's script within.
Or perhaps it was what it always was. Sand. Sediment. Sorrow. The pollution had killed the algae, and the tainted algae had killed the fish. The bones and corpses littered the coastline like a mass grave, and around them vultures chose their pick at the finest herring they could find.
Life had come to an end. The only thing remaining was the twinkle of lights on the moon. They were up there, the survivors knew it. They could only hope they would be rescued from the purgatory they had been cast away to.
And so probes would come from the prophets above to this sea world. They would only check on the buildings, the one with the ever constant smoke. The ones where lightbulbs still flickered and engines still roared.
Those who were left behind knew and watched. The moon was heaven and they were in hell, but it was not moral which chose your position. It was luck, the color of your skin and the family you were born to.
And those who were not fortunate waisted away. In constant agonizing pain as their land did the bidding for those who could no longer call it their land. Atlas had faltered and let them run, and now they mock him and pull his head beneath the surface. Now they drown who was once their god.
Earth was now the slave of those who had escaped, and Atlas was ready to abandon it as well.
