Earth 2270

A gunshot cuts rudely through the heavy night air. The accompanying bullet shatters a grimy, smog stained window. A choking, gagging cough, filled with the song of blood set free from the body, gurgling in the throat. Dulled thud, warm body against rotted wood floors. No siren, no scream, nobody to care.

Ten Billion Dollars.

Fifth World War.

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I always thought there was something magical about the music from the ice cream van. Usually it was Greensleeves, but occasionally some other sharp, tinkling, utterly man-made version of an older song, hypnotically drawing children to it by the dozens. The harsh odd note, and the sweetly fake bell like background tones.

Immediately it was heard, and head up, legs moving before they even knew what was happening, a tug on mums sleeve for money, then the pattering of small feet, pounding legs, a dash into the street waving the money before the chance was gone.

But that was before the children stopped coming back.

I always thought that the music in the shopping centres was lonely and even slightly scary. Especially just before closing time. The cold tiled floors, white walls, and the racks of clothes just sitting there with nobody to wear them. The music always seemed hollow and unkind somehow, as if disembodied, and not part of the friendly warm world.

But that was before it could no longer be played, for fear that someone might hear it.

I always thought that the monsters under the bed were fake.

I always thought that politicians didn't know what they were talking about.

I always thought maybe, someday, within my lifespan, we would find peace. Maybe we will. Maybe we won't.

I always thought that we were safe.