Dystopian

Tom

Reggae Beats in the Wasteland - Eventually, I forced myself up, deciding to wander, to explore the wasteland that stretched endlessly around me. All I found were crumbling ruins, remnants of a species that had long since failed: humans. Funny how we’re the only creatures that consider ourselves intelligent. I once asked a dolphin what he thought of human intellect. I’m pretty sure he’s still laughing. I continued my aimless trek. Time seemed to slip away in Dystopia, dissolving like sand through my fingers. Hours could have passed, or perhaps just minutes, but it was all the same, emptiness, desolation, solitude. No Shairi. No Rhea. And, thankfully, no ravenous hordes out to tear me apart. That was, at least, one blessing on this bleak day. As twilight began to fall, hunger gnawed at my stomach, and my tongue felt like dry paper. I could only hope that sleep would soon take me, pulling me out of this wasteland and back to the “Real Life.” Lola crossed my mind. If I ever make it back, I’ll track her down. I’ve had my fill of superhero dates, Shairi was enough. The other three? I’ll pass. Suddenly, something broke through the fog of my thoughts, music. Faint, but unmistakable. I quickened my pace, recognizing the tune instantly: "How many rivers do we have to cross, before we talk to the boss?" Bob Marley. Then I saw it. Out of the wasteland, a ramshackle wooden shack appeared, painted in fading hues of green, yellow, and red. Above the roof, a large wooden sign read “Reggae Bar.” Really? You’ve got to be kidding me. I strode towards the shack with renewed purpose. I had questions. Lots of them.