An acrid chemical haze blanketed the city wastelands. The noon sky glowed with an eerie crepuscular light. The Cataclysm proffered two choices: adapt or die.
In the fields we no longer chased butterflies. They now chased us, their flapping avian wings dusting us with fine powder that necrotised human flesh.
Melanie always feared her childhood obsession with catching butterflies would, one day, come back to haunt her.
The searing heat drove them inside to rest. Scavenging could wait until nightfall.
“Gran,” Caleb said, “tell me a story.”
She licked her dry lips, remembering other Octobers. “Leaves turned bright colors and fell from trees. We raked huge piles and jumped in.”
Caleb frowned. “Leaves? Trees? What are those?”
Joanne R. Fritz lives in West Chester, PA. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in various magazines. She blogs at My Brain on Books.