The skies were an ungodly shade of red, as if Satan himself had risen from Hell just to declare his presence. It wasn't a kind declaration, either, but rather, one rooted in sobbing children and clouds that blazed with the color of vengeance and the smell of ash.
The only official plan of action for anyone was one word: Run. The atmosphere slowly closed in on everyone inside it, threatening to swallow us up with the flames that were simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. They could be felt, and the sky was on fire, but nobody could see a flame on the ground for miles. Still, the sky blackened with soot. It was a horrible waste of acrylics, that sky. Those colors could have made a lovely sunrise, but instead, we smeared our shit onto a canvas and expected it to turn into something pretty.
Why are we surprised as we watch everything burn? Have we not done this to ourselves? The way smokestacks towered above humanity during the Industrial Revolution has returned in a mocking echo, the black billows of ash ballooning up and around the flaming sunset. We stare the death of our world in the face, and yet it is silent.
The only people screaming are the children, as if we are the only ones who are capable of knowing the Earth, and feeling her pain. Age silences us, apparently, seeing as all the older people stand awestruck in the flames' midst. The childrens' tears will not be enough to put out a fire this massive.
If we are consumed by Hell, we deserve it for our lack of compassion for our home.