More Fractured Tales stories!
They are called survivors… but I do not know exactly what it is they have survived.
It might have been disease… natural disaster… war… or something else… perhaps something too catastrophic and horrible to mention.
I do not know the circumstances of their arrival… when they arrived… where they came from… or how they got here.
They seem to spend most of their time standing or walking about in long, drab, grey hooded robes.
The hoods hide their faces… and their arms are always folded so their hands are also hidden.
But, what if they are not really survivors at all?
They could be some sort of religious group, contemplating the meaning of life… perhaps in the self-imposed lifestyle conditions of a hermit.
They might be a group involved in some kind of top secret research… something that will one day astonish the entire world with their brilliance.
Perhaps they are aliens from another world… or worse… they could be a group of fanatics, planning to take over the world for their own nefarious purposes.
So many questions… all unanswered.
I have never heard of anyone attempting to communicate with them… or even approaching them.
Has no one ever been curious enough to try to learn something – anything – about them?
Is it out of respect… or some deeply-rooted fear… that keeps everyone else away from them?
Many times I sit here alone in the shadows… and watch them… pacing back and forth on the narrow ledge in front of the cave where they live.
What do they do up there?
They seem to be oblivious to everything around them… but I keep myself as well concealed as possible here in this barren, rocky landscape… just in case.
Sometimes, I wonder just what they would do if they saw me here… watching them.
Would they ignore me… maybe dismiss me as some inconsequential form of life not worth their time?
Or would they think of me as the ugly creature I have become… like something left over from a great nuclear fallout that swept the world?
Perhaps… and the thought sends cold shivers up my spine… perhaps, they would see me as a specimen to be captured and studied.
Rising painfully to my hands and knees, I crawl away from what little cover the rock crevice has provided… leaving the mountain behind… with its cave… and the ledge with the motionless rock sentries that stand in front of it.
Slowly, I make my way back to the green field where my borrowed log cabin offers security… the kind that enfolds me like a warm blanket on a cold night.
My overactive imagination is running wild again… something that – unfortunately – happens to me all too frequently… even when I don’t want it to.
There will be no sleep for me again this night…
