Large clustered snowflakes floated and danced, fluttering from the heavens like down from a torn pillow, carried by a mild northern breeze. The land was completely white, clad in a blanket of snow. Not a speck of colour could be seen bar the blue, luminescent glow of the moon as it cast its stark, pale light on the ice capped hills. The trees, silhouetted on the starry horizon, reached up like skeletal hands towards the void of the night sky. In a world where beauty died almost five hundred years ago with the majority of the human race, this was a close reminder of the remnants of Mother Nature's benevolence. She was not to blame, the ignorant, destructive inhabitants of her largest creation were.
On the archipelago of Svalbard, in the Norwegian Arctic, a vision of Gaia, the earth goddess, appeared spontaneously, her face contorted with pain, and weeping with sorrow. Many people said it was a sign, a prediction of the coming of the end, but the authorities, ignorant due to their aloof educated minds, dismissed this as idle talk of mass media superstition. Then, the Armageddon Virus struck.
The virus ravaged the cities, spreading like wildfire and quickly becoming a pandemic, wiping out all of the infected. Yet some recipients were strangely immune, and tests were started to procure a preventative inoculation.
The race began. Every, medically advanced country round the globe, began working in cohesion. Governments, which once fought against each other, united and fought as one, against the enigmatic force of The Armageddon Virus.
But time was short, and resources were growing scarce, in a few short months, the battle was lost, and chaos reigned, until, only a fraction of the world population survived.
Of the few things which had not perished in the last days, Mother Nature was one. The other, Father Time, trickled by inexorably, ignorant of the ensuing chaos, neglectful parents of mankind. With the passing of each year, the human race began, once again to reclaim the earth and a new age was born
In time, small, scattered settlements appeared, villages were built, and basic economies developed. Life flourished, and it was said by some that things were returning to normal. However, things did not return to how they once were.
Climates changed, throwing the earth into a perpetual winter, forever cold, and dark, seas formed a frozen crust; entire species which once prospered in ambient climates were wiped out. Electricity generators sputtered, and died, water froze, and manufactured food supplies became scarce. Mankind was once again forced to fend for themselves, to become the hunter-gatherers they once were, many moons ago.
Strange remnants of the disease still lingered. The strain affected only the newborn, an apparent mutation of the 'Y` chromosome. The children, predominantly male, were born with a myriad of generic physical deformities. As they grew, they developed an aggressively violent streak, coupled with a ravenous penchant for human flesh.
Mothers, attacked by their offspring, terrified and grief stricken, resorted to locking their children away. These creatures, although born of man, could be not called `human', and so, the name 'Ork', was coined. Chosen, by the elders, wise ones who were familiar with the laws of the distant past and the books of old, or what few remained of them after the rebel wanderers and outcasts had looted everything which could be traded for food, or burned for fire fuel.
Unable to find a solution to controlling the dangerous blood lust and compulsive craving for anthropophagi which the Ork harboured, it was decreed by the Elder ones, that they should be cast far out with the village boundaries, forever to dwell in the wastelands as scavengers.
Fierce battles erupted between the Ork, the settlers, and the rebel wanderers, those who would not abide by the laws of the elders and were banished from the villages. Many lost their lives in the wars which lasted a full year. Ter

The scene plays over and over in my mind. Each time I slip into the gentle embrace of sleep. Always the same scenario. Its origins are unknown; I don’t recall having ever seen a movie or read a novel in which a similar sequence of events occurs. I always wake up in a cold sweat, before the dream ends, but this time, I try and see it through.

Imagine this…………

…………….I stand in a vast, unkempt field. The long, damp grass disappears into the distance. There are no notable landscapes, as far as the eye can see. Dusk has settled and the stars have come out. My only source of light comes from the stark, pale glow of moonlight. Mist begins to roll in from the east, and a sharp chill permeates the air.
In front of me, there’s a large, seemingly ancient well, so deep, I cannot see the bottom. A winding staircase, crumbling with age, disappears into the void. I begin the descent, down the winding steps into the well, keeping my hand close to the wall for fear I may plunge to my death at any moment.
It’s dark at the bottom, but strangely, in the blackness, I can see clearly. A narrow archway stands before me, surrounded by some strange, ancient carvings, characters of a long dead language which I do not recognize. I pass through, tentatively and the room beyond comes into view. Several lit candles are positioned around the room. I have the feeling of being inside something living, organic. Vines drape from the low ceiling and root themselves into the soft dirt of the ground. The scent of fresh earth is overpowering.
The room has a formless feel to it, to the eye, it appears circular. However, there is a distinct feeling of hidden corners.
In the centre, there are two chairs positioned back to back. Again, as with the room, the chairs are organic, apparently sprouting from the ground. Each leg resembles a narrow tree trunk. Branches form the backrest and the seat, from which leaves of myriad hues and in various stages of decay, grow.
Two figures are seated in the chairs. They are bound by vines which sprout from various parts of the chairs.
On the right, an old man, clad in clothing reminiscent of the fashion at the turn of last century, possibly even the late1800s sits still. At first, I think he’s dead, as he does not move, or respond to my presence. I watch for a moment, searching for signs of life and catch a glimpse of his chest swelling and contracting very slowly. His drab, grey suit looks almost pristine. A scone hat sits straight on his head, straggly, white hair cascades from the sides, almost resting on his shoulders.
The other figure, a young woman, possibly eighteen, twenty at most, is dressed in more modern attire. Blue jeans and a skinny t-shirt, pulled taught over her midriff. Her long, golden hair hangs over her face, obscuring her features. It takes me a moment or two to realize that she has been blindfolded.
Unlike the old man, she seems to be aware that I have entered the room. She turns her head slightly in the direction of the archway under which I stand.
“Hey”, she says, greeting me with flippant indifference.
“Hi, are you okay? Who did this to you?”
I ask myself if I really want to know the answer to the question I have posed, and wonder vaguely if the culprit is still here. Maybe the same fate will befall me.
“Eh?” The old man tilts his head slightly, as if the action will aid his hearing.
“I’m optimism, what is your name stranger?”
I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes. I try again, with the same results.
I can’t remember my name.
“Eh?” the old man reiterates.
“No matter stranger, names are only for friends anyway.”
This puzzles me.
“Are we not friends?” I ask, a little offended by her statement.
“We are acquaintances. You do not know me well, however, behind me sits pessimism, you know him.”
“Eh?”
“Who tied you to these chairs?”
I ask, however, I

As the day comes, I sleep; I awake when the night arrives.
I stand before the window and gaze across the darkened landscape. The sky is clear and the moon has come out. The trees have been stripped bare by a course winter. Skeletal hands, reaching up, silhouetted against the icy blue glow of the bright moon, luminescent in the black sky. The shadows cast are empty, cold and dark; they match my mood, and remind me of my failures.
It’s freezing cold now. Pulling on my coat, I go out onto the porch and breathe in the air, it’s so sharp it gives me a headache. I have never known cold like this.
The yard seems so close now, I can see for miles around. Ice has sheeted all over the land, across the ground and up the trees as far as the eye can see. The sky is a black, velvet backdrop, littered with stars, shards of blue with ice clinging to them.
I drop myself into a the padded leather office chair out front and pick up my grandmothers copy of the new English bible, the edges worn and tattered through use. My hands begin to nip with the cold, the nerve endings feel like they are being pierced with a thousand red hot needles, but I don’t care. I think about my dead end job, my poor financial situation, and of how every time, I tried to do something positive, I failed, dramatically. I felt useless, empty, and lost.
I read by the dim glow of the porch light until my vision blurs and my mind can no longer make sense of the words on the pages before me. My arm aches with the weight of meaningless explanation and I drop the heavy volume with a dull thud. The wooden floor vibrates with the impact, causing tiny, whirlpool ripples in the untouched mug of coffee sitting at my feet. I turn off the light and darkness envelopes me. I feel comforted, darkness, my kin.
Still, I sit, watching the horizon when the sun comes up. The gigantic ball of flame, the life giver, rising above the landscape and casting an orange hue over the world, bringing hope in the promise of a new day. I bask in the sunlight and my mood soars. A new beginning awaits me, a fresh start. The darker the night, the brighter the dawn.